Dispatch from Edinburgh #5–Afternoon Tea

Posted on August 5, 2025 by JC Reilly

The Georgian restaurant at Harrods

In the U.K., Afternoon Tea (don’t call it High Tea!) has been elevated to an art form. It is not merely drinking a pot of tea and eating some cakes—but rather enjoying an experience of delicacies accompanied by tea and served on beautiful china with bright, shimmering silverwear. Loose tea wades in a silver teapot, just waiting to be poured through a silver sieve into a cup. A bowl of sugar cubes (white and brown) is overflowing, and on the side are tiny silver tongs with which to retrieve and drop sugar into the teacup. Then comes a tier of plates laden with sweets and sandwiches and scones just waiting for clotted cream and jam. One leaves Afternoon Tea stuffed to the gills, but happy and satisfied, and feeling a little like a lady of the ton in a Regency novel.

This summer, I partook of Afternoon Tea three times for lunch—once at The Georgian restaurant at Harrods in London (it took me forever to find the place in the department store–that store is labyrinthine!), sparkling with crystal and soft light, once at The Willow Tea Rooms with a view of Edinburgh Castle, and once at Prestonfield House, also in Edinburgh.

Harrods was the most elaborate of the three, with an individually-assigned waiter who took care of my every need. His name was Dennis, and he was born in Australia but raised in Italy. With every delivery of treats (all vegan), Dennis explained what each item was and encouraged me to try everything. The tea he suggested was Harrods own special blend—a black tea combination of Sri Lankan, Assam, and Darjeeling with hints of spice like star anise. Combined with milk and sugar, the tea was smooth and bright and I drank two huge pots of it.

I took a bite out of the grape-and-carrot sandwich before I remembered to take a photo. Oopsie!

The first course was the finger sandwiches, which included a Grape and Carrot sandwich, a Cucumber sandwich, a Button Mushroom Savory Praline sandwich, and a Cheese and Caramelized Onion Tart. My favorite will always be the Cucumber and cream cheese, but the nutty, earthy taste of the Button Mushroom sandwich was very good as well. Dennis offered me a second plate of sandwiches (minus the tart; I could have gotten another for £5 but I didn’t want it that bad), which I heartily enjoyed. Following that came the plain and fruit (sultanas or currents, not sure which) scones, with Madagascan Vanilla Oat Chantilly (vegan clotted cream) and a selection of four jams—apricot, strawberry, blackberry, and cherry, each in little ramekins with a silver spoon. I worked my way through the jams, a different flavor for each bite, though the strawberry was particularly fine. Apparently I did not eat enough of the blackberry, because Dennis seemed disappointed that there was so much of the jam left.

Desserts and scones

Next came four sweet treats: a Chocolate Calisson, which was a chocolate cake with chocolate cream mousse, and a yuzu center, which is a kind of hot pepper; an English Strawberry and Elderflower Tart; a Matcha Sphere, which had matcha mousse and cake, with a bit of strawberry sauce and real gold leaf; and an Apricot and Thyme baba (a kind of soaked cake) with white chocolate. Of course, things are brought out very slowly, so that presentation is front and center—at Harrods, one is overwhelmed with service and luxury, and given time to appreciate each bite. When I left Harrods, I was quite full and delighted. I only wished I had had someone with me to enjoy the meal with.

Willow Tea Rooms

I tried the Willow Tea Rooms across from the Castle on the recommendation of my students who went there to satisfy one of their “cultural experience” assignments for me. All four of the young ladies gushed over the presentation and the food, and I thought I would give it a try too. It was about a quarter of the price of Harrods, but the tablecloths were a pristine white, and service was nice enough. The large room accommodated many tables, but mine was tucked in a corner, across from a lady eating a bowl of soup and a cheese scone, and reading something heavy and Russian, maybe Anna Karenina. The design of the chairs was Art Deco, with black backs much taller than the person sitting in the chairs, and the logo printed on the napkins was like an Art Deco window with a rose on it and dark black lines mimicking the chairbacks.

