Curious, Scotland?

One week in Scotland. Not one day without walks in the wood or trickles of sunshine across the purple hills. Not one dinner without an independence debate. 

How extraordinary this year is (and once more we are cruising, moving away). Arrgh – because how often do we get a chance to carve new history, so possibly and ‘promisely’?

But before that we go, again and again, through the following menu: national economy-steak served with the typical political pickle and an assorted history-salad. Oh and a pudding of sweet-dreaming flambé! All a la ecossaise, naturally (but uttered in a rather queenly accent by each successive Maitre D’…)

Ya-da-ya-da-ya.

And the cynical view that the Union will win (or lose, whatever), and Scotland will get a bigger ‘bargaining chip’ – aaah, so that’s what all was about, my bonnie.

 ‘Mmmh’ and I sip some more white wine – trying again to act cool, as I do, well, fail to do, when someone lights inside me THE old fuse.

I don’t need to win this argument. Oh-no.

But I do need to believe that the vote is not yet decided, sold, hijacked, used up, recycled, och aye, not this-not now-no way.

Later in the evening, after too much white wine:

‘If something’s not broken why fix it’ someone says and then ‘why not stay safe inside the Union’?

And out pops my one-and-only argument (and it surprises even me…):

‘This’, I start ‘is like climbing an enormous hill. You can get to the top, which is scary and windy as hell, or you can stop just under some final crag, where your hair will stay dry. But why – if you’re so close – then why would you not take that one last step? ’

 ‘You said it yourself’, quips the opponent with a smile, ‘the gale will get you. You may be blown off and dashed to the rocks below. You may die.’

‘True…’

‘So why would you do that?' Chuckle from him, small hiccup (maybe sob?) from me:

‘Because, even for the briefest second, you will have felt that peak under your plimsoll, planted your flag, seen the whole view.’

Clink to a’ that.

Curious, Scotland?