A Question Answered

Irene flirts with a fellow tour guide dressed in a traditional Scottish ensemble while Barb buys scotch she can’t get in the US. I’m wishing the Torabraig distillery offered wine tastings.

Spoiler alert—none of the distilleries have a wine section. Just bottles and bottles of scotch, which does me absolutely no good. Maybe I’ll bring a flask of wine tomorrow.

“I’m going to ask him,” Liz says. “I’m going to ask him if he wears underwear with a kilt.”

“It’s a state secret,” he says.

“So, do they?” we ask Irene, our Scottish guide, as soon as we return to the van.

“They don’t wear anything,” Irene says as she hurtles along the one-lane road.

“Really?” we all say. Barb blushes.

Irene says regimental sergeants used to inspect the troops with a mirror on a pole to look under the soldiers’ kilts. If they were not full commando, they spent two weeks scrubbing toilets.

I remember the British king sometimes wears a kilt. I blush.

“But there’s no support,” I say.

“Think about it,” Irene says. “There’s no support with boxers.”

The van is quiet for a moment as the four of us contemplate no support.

Irene tells several stories about strong winds and unexpected views.

These days, Irene says, some young men will wear bike shorts under their kilts, especially those working with tourists.

That’s a shame, I think.

As the van drives through Portree, I scan for men in kilts. No luck. The Marmalade Hotel has plenty of wine, so I console myself for the lack of kilts.

Then I remember we have another week in Scotland. I sink into sleep, dreaming of strong winds.