I chose the classic Afternoon Tea, which came with four dainty sandwiches—Egg Mayo (otherwise known as Egg Salad), Scottish Salmon and cream cheese (I don’t think I’ll ever like cold salmon), Cucumber and cream cheese (again, my favorite), and Ham and butter (I did not eat the ham). These arrived on a tier with a fruit scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream, and a nice slice of carrot cake with a vanilla buttercream frosting. I was not particularly adventurous with the tea—I just enjoyed a pot of peppermint, which was lighter on a hot day than a typical black tea would have been. The carrot cake was really the star of the show—while not as good as the kind I make, it had a lovely, spicy taste replete with carrots, and the sponge was soft but firm.

A sleepy Heilan coo!

View of Prestonfield House from the gardens

The final Afternoon Tea room I discovered by accident. One of my Facebook peeps mentioned they were in Edinburgh and had taken pictures of the tier of treats, and I was immediately drawn to it and the background of the room. She told me about Prestonfield House, and I made my reservation for the last Friday before I left. I arrived about half an hour early, so I wandered the beautiful grounds on the lee side of Arthur’s Seat (the extinct volcano in the east side of Edinburgh), while I waited. The current Prestonfield House dates from the 1600s, but apparently way back in the 14th century it was an abbey. On the grounds live Heilan Coos, a peacock in a tree, and a rather scraggly black cat whom the major domo told me was “a bit of a hellion.” The cat seemed perfectly nice to me, but as I was calling to it, the House’s flower arranger also called to it, and the cat, demonstrating utter disdain for me, zipped over to the flower arranger. I don’t think that qualifies as hellion status, but it certainly betrays a bit of poor decision making, as I would have been happy to love on him.

As for the Afternoon Tea, how could it be anything but lovely? The room where I was led bore heavy, red and ochre damask wallpaper and velvet curtains, and paintings on the wall of previous owners of the house, plus two big bouquets of purple hydrangeas in the center of the room. Every table sparkled with multiple forks and knives, and more glasses than one person would actually need to drink with.

Prestonfield House prides itself on its exceptional service, and its service was, indeed, out of this world. Not only did they seat me at a wonderful table (though, to be fair, all of them looked nice) with comfy bench seating, one of the servers actually put my napkin on my lap as she took my tea order. I had thought about getting the Evening Chai, but then I noticed something called Black Fig Sencha, with aromas of forest fruits and fig. It was a green tea, or perhaps a white tea, which smelled like Christmas. Its delicate flavor was a little on the weak side for my taste, but it was plenty good with sugar in it.

A cool spach

The “water bearer” came out next and poured a glass of sparkling water into my water glass, and left the bottle. So I had both water and tea to drink. Then a third server brought out an espresso cup full of gazpacho for an amuse bouche, and believe me, my bouche was suitably amused to be drinking a cold tomato salsa. I sipped it slowly—it was very good—but had to smile when this Goth Girl at another table got hers. She took one sip, wore a look on her face that was half horror and half disgust, and she put her espresso cup down with a thump. I did not see her girlfriend’s expression, and wondered if it had been the same.

Prestonfield tower o’ treats

After a while, the tower of treats came out. First was a plate of savory crackers, one with English pea, mint, and marigold (interesting, but not my favorite); one with cream cheese and tomato on a little oat cake; and the third a whipped applewood cheese on cranberry toast with a bit of apricot (the cheese part was whipped but didn’t taste very cheddary). All were tiny, no bigger than half a thumb, but they were pleasant to eat. On the bottom tier were four sandwiches: Avocado and Tomato; Corned Jackfruit and Pineapple Chutney (I didn’t really taste the pineapple but the jackfruit was interesting); Egg with Caesar Mayonnaise; and a Roasted Red Pepper and Hummus on half-a-roll.

Prestonfield desserts

But wait, there’s more! A fruit scone and a butter scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream awaited me. Both were dusted with turbinado sugar, and the clotted cream was almost the consistency of butter. But by then I was starting to feel full, having drunk a wine bottle full of sparkling water, plus two silver pots of tea, plus eating the sandwiches and savories. How, I wondered, could I possibly eat anything else?

Too much chocolate for me; it rather overpowered the rose.

