The Coonridge Digest: Just knock and ask for the Queen

Greetings from Scotland.

Before I dive into the magic of this kilted kingdom, a few quick travel tips:

Disposable travel underwear, designed for one use then to be thrown away, is not what it’s cracked up to be. I’ll let your imagination fill in the details.

Haggis, the Scottish sausage, is delightful as long as you don’t inquire as to what’s gone into it. I have a nephew like that.

With you’re in Edinburgh, Branson, or Timbuktu, if you’re bald, decrepit and sitting on the front row, you’ll be picked to be a part of the show. People like watching bald men struggle.

Edinburgh should not be viewed in sunshine. The ancient old capital of Scotland sits like a spiny, gothic toad on the Firth of Forth and its iconic centerpiece is the Castle of Edinburgh, a steely dragon crouching on an extinct volcano and looking hungrily down at the city at its feet. When viewing such masterpiece of fearsome majesty, you need a bit of rain. Perhaps even a bolt of lightning.

Of course a tour of Edinburgh in the complete dark is nearly impossible since the summertime sun sets for only an hour or two so we settled for a few clouds to whip up the proper atmosphere.

Our be-kilted guide to the town boasted of how since the first castle was built in the 11th century, the structure has never been taken by force. Herb and I readily saw the reason why as we dug in and climbed up the steep and winding ox path to the summit. Herb kept muttering, "Come on, Freida. You’re holding up the group!"

"Herb, I’m ahead of you."

"I’m your rear guard."

"Nobody’s been able to take this castle in a thousand years. I think my rear is safe."

I have climbed things that once scaled caused me to wonder why I made the effort. Not so with Edinburgh Castle with rain or sunshine offering a view that is beyond description. I’d have called it breath-taking but I had no breath left to take by the time we reached the top.

The saving grace for most American tourists is Europe’s two great rules of tourism: 1) you will never be more than 20 paces from an ice cream stand, and 2) no matter what monument, cathedral, or park you’re visiting, you’ll have to exit through the gift shop. Mark Twain once wondered how Shakespeare could ever make his way home through the streets of Stratford with so many gift shops selling his likeness.

Used to be I’d get a bit miffed to see postcards and t-shirts for sale in a house of God until I considered the huge cost of simply keeping these historical edifices in light and heat. Whatever the reason, the Methodist Bazaar and the Presbyterian cookie walk have both their spiritual and economic roots in the green dirt of the homeland.

We toured three of Queen Elizabeth’s official residents, Holyroodhouse Palace in Scotland and her two castles in England. Knock as I might, I couldn’t get her to answer the door in any of these places and assumed that she was either being standoffish or had gone fishing in Wales. In short, her majesty has some mighty fine digs. I’ll tell you the truth since I’m back in the land of the hotdog and foul balls – I’ve always considered Liz a bit of a snob. Maybe her pictures don’t do her humility any justice, but Queen Elizabeth II has always seemed to act like a bit of a… well… a queen. Now her mama, the Queen Mother, until her recent demise always struck me as a gal with whom you could sit down for coffee and maybe she’d even whip up a batch of oatmeal cookies. Her daughter seems more the type to glare at you over her carefully sipped tea and imported macaroons.

Next, our scheduled Scottish Banquet complete with dancing lasses, bagpipes and Herb being jerked onto the stage for a bit of what seemed a mix of highland fling and Medicare two-step. I ignored Herb and concentrated on the pipes.

Unfortunately, the American penchant for "correctness" has invaded even this ancient kingdom. Most recently, the city of Edinburgh has banned street-side bagpipe players from the town’s main thoroughfare, the Royal Mile. Shopkeepers found the wailing pipes distracting. Made me wonder what would have happened had Davy Crockett banned guns from the Alamo for fear their popping might disturb Santa Anna’s sleep.

And on to London!

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. Just knock on the door and ask for the Queen. I’ll be nibbling my macaroons.