A dismal land where you can stew in your own rain-soaked moods
Sometimes you just need to wallow. I brooded after she left, losing myself in the customary single malt (probably a smoky Caol Ila 12) and in what I recall as a smoldering half-blaze hissing in the fireplace — at the Sheep Heid in Duddingston, maybe, where the bitter and wistful have been at this for nearly 700 years, or Edinburgh’s Bow Bar, or one of hundr of other dim pubs dotting Scotland‘s lonesome lands.
Maybe I crammed a roll stuffed with freshly slaughtered Highland pig from Oink down my gullet to soak up the booze and memories of meals we’d made. Maybe I paced listlessly about Greyfriars Kirkyard, the world’s most haunted cemetery, looking for spirits who shared my grief.
I might, too, have visited the Meigle Sculptured Stone Museum, where the gravestone of Guinevere, wife of Arthur and lover to Lancelot, reportedly lies, thinking on romances more doomed than my own. I must have gazed achingly into the misty moors of the highlands and the gloom of Gothic kirks and abbeys, and seen her face in callous sea spray off the Orkney Islands.