The glass bottomed boat skimmed through the water, in and out of rock formations with ease. We sat upstairs, under the shade of the sun deck above, and watched the mountains drift by.
An old man stands, pontificating. His thumbs are in his belt loops; his chest is puffed out. He issues pronouncements on all sorts of things, oblivious to the fact that no one is listening.
Edinburgh has been in my life for a long time, but I have never lived there. I have passed through, popped in for a visit, even spent the night, but I have never had the chance to live there. I feel like I’ve missed out.
St Andrew, was born in Lower Galilee, in modern-day Syria. It is a stone’s throw from the Golan Heights, but a million miles from the East Neuk of Fife. Yet there is a town in Fife which bears his name. As is usual for such connections, bones are involved.
The late evening light turns a milky blue as it casts across the gleaming white marble of the opera house. Designed to look like an iceberg, floating in the Oslofjord, the building is a marvel.
Saint Mark was an evangelist. His connection to the Most Serene Republic of Venice is tangential at best, but never let a Venetian catch you saying that.
Sexism is an odd thing. I get that men and women are different, but since when did different mean “better” or “worse”?