I was afraid that asking for a to-go box would be déclassé, but when I asked for a box, the server didn’t bat an eye. I did try two of the desserts—a raspberry and dark chocolate rose cake (which was almost too chocolatey), and an apricot and pistachio macaron. That left a coconut, pineapple, and ginger mousse sphere and a strawberry tart with black pepper (!). But I packed up the scones and the clotted cream and the jam, and the two desserts I couldn’t finish.

Once I was done eating, the manager came by to tell me the history of Prestonfield House and he also remarked on the box of sweets I was taking home. I told him I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, but everything was divine. He looked as pleased with this remark as if he had created the feast himself. And everyone else I passed as I made my way to the front of the hotel was charming and pleasant, and made me feel like I was someone famous and important, the way they fell over themselves to wish me well.

Of the three Afternoon Teas, I think I liked Prestonfield House the best. It was elegant and cozy. Harrods was perhaps a little finer on the food, but I just felt more comfortable at Prestonfield House. For one thing, I wasn’t ragged and sweating like I had been when I was walking in London and suffering a bum foot. Instead, I had taken an Uber to Prestonfield House, and I was perfectly put together (though still with a bum foot). The Willow Tea Rooms was nice, but not in the same class as Harrods or Prestonfield House—it was more of your “everyday” Afternoon Tea, whereas the other two promise special occasions. I think Prestonfield House felt like I could belong there, where The Georgian at Harrods seemed more like a place you would go to be seen.

The only thing that would have made all three of these Afternoon Teas better would have been if you were there with me. Maybe next time!

Entrance into Prestonfield House

A brown Heilan Coo placidly getting rained on

Teapot at Prestonfield House

Strawberry-pepper tart

Prestonfield sandwiches, with the Pineapple Jackfruit one on the right.

Another view of the Rhubarb Room

So many glasses!

Pineapple-coconut-ginger mousse ball

Pistachio macaron

The Peacock in a tree!

Harrods matcha ball

Harrods Apricot-Thyme tart

Harrods Chandelier

Harrods chocolate mousse cake

A view of Edinburgh Castle from Willow Tea Rooms, with an ugly lamp post with a seagull on it directly in front

Savory crackers at Prestonfield House

Dispatch from Edinburgh #4–Islay and the Whisky Coast

Posted on July 14, 2025 by JC Reilly

Three years ago, I went on a Speyside whisky tour—it was the first time I had ever tasted whisky, and I was a total n00b about it. But after the tour, I realized that I liked whisky and could see drinking it on occasion—especially on a cold, dreary night that would remind me of Scotland. I realized too that I didn’t like peated whisky, because the smoky flavor reminded me too much of lapsang souchon tea which to my mind, is an abomination in the tea world. So I knew going on a tour to Islay (pronounced EYE-lah) and the whisky coast would be problematic—because all of the distilleries over there produce peated whiskies. I was prepared not to like anything. But that’s not what happened, fortunately.

We started our tour by driving west and a bit north, through the Trossachs and past Loch Lomond. We stopped in Callender, which is little more than a high street but is known to be the “Gateway to the Highlands” since it is just south of the dividing line between the Lowlands and the Highlands. I bought an airy loaf of cheddar jalapeño bread at Mohr, a local bakery, for a snack, but then we were off again. The West Highlands are are not nearly as dramatic as the eastern Highlands, but they are still quite beautiful, and while I had traveled the roads through them before, I was still glad to be able to see them again.

View from Oban harbor

Norries fish and chips…mmm

We stopped for lunch in Oban (“Gateway to the Isles”), which is a little sea resort town I’ve been to before, back when I went to the Isle of Mull (I think). Anyway, I went to Nories for fish and chips and then walked along the streets to visit the Oban Chocolate Company, which I remembered from the last time I was in Oban—it was packed with people getting coffees and hot chocolates and candy bars. I picked out a few truffles including a dark passionfruit crème, a chili “chuffle,” a ginger ganache cup, a whisky truffle, and a toffee orange truffle, which I saved for later. Then I walked to the harbor and took some pictures. There were people playing with their dogs on the beach, but it was rather cold to my mind and I wondered what is it about dogs that they love to go into water—especially freezing water!

