ELGIN, SCOTLAND. Firstly, disabuse yourself of the fact that Scotland is, to anyone with an American ear, an English-speaking country. Have you tried to watch the excellent TV series Loch Ness or Shetland without subtitles? Arriving at Inverness airport, which is small and very manageable, I boarded the quick shuttle bus to the Inverness transportation hub, with bus and train service to the rest of Scotland. Groggy from my overnight flight via Amsterdam, I went in to buy a bus ticket to Elgin, which I pronounced as if it went with gin and tonic. Clearly it does not, it is like "begin" and I was met with blank stares. Part of the difficulty was that the bus is identified as going toward Nairn, yet another unpronounceable locale for my American voice. It’s a journey of 40 miles on the Stagecoach bus, but takes about 90 minutes along the A96. Locals board and depart with their shopping, or at clinics and pharmacies. I was the only easily identifiable tourist with a backpack and a duffle bag. The woman next to me was very helpful calling out local landmarks, as we passed parks and town centers as well as industrial areas, with names like Brackley and Blackcastle. Never far from the North Sea but never catching sight of it, the occasional yard filled with fishing traps was a reminder of how far north I was, in Moray.

This was not my first time visiting Scotland. My daughter had lived and worked in Dundee some years back and I’d spent some time there and in Edinburgh with her. It was my first visit to the north, however, and I was to be a guest at the Benedictine abbey at Pluscarden before joining a group of photographers for a week on the Isle of Skye. I’d learned of the abbey from a dear friend from Denny, a longtime expat in Paris. I meant to simply change to a taxi when I arrived in Elgin and make my way out to the abbey. At this point I’d been traveling nearly 20 hours, was hungry and the expected Scottish drizzle was constant. Instructions were given to bring one’s own food provisions to the women’s retreat house, Saint Scholastica’s, which has a communal kitchen. Male guests eat with the monks at their refectory.

The bus let me out behind a shopping mall and the town center was hidden from view on the other side. After a helpful pointer in the correct direction by a local I went in search of a hot meal and a pair of warm gloves, which I’d neglected to bring on the April trip. The gloves were acquired in a thrift shop for one pound sterling, and I ate at the Pancake House next door. Not memorable except for the welcome warmth and dry cafe booth.

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