My last day in Edinburgh. Spend the morning in the National Gallery; by this stage I am a bit sick of galleries, but they provide somewhere out of the rain where you can cloak your suitcases, so are good for when you’ve just checked out of your room. I have noticed that, psychologically speaking, all large art galleries are the same building, no matter where they are in the world, so when I’m inside them I forget that I’m not in Sydney, and am always faintly surprised when I come outside again and I’m not in Woolloomooloo.
Take some photos of Greyfriars Bobby for my daughters, and then meet up with my dear friends J & M and their beautiful new daughter; they live in Glasgow but J was working this morning at the National Library in Edinburgh. (Earlier on the phone to London she had explained to me: “You know the Melbourne-Sydney thing? Well, Edinburgh v Glasgow is like that, only they’re serious.”)
They drove me to the Forth Bridge, which I had thought I would not get to see, then to Portobello to visit some friends, and then to a wedding reception somewhere in the New Town, where I danced the Gay Gordons but piked out of the more intricate caller-style stuff which came next.
On the way to Glasgow we stopped for the baby to have a feed and a change at a motorway truckstop called the Heart of Scotland. M and I tried to find some northern stars for me to look at, but the sky was too cloudy.
The following morning, I stayed in till noon, which only seems dull if you haven’t been getting up and racing around seeing sights for a week.