Kilmartin grave stone

The bus picked us back up and then we continued on to Kilmartin Glen to look at some standing stones and to take a rather long walk to see some cairns. Somehow I don’t have any pictures of this; I’m not sure why—it’s not like me. Maybe something happened with the camera. But they were fine, as far as standing stones go—they were sort of in the middle of a field so I had to be careful of sheep pellets. But I enjoyed the walk, even though my foot was hurting. Still I was glad to get back on the bus. Later we stopped at a little church in Kilmartin with gravestones from the 1300s-1500s, whose carvings were faint now, but still cool. And then we headed down to Kennacraig so we could board the ferry. It was a long ferry ride (and damp, so damp)—maybe two hours—but as always I remained outside to take in the air, hoping to see some whales or dolphins. (I saw neither.)

When we arrived in Bowmore, I was ready to get to our residence—it turned out to be a kind of cottage attached to the Bowmore distillery (est. 1779) called the Old Bakery. Everyone else (I didn’t get their names)—the Norwegians, the Brazillian, the the New Yorkers, the very friendly Japanese couple, and the father and son from Maine—gathered in the dining room to chat after dinner, but I was ready to get into bed, even though it was pretty early. Still, I went over to the Co-Op to get some cheese and crackers for dinner (since I hadn’t made any dinner reservations), and a two-liter of Coke Zero to make sure I got my caffeine over the next few days. Then I settled in for the night, enjoying my black-out curtains (which I don’t have at my place in Edinburgh), and I slept well, even though I was in a tiny twin bed.

A Bowmore dram, bourbon cask

After breakfast the next day, we all walked over to the Bowmore distillery for our tour. I knew what to expect, because I’d been to distilleries before obviously, but it was interesting because we actually got to see the barley on the malting floor (where the barley begins to germinate). That was new to me. The tour guide encouraged us to touch it, and he didn’t seem to mind walking on the barley (which I did not do—because, hello, shoes aren’t clean!). He took us to see the wash backs, the mash tun, and the stills, and then to a room where the casks were stored where we enjoyed a taste of whiskies. We tried the 2012 Bourbon Cask whisky first, with a 53.5% alcohol content, and it was dark amber and pretty peaty. Next we tried the 2010 Oloroso Sherry Cask, with a 54.6% alcohol content. Then we went into the bar where they gave us another whisky (although I didn’t see the bottle), as well as pairing chocolate, and a tiny dram of Bowmore 18 year to take with us.

Kilchoman spirit

Draff cart

Our next distillery was Kilchoman, which has only been in operation for 20 years because the proprietor just apparently decided he was going to start a distillery. We got to see the same kind of operation, but it was cool that the proprietor himself gave us the tour, and we had whisky tastings at various stops throughout. We even had a nosing glass on a lanyard to drink from, which was very convenient. One of the things we got to try was “spirit”—that is, un-aged liquor right from the still. And it was delicious—super sweet, basically it was alcoholic sugar water (63.5%). It’s the aging that makes it whisky. But it was definitely interesting to drink. And one of the things we learned there is that nothing goes to waste. After the barley is used for the whisky, it’s still usable; it still has proteins and nutrition, so there’s a conveyor belt which moves the barley into a large cart, and then the barley, called “draff,” is sold as animal feed. I don’t believe they charge a lot for the draff—in a way, it’s a chance for the distillery to give back to the farmers who live on Islay and who help raise the barley.

The Johnny Walker dude

After Kilchoman, we went to Caol Ila (pronounced Cull-EE-lah), on the east coast of Islay, owned by Johnny Walker (like Cardhu in Moray, Scotland, is a Johnny Walker distillery) which was just a whisky stop (I just got a Diet Coke because after five or six drams, I was pretty pickled already). The driver, Robbie, was very kind and because I was walking with my cane, he said he’d meet us down below in the disabled parking area to get us after our visit to the distillery. Everyone except the Brazillian met up there. Apparently, he hadn’t heard that we were going to meet there. We saw him walking on the long path upward, so Robbie said we’ll just get him at the top of the path. But in the interim, the Brazillian thought, I’ll go down and meet them. So we were up at the top waiting for him, and he was down at the bottom waiting for us. So we drove back down to the bottom but the Brazilian walked back up to the top. It was some Keystone Cops hilarity happening. We must have done this dance a couple more times, and I said to the tour group, we’d lost him to the Angel’s Share, which made everyone laugh. (The Angel’s Share is how much whisky evaporates each year that a whisky is in the cask.) Finally, Robbie walked down by himself and got the Brazilian. It was pretty funny, this back-and-forthing—although I suppose it loses something in the translation.

