Dear green place

I said in my previous post that trips to Scotland do not usually ignite my heart with joy, but to be fair that’s probably because my trips to Scotland generally involve staying with my mother in a place that makes people inhale sharply when I tell them I’m from there.

The wedding I’ve just attended took place at Glasgow University, somewhere I've not been since I graduated. The sun shone for the whole weekend, which I suspect it had not done in the intervening seventeen years, so I walked for miles, revisiting my old haunts and reacquainting myself with the beautiful West End. I’d forgotten how majestic it is with its grand, sweeping terraces, huge mansion flats, and gothic towers and quadrangles.

I visited the Hunterian Museum, which I’m ashamed to say I’d never done before despite having lived just round the corner from it. Had I known when I was 20 that it contained a mastodon’s tooth and a weasel’s penis bone, I'd have been a regular. I left satisfied and, as I strolled through Kelvingrove Park, bumped into the happy couple from the wedding the night before.

A lovely day was had and by the time the evening, and my trip to the place that makes people inhale sharply came around, I was feeling quite sentimental.