Edinburgh – Unexpected Finds and an Even More Unexpected Incident
After wandering the Royal Mile and soaking in the city, I ducked into a small place in Old Town for lunch. I think it was a meat pie—flaky, rich, and comforting—with some green stuff Nancy would’ve made me eat. Probably kale or something close enough. She always tried to sneak in vegetables. I smiled to myself, thinking, "Okay, Nancy... I ate the green stuff."
With a full belly and the afternoon ahead of me, I decided it was time to find some gifts. I wanted to bring something back for the girls in my neighborhood and others who helped me with Nancy during those hard months. Just a small thank-you.
Down a quiet side street, I found a charming little jewelry shop. Inside, I searched for something that spoke of Scotland and meaning. Celtic knots caught my eye—those beautiful, endless designs. I picked out two pairs of earrings and a silver cross inlaid with a delicate pearl. Simple, elegant, and heartfelt. Nancy would have approved.
I left the shop feeling good, but reality soon called. A stop at the chemist for some stomach medicine—loose poop and motorcycle riding don’t mix. Let’s just say I didn’t want any surprise “exits” while navigating mountain curves.
Then the two beers from earlier caught up with me. I needed a bathroom—bad. I remembered the Scottish Parliament Building is open to the public and has facilities, so I made my way over. No big deal, I thought.
Until I had to go through airport-style security.
Shoes off. Belt off. Pockets emptied. Hat off. I stepped through the scanner. No alarms. All good.
Until a security guard started going through my things and stopped. He held up my little folding knife—the same cheap one I’ve carried forever. Just a single blade with a locking mechanism.
He looked at me sharply:
“You! Stand over there.”
Then he disappeared and came back with a police officer.
“Sir, is this your knife?”
“Yes.”
“We have an issue.”
Turns out, in Scotland, locking-blade knives—even small folding ones—are illegal to carry in public unless you’ve got a really good reason. The locking blade was the problem, not the size or intent. He explained the law, very professional but firm. I wasn’t in trouble, but I got a warning. He said it could have been serious, and that I should never carry it again while out and about.
They confiscated it temporarily, and I continued on my way—relieved in more ways than one. When I exited, they handed it back to me in a sealed envelope, through a slot in the wall, like a scene out of a spy movie.
Lesson learned: Always know the knife laws of the country you’re in.
But I got to pee, the world didn’t end, and I now have a weirdly funny memory to go along with the earrings and cross. Nancy would've laughed at that whole ordeal—“Furman, you and your damn pocketknife…” I can hear her now.
Edinburgh at night from my room.
Edinburgh train station clock. Always three mins. fast.
Comments
Post a Comment