Then we went to Bunnahabhain (pronounced Bunna-HAY-ven) for a whisky tasting—these were unpeated whiskies (2022 Abhain Araig, 2012 Olorosso Bott, and something that looks like Toiteach a Dila; it’s handwritten, not very clearly, although the 46.3% notation was clear), and they were very nice. I took a taste, but I didn’t drink them up because I would have collapsed on the floor. I wanted to buy a bottle for C, but then I remembered two things: 1) he wanted a peated whisky and 2) how the hell would I get a bottle home? Anyway, I didn’t buy one—and they were crazy expensive anyway—like £79 for a tiny bottle.

Seriously, they look like boobs. (Jura island)

Across from the distillery was the isolated island of Jura (only 300 inhabitants), which, in my mind looked like a couple of boobs (what can I say, maybe I’m a 12-year old boy) instead of mountains. It was a lovely day, especially compared to the day before which was so wet and dreich. I found myself after the tasting just looking out on the water and the beach and enjoying the fresh sea air.

Kildalton High Cross

The next day, we hit up three more distilleries. But before we did that, we stopped at the Kildalton High Cross, which was carved in the 700’s, and according to the sign is “one of the finest and most complete early Christian crosses in Scotland.” It’s a tall Celtic cross, maybe twice as tall as a person, and it’s next to the roofless ruins of a church. It’s beautiful, and the carvings are in great shape, not worn smooth at all. There was a little donation box asking for money so I dropped in a pound, and a sign saying to leave the gate shut to keep out the sheep. But obviously someone had left it open recently, due to all the fresh sheep pellets in the grass.

After that little diversion, we were off to Ardbeg distillery, on the south coast of Islay. Our tour guide was this snarky Gen-Z-er who was very knowledgeable about the whisky process, and her name was Jura, after the island. Taking guests on tours was her summer job, she told me, as she was attending a university on the mainland (I think). The whisky was good, but I thought Kilchoman was better. There was a walk to some old ruins, but my foot was killing me, so I just sat in the peaty grass for a while and took a little walk towards the cliffs. Next door was Lagavulin distillery, and we stopped in for a bar visit. I was parched, and got both a sparkling water and a pink fancy passionfruit whisky cocktail that was delicious but maybe not worth £8. The Norwegian men got a flight to share—it was like a top tier flight because it wound up being over £120, and they didn’t blink an eye. Granted they got some snacks too and cocktails for their wives, but still it was an impressive amount of money to drop for five drams of whisky.

Laphroaig sea sign–it’s big so ships delivering barley can see it in the mist.

The last stop was Laphroaig (pronounced La-FROYG); the New Yorkers were looking especially forward to going there, as it’s the husband’s favorite whisky brand. Laphroaig began in 1815 when the sons of a farmer decided to make whisky on the Campbell estate. What was interesting was that one of the brothers emigrated to Australia, and the other brother drowned in a vat of burnt ale. (I’m not sure how you burn ale, but that’s what the sign said.) His son inherited the distillery at age 11, but since he was underage, the manager of the Lagavulin distillery ran it. But when the son had grown, he ran it until his death. Thus was the early history of Laphroaig. But another cool fact about the whisky was that during American Prohibition, the Feds were persuaded that Laphroaig was medicinal, so people could totally buy it and drink it.

The Laphroaig flagship whisky–the one to try!

After our tour, the guide let us choose 3 among 7 different whiskies to try. My choices included the 10 year Cask Strength, the 10 year Sherry Oak Finish, and the quintessential 10 year aged in ex-bourbon barrels, the Laphroaig flagship whisky. The regular 10 year was pretty good; I didn’t care for the Sherry finish, which is surprising, since I usually appreciate the sweetness of sherry cask whiskies.

