Fish Below the Ice

It took forty-five mintues to drive out of Edinburgh this morning. Scotland is magical, beautiful, and with an utter disregard of the natural kindness of road signs. But drive in circles long enough--as long as you remember to stay on the wrong side of the road--and sooner or later, you can get anywhere.

Today, that meant a putting green at St. Andrews, the mecca of golf, where they don't actually seem to believe in left-handed golf clubs. I was using one shorter than I used to use on the putt-putt courses back in 1960s Florida, where the holes went through massive fiberglass dinosaurs.

Remember the days when Sinclair Oil had those dino exhibits that they brought to parking lots of big stores, back in the '60s? There were machines like Coke machines, and if you put a quarter in, it gave you this hot-wax injected dinosaur.

Of all the things lost from childhood, those are the ones I'd most like back.

I'm in a hotel right near Balmoral Castle now. The Queen hangs out at Balmoral when she's feeling Scottish, and it's easy to see why. This spot is gorgeous, all green, rocky hillsides and blooming gorse bushes that are like bright yellow accent marks.

The nearest town is the kind of place where you know you could buy a house with turrets, and be very, very happy.

Tomorrow, it's on to Loch Ness. We must always leave ourselves open to the joy of the possible. No telling what life is going to throw at you--and how surprisingly often it's something fun. Like the great band Shriekback says, 'We get it right sometimes/we shine a light sometimes/we see the fish below the ice sometimes.'

Lot of fish below the ice here. The endlessly possible.

As long as you don't need road signs to get around.