Such gloomy skies overhead! Am I to fly into those gray folds of cloud and alight eventually in sunshine? Overcast here is different than overcast where I'm going. It's as if the vast Midwestern skies must be lost completely, densely, darkly behind a curtain that is unyielding. Where I'm going, rains come and go, clouds are high, clouds are low, and in between there may even be a ribbon of blue. That is what I'm hoping for -- at least a ribbon of blue. (Perhaps I am overly optimistic: rain and Scotland are often in firm partnership with each other. Hmm...)
I stay in the farmhouse all morning. I give Ed bread to take out to the cheepers and I tell him all weeds can now wait until my return.
We have such a sweet, good breakfast, though it is indoors...
And then I repack my suitcase, fitting in another thick sweater and timing myself just so -- no need to hurry, but without being too pokey.
As always, Ed drives with me to the airport and I begin my journey, writing in between flights.
The Detroit airport (where I am waiting) seems strangely empty this Saturday, as if holiday travel has yet to take hold.
A commenter rightly guesses that I'm going to Scotland (except one most follow protocol and cut the "e" out of their official beverage). Next post then will be from a farm (though not at all a typical farm), located not too far from the market town of Dumfries, in the southwest part of the country.
Dumfries... the place where Robert Burns wrote one hundred lovely songs (among other things) before succumbing to illness. Yes, expect Burns to make his way into the conversation here in the next days. But let me not jump ahead.
Until tomorrow!
I stay in the farmhouse all morning. I give Ed bread to take out to the cheepers and I tell him all weeds can now wait until my return.
We have such a sweet, good breakfast, though it is indoors...
And then I repack my suitcase, fitting in another thick sweater and timing myself just so -- no need to hurry, but without being too pokey.
As always, Ed drives with me to the airport and I begin my journey, writing in between flights.
The Detroit airport (where I am waiting) seems strangely empty this Saturday, as if holiday travel has yet to take hold.
A commenter rightly guesses that I'm going to Scotland (except one most follow protocol and cut the "e" out of their official beverage). Next post then will be from a farm (though not at all a typical farm), located not too far from the market town of Dumfries, in the southwest part of the country.
Dumfries... the place where Robert Burns wrote one hundred lovely songs (among other things) before succumbing to illness. Yes, expect Burns to make his way into the conversation here in the next days. But let me not jump ahead.
Until tomorrow!