Islay is lovely, like all of Scotland, but there’s not much here besides sheep and distilleries. I was glad I went, and glad I could try so many different drams, but I think I was a little disappointed overall. I really had hoped that somehow, Stewart, the tour guide on the Speyside trail a couple of years ago, could have been our guide this time—that would have been magic. He really enjoyed whisky, and I didn’t get the feeling that Robbie cared one way or the other. I also felt like for Robbie, this was just a tour, whereas for Stewart, whisky was a passion, and making people love whisky was also a passion. But you can’t pick your tour guides, and it was nice to see a new part of Scotland. And it was nice to find out that peated whiskies are good too; I guess they are an acquired taste. Which I acquired.

The Kilmartin church

Kilmartin church

Kildalton church–I really like the composition here.

Kilmartin church

Kildalton church

Old gravestones at Kilmartin church

Lagavulin distillery

More old graves at Kilmartin

More graves at Kilmartin. I don’t know why I took so many pics of them.

These really old graves from the 1300s were in a protected shed.

Kildalton church

Laphroaig cask strength–it was pretty strong.

On the ferry

Caol Ila whiskies. I stayed away because I would have been drunk off my ass.

Kildalton High Cross… with people for scale.

Kildalton Cross with the Norwegians

The malting floor at Laphroaig

This pic reminds me of the end of Indiana Jones, where the Ark gets put in with thousands of other boxes. There were 100s of barrels here.

Me on the CalMac ferry

Oban harbor

I feel like my Dad would like this pic of the Oban harbor. That dark sky meant some serious rain.

Oban harbor

Oban harbor ramp

Old castle ruins near Lagavulin distillery

Hotel on the Oban harbor high street

Laphroaig peat oven–it was surprisingly small.

Bowmore mill–the mills across Islay were all made by the same manufacturer, and so hardy that they’ve lasted over 150 years. They never break down, and the company went out of business because they never had to repair the mills!

Bowmore wash back (where the barley water ferments)

Get these mountains a bra, for heaven’s sake.

On the way home we stopped at the “Rest and Be Well” glen.

In Inverary, on the way home, I had lunch at the George Hotel. It was mediocre.

The 3 flags flying over Laphroaig–yes, Japan has a big interest in the distillery.

The different grain sizes once they go through the mill

Bowmore guide next to a peat pile

Bowmore mash tun (where the malt gets mashed)

Kilchoman stills

Dispatch from Edinburgh #3–CATS!!!!

Posted on June 28, 2025 by JC Reilly

The only cat cafe in Scotland (I think)

One of the real privations of spending the summer in Edinburgh is the lack of cats. I desperately miss my cats back home, but I just miss cats in general. Since Edinburgh is a city with lots of traffic, people (fortunately) don’t seem to let their cats out of doors (maybe in the suburbs, but not in the city). Though I did see a white cat with orange spots at the house across the street, but only a flash of it, as it disappeared into the garden and I haven’t seen it since. The only other cat I’ve seen is Turret, in the Highlands, at the distillery. Aside from those two, Edinburgh is a dry county when it comes to cats.

Or so I thought. Last week, my ears pricked up at the faculty dinner when someone mentioned something about a cat café. So I looked up online and sure enough, Edinburgh has a cat café called Maison de Moggy, and I was determined to go.

For £12 you can go to Maison de Moggy and pet and play with cats for a full hour. You can also get a snack, and I chose a strawberry lemonade and a slice of carrot cake—but I was there to pet some cats. And pet them I did.

Fleur the Oriental Shorthair and Sebastian (?) the Norwegian Forest Cat

All of the cats were young—I don’t think any were older than a year. They cavorted and chased after feather wands and jumped on tables and sat on chairs. A few of them were sleepy and snoozed where they dropped, and no amount of petting could rouse them. (I did not pet snoozing cats—that’s rude.)

