“As we, in dreams, behold the Hebrides.”

(From the Canadian Boat-Song, originally in Gaelic, attributed to David Macbeth Moir, 1892.  The most well-known lines are these: “From the lone sheiling of the misty island, mountains divide us and the waste of seas; still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, as we, in dreams, behold the Hebrides.” Everyone of Scottish ancestry knows them. )

 

I am safely in Chicago, though stupendously jetlagged and rudely culture-shocked.  My bag, however, is in London.  The airline has promised to deliver it to my door.

At one point on my grand tour of Lewis, Angus pointed to a jet trail high, high, high in the sky and said, “It’s going to America.”  I had to fly down to London from Glasgow, and after a long wait, change to a flight for Chicago.  It went back up over Scotland, and out over the Western Isles.  I was on the wrong side of the plane; I saw what looked like South Uist and Barra, having the same glorious weather Lewis gave to me; but I waved, anyways.

 

 

 

 

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