every morning the mist rises from the soggy ground, and patrons of the gaelic state set afoot to run their daily chores. this is not lost on Christmas.
the sommelier woke early to make biscuits and gravy while whispers and giggles gazed at presents by the blue hued tree.
a British tradition, we sipped on bucks fizz while we unwrapped gifts and said Happy Christmas. the paper crackers come popping out at dinner.
the rain blew cold and sideways as it often does in this green encumbered country. morning walks were spent looking through a veil of spit and chill and wearing rubber goulashes so as to muddle in the muck.
mischievous Scotland plays games with your mind, often adding a few ounces of trickery to the atmosphere, creating absolute sunlight through the mist and rain, if only for a few seconds.
this little town on the west end of Glasgow is full of cottages named moonbeam and stone houses called beltrees. next door, laden with a spired skyline, Paisley’s weaving past is apparent in its artistic present: the sculptor in residence has a workshop here, and the town has made a bid for the UK city of culture title for 2021.
towards Paisley town center, you cannot help but notice the peaks of Coats Church. organized religion, like other forms of passive government rule, has become a pastime here in Scotland. next year the sanctuary becomes an event space.
for three days businesses and shops are closed, much different than the fraught consumerism of home. families are cooped up in rooms with wood burning stoves and closed doors while electric toys banter in the background.
wild turkey is in the oven and the wine is laid out. the spirit of tiny tim rings clear as our family nestles in with sugarplums and kinder eggs and stockings full of crafts and toys and elf pajamas. the rain beats gently against the glass.
