“So does £10 sound unreasonable?” Glenn asked everyone.
“I don’t know! Sounds pretty pricey to me!” My dad exclaimed.
“Well, yea, that’s because you’re taking care of your middle-age son,” Glenn clapped back.
We were at the Beehive Inn watching Glenn Wool do a bit of stand-up. He was a Canadian comedian, but he fit right in in Scotland. We had been in Edinburgh for a couple days at this point. The city was teeming with life for the yearly Fringe Festival, a festival for the performing arts that runs through most of the month of August. There were many street performances on High Street running all the way up to the castle. Despite my dad’s initial complaints, he began really enjoying himself.
Once we got rid of the car, at least.
The Orwellian process of driving on British roads had one last laugh when my dad had to drop off the rental car. The drop-off was easy. Getting there was not. He still has shivers when he thinks about it.
“I cannot describe how bad it was,” he told me.
Even as I write this, Edinburgh Castle looms in the distance, staring at me through the window, its dark-grey aura dominates the skyline here from every direction. We went up to see it, but we didn’t like it as much as Stirling Castle or some of the others. My favorite castle was actually Dunyvaig on Islay because of its low-key presence and freedom of exploration.
Our time in Scotland has almost come to an end. The month of drinking is starting to wear down on my dad. Yet, each morning he does his best to recover by the afternoon like a tried-and-true alcoholic.
“I am 58 and a half after all,” he often reminds me.
Soon he will be heading West.
And I will be heading East.
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