Scottish hospitality...nae myth!

Since the last post we have visited the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum again, this time to see the exhibition, The Glasgow Boys.  The Boys were a group of painters and artists who trained, worked, painted, and exhibited together.  Their heyday was 1890-1900. 

We also visited the Botanic Gardens twice.  The Kibble Plantation is a cast iron and glass enclosure filled with exotic plants, many from Australia.  An interior rainforest.  The wide expanse of the park also included a rose garden, a chronological group of plants and trees from various centuries, even an herb garden.  On Saturday, when the temperatures were in the low to mid-70s, the park was filled with sun-starved Glaswegians.

The weather has been perfect.  Our last bit of rain was five days ago.  Temperatures have been in the high 60s and low 70s.  We have been warned that this will not last, the clouds will return, as will the rain and the chill.  For now the entire city is enjoying this sunny respite.

On Friday, at 4:00 p.m., I walked to Jelly Hill and met Callum and some of his friends.  Thinking this was a stag event, Lynn remained in the flat and wandered about our neighborhood doing a bit of retail therapy.  We finally convinced her to join us and she arrived at 7:30 p.m.  Our plan was to have one more drink and then push off for dinner at The Wee Curry House.  I was now two Hobgoblins (a dark ale) and one Monkey Shoulders (an Islay malt) into the evening.  Our dinner plans were derailed by the suggestion that we could order take-away from Tom and Marion's house. 

When you are invited into a Scot's home, you go.  No questions asked.  Tom and Marion's daughter Iona is a bagpiper of some reknown and she was convinced to give an impromptu concert that evening.  Along with the twin sisters, Morvin and Naomi, the clan lives in a sprawling Georgian manse.  Naturally, a dozen of us crowded into the smallest room, Tom's den, and listened to Iona play a number of songs, including "Scotland the Brave."  Three of us were invited to attempt the bagpipe, Iona handling the fingering while our job was to fill the bag with air and pressing down, keep that air flowing.

Not as easy as it seems.

And to shame of the country, the man from San Diego's produced the most sustained effort, six or seven notes of "Scotland the Brave."

We returned to our flat at 1:00 a.m. on Saturday.

That evening Callum, Callan, John and I met at The Aragon to watch the Champions League final.  Bayern Munich versus Inter Milan.  A wonderful game. "It's hard to cheer for the Germans," I offered.  "Aye," was the general reply, "unless they're playing England, and then we're huge supporters."

The German side and fans were disappointed, much to the delight of most of the crowd at the pub. John put the capper on the evening when he said, "My grandfather told me that the Germans were really disappointed in 1945!"

During the game, Chris, the owner of Jelly Hill walked into The Aragon, announced that he loathed football and couldn't bear to watch a minute of it, and then pointed at me and said, "You, you're coming to my barbeque tomorrow."  And then he left.

So, Lynn and I found ourselves as guests at yet another example of Scottish hospitality.  Old friends and new.  We've noted that our Scottish friends don't seem to be too concerned about "the time".  A 3:00 p.m. start is more of a suggestion.  And they approach life with a bit of serendipity, pulling things together in a rather haphazard manner.  And it all works.

We are off to Paris, the French Open, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Metro, and certainly Deux Maggots.

Until next week, then.