The road to Glasgow

Bowing to popular demand, all two of them, I am going to describe, in several parts, my first trip to Scotland. Another is going to follow suit in a couple of weeks.

The road to Glasgow is paved with rest stops, intersects a big blob of ugly humanity around Birmingham, goes through the the rolling planes of Liecestershire before one takes a detour into Kendall and is brought to a stop, out of breath, on the shore of the famous Lake Windermere in The Lake Districts.

The lake, and the countryside, are, of course, made famous by having been the haunts of several poets, Robert Burns and Wordsworth being notable, and authors. So, the thing to buy there was a book of poetry, not that I read, or understand, the stuff. Thus, I made my way to nearest big bookshop, where, though full to the brim with tomes of the same literary value as "Confessions of Monica Lewinsky: Straight from the filly's mouth", there was a aching lack of Burns and Wordsworth. Reminded me of my father's visit to Lake Windermere. Arriving on its banks with memories of Wordsworth read in his youth, he slightly taken aback by the sight of friendly sardar's demanding their well filled spouses to "pass the prothas". Oh, well.