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MADE IT TO SCOTLAND! PASSED A THRIFT (CLOSED) ON THE WAY TO DINNER!

The journey began just after sunrise, tires humming on quiet Sleaford roads. We were chasing the horizon—northbound for Edinburgh, eager and caffeine-fueled. Fields gave way to gentle, endless green hills sprinkled with sheep like flecks of cream. Golden crops bowed in summer wind, and centuries-old stone cottages nestled along the hillsides whispered of a thousand untold stories. As we drove deeper into Scotland, the terrain shifted—rolling highlands framed by craggy silhouettes, skies stretching wider. The five and a half hours slipped by with breathtaking ease. By late afternoon, we arrived in Edinburgh. The hotel stood with old-world charm, ivy trailing its gray stone walls. After unloading our bags and trading tired shoes for walking ones, we wandered into the golden hour in search of dinner. Just blocks away, we found ourselves in a tranquil park stitched with winding paths and an abundance of wildflowers—purples, oranges, and yellows tangled in nature’s own embroidery. Laughter echoed near a pop-up tight rope course where a couple of adults balanced and teetered, daring and delighted. Unexpected joy. Back on the sidewalk, we turned onto Bruntsfield. The storefronts gleamed with character, none more than the Chest, Heart & Stroke Scotland Charity Shop. Behind the glass, ornate jewelry glinted beside vintage trinkets—a treasure trove waiting to be explored. Closed, but tantalizing. “We’ll come back,” I promised. The walk took us past the elegant facades of Bruntsfield’s historic buildings: rows of late Victorian tenements with intricate stonework, bay windows framed in sandstone, and dormers that peeked from lofty slate roofs. Iron railings curled like ribbon along short staircases. Each building felt like a love letter from the 19th century, aged but adored. At last, we arrived at Montpeliers—welcoming, bustling, alive with the soft clatter of cutlery and the scent of rich fare. I ordered Hachis Parmentier on a whim, unfamiliar but intriguing. It arrived golden and bubbling: a French-style shepherd’s pie with seasoned minced beef under pillowy mashed potato, baked until the edges crisped and the top gleamed like sunlit butter. It was savory, warming, and utterly satisfying. As the sky deepened into twilight, we clinked glasses, grateful for the road behind and the week ahead in this city carved from stone and story.