After spending a few days decompressing between the US and a small village in central Scotland, I finally got dressed and went for a little walk – wanted to buy some biscuits (without chocolate–poor me) and stretch my legs. I walked up to the main street and turned right. After a couple of blocks I saw a sign which read “Kirk Wood”. In Scotland, Kirks are churches, of course, and do have yards; I didn’t know they also had woods.Walking down the lane, a man walking a liver-and-white Springer and an older woman walking a Westie, approached. As is my habit, I spoke. That’s all they needed to break into conversation. He introduced himself as John; she is Missrez Mack-knot-ton(her pronunciation.) Oddly, they also introduced their dogs. Mrs. MacNaughton offered to show me the Kirk Woods, so we were off, to our left, down recently hacked and bulldozed 12-foot wide road through the woods. They explained that someone was going to build four houses in here, near the highway.

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May 31- I left Oklahoma via an airline I hadn’t flown before–a friend praised it, but those were domestic flights–we stopped in Atlanta GA, then flew overnight to Paris, France, to arrive midmorning in Edinburgh. I got lucky and was able to exchange reserved seats on the Atlanta-Paris route for exit-row-seat (my choice: aisle or window; planning to sleep a bit, I chose the window.)I had a wonderful seatmate, youngish, clean-cut, quiet guy. The flight was great (though long); I ordered a Jack Daniels before dinner and, consequently, actually slept for a few motor-constantly-humming miles. Then we arrived at Charles de Gaulle in Paris and everything went south: impossible signage, French only and inadequate. Our flight was 25 minutes late and, because of that, I walked, walked, walked—asked questions of people who only thought they spoke English—my ears actually hurt. There were telephones, but not the country code for the US, so I couldn’t call my husband and ask him to call my hosts. My Day-Timer was in my luggage—and it’s my own darn fault that I hadn’t the good sense to put their telephone number in my wallet—there were computers, with instructions in French. Consequently, I went from queue to queue, from terminal to terminal and back again—spent the whole damned day in uncomfortable seats inside the security area (where there are NO restaurants, thank you very much) until FINALLY, 4:15 came and I caught the second daily, and last, flight to Edinburgh.My host—however—in the meantime had bullied & threatened the airline into telling him where his “lost mother-in-law” was. They were actually there to meet me: my daughter, her glorious son and husband. Oh, god, I’m home at last.

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