So, as I begin writing this post we’re on a train from Florence, Italy, to the neighboring Tuscan city of Siena, which we’ll call home for the next 10 days.  It’s been quite a whirlwind the last two weeks and we’ve surely got some Nomad Life 180 catching up to do, yet we also don’t want to get too far behind.

Here’s the fix - we think: take care of Scotland in chunks - quick, short posts about each of our 2-3 day stops in Glasgow, Inverness, Aberlour, and Aberdeen; and then a final summary post for our 5 days in Edinburgh.  But now the twist: we’ll also post our two recent short stay (just passing through) experiences in Rome and Florence.  They may be jumbled up a bit chronologically, but no doubt you’ll be able to figure it out.  The goal is that by mid-Siena we’ll be pretty close to current.  Having said that, we reserve the right to become so deliciously immersed in Sienese culture that we drag our toes a few days longer.  We’ll see what happens.

After our idyllic mini-adventure in England’s Lake District we crossed into Scotland and arrived in Glasgow mid-afternoon and checked into the Moxy Merchant City.  In concept, and for their funky decor, we kinda dig this stripped-down brand of Marriott accommodations, but the quite young front desk/cocktail bar artistes have displayed plenty of ink & alloy, but sometimes also a lack of customer focus.  Or maybe it’s just us?  In any case, we checked in, changed clothes, and went out to explore.

First stop, Tennent Brewing for a beer.  As in Tennent’s Lager, the second most popular beverage in the Scotland.  Not adult beverage, but overall beverage.  Ahead of Coco-Cola, and just behind . . . you guessed it . . . IRN-BRU.  Yep, Irn-Bru.  Pronounced Iron-Brew, a carbonated citrusy soft drink described as Tutti Frutti, bubble gum, cream soda, and even having an undertone of iron or rust that has been referred to as 'girders'.  That according to the Wiki’s.  It’s been Scotland’s numero uno beverage consistently for more than a century.  And what did we think of it?  Well, we kept telling ourselves to pick up a can of the country’s “Other National Drink”, but kept forgetting.  Our bad.  And top of the To-Do list for next time.

In 1556, near the Glasgow Cathedral, Robert Tennent made beer on the banks of the Molendinar Burn, a small tributary of the River Clyde.  Two centuries on (in 1740) his ancestors Hugh and Robert Tennett founded a commercial brewery there called Drygate, which later expanded and the name changed to Wellgate Brewing, the business passing down to sons and grandsons.  By the mid-19th century, now branded J. & R. Tennent,  they were the world's largest exporter of bottled beer. G-g-g-g-g-great grandson Hugh (lots of Hugh’s in that genealogy) took charge of the company in 1884 and the next year produced the first Tennett’s Lager.  As commercial lagers were novel to the brewing world, Tennett’s achieved additional firsts: first draught lager in 1924, first canned lager in 1935, and the first keg lager in 1963.

In the last five decades Tennent has bounced around via various mergers and acquisitions, the last in 2009 by the C&C group, who six years later opened a new craft brewery nostalgically named Drygate on the fringe of Tennett Brewing’s facility.  We ventured there next - a long two block walk - and sampled a flight of Drygate’s offerings.

After showers we walked to the City Centre and the tourist-packed Buchanan Street pedestrian zone, found Gordon Street (the first of a billion namesake encounters the next two weeks), tracked down the infamous Duke Wellington conehead statue, then downed a half pint of real ale at Horseshoe Bar (with one of the longest bartops in the world at 104’ 3”).  

Hungry by that point, we reversed course for Spanish tapas at the authentic-vibed and tightly-packed Cafe Andaluca.  Started with Pimientos De Padrón (Europe’s equivalent to shishitos, though often blistered); Baked aubergine with Montbrù Garrotxa goats’ cheese, tomato sofrito and honey (mouth-drippingly good); their Albóndingas, crafted with spiced pork and beef and Manchego cheese; Seared king scallops, in a basil and leek cream sauce; and finally Slow-cooked lamb tagine with Spanish spices, sultana raisins, and apricots.

To bring us down from that emotional high we climbed the hill to the sprawling Necropolis (cemetery), east of Glawgow Cathedral, and with panoramic views of the city.  The one blemish in the vista . . . scaffolding encased the cathedral’s steeple as it undergoes repairs, including replacing a corroded center rod and a rotting cross tree.  Typical 50,000-day tune-up stuff.

Descending the sacred hill, we followed the sparse late morning crowd through the cathedral’s interior chambers, gaping and gawping at the stained glass windows and late 12th century Gothic architecture.  The evolving story of the church’s glasswork is a fascinating study, from the original Medieval windows, destroyed in the Protestant reformation of the 1560s, to 400 years of clear glass panes, to the controversial and short-lived “Munich glass”, blackened, deteriorated, and eventually retired, save for six remaining lancet windows like the example here, depicting Gideon. 

Every other window in the cathedral has been installed over the last 90 years, the most recent created this year by emerging Glaswegian artist Talia Blatt,(photo, bottom left).

Then half beers at the iconic Innis & Gunn (rare in the U.S., but well worth seeking out), more halves at Brel (crazy busy with a cool outdoor patio with grassy sitting slope - photo, upper left), and finally we dined at Òran Mór, after a humorously tedious 15-minute wait being chatted at by a world-traveling seaman with a 99% unrecognizable accent who clearly loved life and the sound of his own voice. A wild, convoluted venue with restaurant, bar, and auditorium music venue.  Venison salami with poached peaches and asparagus; and a Black Crowdie (cheese) tart with fig and truffle honey.  Both were more than satisfying.  Shown together below.

We finished the night with a serendipitous encounter at the Three Judges pub, when our selfie attempt led to an assist from two local septuagenarians, Gerry, he on the left with the brogue so gnarly we could barely understand him, and Rory, who invited us to his native home on the remote Isle of Barra.  “The plane actually lands on the beach, you know. And the MacNeil Clan Chief, he lives in a castle on the wee isle in the bay.  Let me show you photos.”  An hour of stories and plentiful laughs later, we cabbed home and packed for our voyage to Inverness the next morning.

 We'll be in touch.