Over the breakfast table on our final day in Stirling, the rather pale-looking British journalist decided to confide in me. “It's a beautiful place,” he said thoughtfully. “But last night I had a nightmare in which thousands of angry Scotsmen covered in war paint were chasing after me with broadswords. I'm just glad I woke up before they had a chance to lift up their kilts.”
Stirling tends to have this...
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