Remember how Dad keeps hurtling us down tiny roads at unsafe speeds? I couldn’t decide if I should keep my eyes fixated on the road or just not look at all.  And then it finally happened: he ran off the road (pretty badly) and blew a tire (pretty badly).  So there we are, standing in front of a disabled car in the middle of nothing across from Loch Ness (ironic?) and all I can think about was how I should have been driving this stretch of road.  

Here’s a brief recap of driving records so far: Dad has run off the road 5 times, slammed (and I do mean slammed going 40, not bumped at 5) into various curbs 3 times and now burst a tire. I have done none of that. Almost ran off the road once. Almost.

So I’m not sure if that really is laughter building up inside or not. Maybe it’s vexation. After all, we are stranded. By Loch Ness. But it was my dad that crashed the car, not me.  

And that’s the end of that story. I just had to share, although I’m not positive that all I wanted to do was gloat. But for the record, I do feel a little badly for him–a little.

Tonight marked an epoch in my life, and conceivably in my father’s as well. Tonight I drank my first beer in his presence. Now, to be fair, I did warn him briefly about it yesterday over steak pies.  But tonight it happened. 

We were at dinner with a friend of one of my friends–small world, eh? And I ordered a beer. Simple act, but if you know me dad, you know that this was potentially devastating. We’ll see how it goes. But just between us, I’m at the hotel bar as I type, slurping away at a tasty stout. 

The country here is breathtaking. Of course the pictures don’t do it justice. But I’m trying. And for the record, I haven’t found Nessie–yet. Give me a few more beers and I just might.

You may have picked up on it, but traveling with Dad is a bit different than I’m used to–in life or in travel. For instance, we don’t go out after dark (all the voodoo), or into pool halls (those  ruffians), or park on the inside of the parking garage, just the top (we’ll get mugged). Not kidding, even about the voodoo.  So this trip, to me, is like a scouting trip–what to do next time I come, what to avoid if I need to save money, what sandwiches are good (bacon, brie and mango is topping the list right now) and, of utmost importance, where the best pubs are.

Tomorrow we’re leaving Inverness to go to a small fishing village near the Isle of Skye. Then toward Ayr to visit some old friends for a few days (never thought I’d want to kiss a preacher) and then down to England  through Glasgow (hello Charles Rennie Mackintosh!) to see the Lakes District (hiking!) then back to Edinburgh to fly home. Which has never been a welcome thought during a trip before, but it’s getting nicer and nicer. I never knew that 12 days could feel so slow. And I work in the library.