Boxing Day: time for long walks, rugrat tickles, and snow.

we awoke to a morning of crisp sunrise over the eastern hills, the ice warming from the dim streaks of light that hit the Paisley window pane.

from first glance, it was a white Boxing Day, as the ice which glazed the streets were unapparent from the harbor of our hotel.

disembarking from our attic room, sommkid squealed at the thought of snowmen before breakfast, and then sobered with the realization that the blinding sun was melting the icy frost before she could even make one round sphere.

the sommelier, six days now without his luggage, complained little as we walked to Elderslie, taking in the sights of the small culturally important town along the way.

the sky was a bright blue and the sun crisp on the eyes. sommkid mentioned she wished she had her sunglasses, and at first I agreed.

then, centuries old buildings displayed their worth as we traversed our way down the main road, masonry carved so the light reflected beautifully between the stones.

we arrived at home base out of breath and dying of thirst, and in need of snuggles and hugs and tickles with nieces and nephews.

Boxing Day, all told, was a day of giving to the poor. not to be deemed idle on a holiday, we plunged ourselves toward Gleniffer Braes, the local mountain that provides heavenly sights of Glasgow, especially on a clear day.

it was the perfect gift for our four-season-climate starved souls.

the packed snow was a few inches thick, and sommkid made the most of her journey.

that night’s roast was a scintillating end to a three day Christmas celebration with family; tomorrow we begin to journey on, taking in more sights across this small and dynamic country.

air adhart a Dhùn Èideann! slainte!

Scottish Christmas: bluish hues, cold rain, and buck’s fizz.

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.

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