Welcome to Fry-Day

So the lords of darkness have hovered above my personal computer and "fried it" on Fry-Day.
Not so fast, you sultans of the perverse, you can't foil Ol' Man Corbett and the Missus, not when there's a mountain of ink-stained columns lying around in the attic.
Ah, here's one that always tickled my fancy:

EDINBURGH, Scotland -- Doctor, doctor, it's about this burr -- a definite trilling pronounciation of me r's -- aye picked up during me wee stay in this glorious country of Scotland. What can ye tell me to take for it?
A wee dram and a plateful of Haggis, he said. OK, I'll give it a try!
The great infection of affection for everything Scottish can be contagious, for even a laddie's name can change. Once I was just plain ol' Kaye Corbett, but that was before I put on THE KILT and, suddenly, I was transformed into the Giant Highlander, known as K. MacDonald Corbett.
Let me spin ye a wee tale.
It was the kind of day in downtown Edinburgh where even the wee birdies were sweating. Our personable and efficient guide and driver, Kenny Hanley, told us to get prepared for the Scottish Evening at Edinburgh's George Hotel.
During the afternoon, we had climbed the steep inclines of Edinburgh Castle after coming in from the Dryburgh Abbey Hotel, the resting-place of Sir Walter Scott. It had been quite a climb.
Like a message from on high, yer obedient servant and my gentlemen companions decided to "surprise" the ladies accompanying us. "Let's rent us some kilts," we chimed, with the ladies out of hearing range.
Hanley, a true Scot, already had his, so it was up to my friends and I to find suitable attire. Where? Just up the street from the George Hotel was a haberdashery specializing in all things Scottish. The outfit rented for 42 pounds for the night, with an extra 50 pounds deposit.
Trying to fit the kilt around this ample waist was a chore. The only ones that did, belonged to either the Hunting Stewart or the Macleod; I'm not picky. When it came to the remainder of the attire, it was a tight squeeze, since we all tried to use a small change room in the George Hotel.
How does it all come together? There was no instruction manual from the haberdashery, but somehow I managed to arrange the other parts of the outfit including a sporran (pouch) that hangs in front of the kilt; a doublet (jacket); the stockings and the low-cut brogues and a small knife, that I almost cut my leg on. The clothier, somehow, had forgotten cufflinks, which caused an acute attack of indigestion, but I was to learn the next afternoon that the cufflinks weren't included.
After tugging with the clothing, and almost becoming accustomed with the breeze sailing through the lower regions, I was ready for the streets.
The ladies were suitably impressed. And with Scottish Pipe Major John Munro leading the way, the Canadian Highlanders and their ladies wove their way through the great dining hall.
Following a meal, which included the beloved Haggis, there was entertainment -- the singing of Grant Frazer, accordioinist Stuart Anderson and the George Highland Dancers. Audience participation was on the menu, including "Roamin' In The Gloamin,'" "Just A Wee Deoch-An-Doris," "I Love A Lassie," and "The End Of The Road." It ended with "Auld Lang Syne."
Even the next morn at breakfast in the Dryburgh Abbey Hotel, I wore the tartan and didn't want to part with it, for it engendered feelings of being swept back into Scottish history with its mystery, romance and lost causes.
That sense of deja vu crept through my mind's eye numerous times during my stay, as I discovered my "roots." And the one place it was evident, was at Traquair at Innerleithen, Pebblesshire, where the present Laird, Peter Maxwell Stuart, is extremely animated as he takes his "guests" through the shadowy hallways and staircases of this, the oldest inhabited house in Scotland.
A first-time visitor can actually "feel" the history and I envisioned Bonnie Prince Charlie riding at the head of his personal guard on that autumn afternoon in 1745, along the tree-lined avenue sprawling out from the fortress of Traquair towards the Steekit Yetts (the Bear Gates).
As Charlie (Charles Edward Stuart, son of James III, 1720-88) departed, the fifth Earl -- Charles Stuart (the 11th Laird), a devout Jacobite -- wished his guest a safe journey, with the promised that the gates would not be reopened until the Stuarts were restored to the throne.

Dool an' sorrow hae fa'en Traquair,
An' the Yetts that were shut at Chairlie's comin'
He vowed wad be opened nevermair
Till a Stuart King was crooned in Lunnon

The Steekit Yetts remained closed to this day -- a testimony to the scars of sectarianism, which had ravished this glorious country.
Another notable experience with the past occurred at Scone Palace, the ancient crowning place of Scottish kings, including Macbeth and Robert the Bruce. It is now Scotland's treasure house, housing fabulous collections of French furniture, clocks and one of the finest collections of porcelain in the world.

Besides, the past, the present was given prominence.
If your sport is fishing, then Scotland's the place to be. Although a morning of fly-fishing on the River Tay proved futile, except for one nibble, the splashing of salmon upstream would lure a true fisherman back to these haunts.
I would like to return to the magnificent vales with their grazing sheep in the lowlands and border areas and to Braemar Highland Games in early September.
By that time, Kenny Hanley will have forgiven me for telling him that he drives on the wrong side of the wee roads and for also saying Haggis was akin to hamburgers. Hoot mon! I love hamburgers.