At the table next to mine, a couple had ordered fancy hot chocolates with whipped cream and sprinkles, but they were off playing with some cats when their drinks were delivered. A grey Oriental Shorthair named Fleur saw it as her moment to get on the table and lick some whipped cream. Unfortunately for Fleur, the “cat nanny” who had dropped off the drinks saw what she was about and scooched her off the table. But not for long! When the couple sat down to drink their hot chocolate, Fleur reappeared and did her best to look deprived and starved, but the couple wasn’t fooled. So the cat just sat there, hoping, and looking very pathetic. But also, sleek and beautiful, as all Oriental Shorthairs are.

Maude, Fleur’s sister

There were four pairs of sibling cats—the two Oriental Shorthairs, with Maude the chocolate cat being Fleur’s sister, two Ragdolls, two Norwegian Forest Cats, and two British Short Hairs. The brown tabby Norwegian (whose name I didn’t get but I think might be Sebastian) let me dangle a feather wand at him, and he caught his little “birdie” a few times. I almost got to pet his brother Nico, but this little 10 year old child just wouldn’t let me—she just had to get all the cats to herself. (She kind of chased after them which was bad, flicking her feather wand at them, even when they couldn’t care less.) I also got to play with one of the Ragdolls (until that little girl chased after the cat into the other room).

I mostly spent time with Fleur because she seemed to appreciate my calm, and my unwillingness to throw the feather wand feather in her face. She let me pet her, which was nice. She was very sweet and rather vocal.

Sebastian (?) playing with the cat wand

Gilbert the British Shorthair

I can’t say that my cat needs have been completely assuaged, but I feel less cat-missing and cat-lonely than I was before I went. Maison de Moggy is in the Grassmarket part of Edinburgh, and it’s a little hidden, so if you go, make sure you pass the Women’s Hostel—it’s kind of—err—cattycorner to the Maison. Meow!

Sleepy kitty whose name begins with D

The other Ragdoll cat who was thinking about jumping onto my table

Bartholo–MEW!

A view of Edinburgh Castle from the Grassmarket

The famous Greyfriars Bobby statue (not a cat, obvs.) on the descent into the Grassmarket.

Dispatch from Edinburgh #2–Wet and Wild

Posted on June 25, 2025 by JC Reilly

Saturday the 14th was a soggy mess. All of Edinburgh had as many puddles as umbrellas and lots of damp, sour faces. But not mine. I thrive in the rain. I had lined up the Scottish Highlands Sail, Bike, or Trail Experience (all new for 2025), which would take me to see Loch Katrine, a place I have not been before. What? A place in the Highlands I have not yet seen? Could this be true? It was!

Surprisingly, I had the tour to myself. There were two other folks registered, but they canceled—probably because of the weather. That suited me just fine, because it gave me the chance to pick any seat on the bus I wanted, window or aisle. Also it was nice not to have to wait on stragglers who come to the bus late from outings. And also, I think it spoiled me a little, which was nice.

The Forth Rail Bridge in the rain

The tour began with a close-up of the red Forth Bridge that I had only seen from a distance before. The misty, dreich weather only enhanced its beauty, making it easy to imagine that I’d gone back in time and was seeing the bridge for the first time. There used to be a ferry from this point in South Queensferry over to Fife, to allow the pilgrims in St. Margaret’s time to travel (early 11^th century; in fact, St. Margaret was the one who made the ferry free). But now there’s only this rail bridge, an icon of the late 19^th century, considered one of Scotland’s greatest man-made wonders. Of course there are other bridges nearby, the 1964 bridge and the 2017 suspension bridge, but it’s the 1890 Forth bridge that has the allure and history, and is a World Heritage site.

The beauty of having a tour to oneself is that the tour guide can dispense with some of the cheesy patter and really only tell you things you want to know. I think it helped that I mentioned I’ve been on about a dozen Rabbie’s tours over the years and could practically tell all the Scottish jokes and history right along with the tour guide. He appreciated this comment, because he told me more tailored stories and we could talk about the sights with more depth. For instance, we talked about the making of the Kelpies and why they were situated on the little river where they stay (because that area was known for its iron works), and they were based on the Clydesdale horses that pulled the wagons that held the iron. He told me about the legend of the Kelpies too, but I already knew it. (In case you don’t know the Kelpies legend, they were demon horses that came out of the sea, so beautiful that anyone on the beach would feel compelled to touch or ride the horse. But, beware! As soon as one touched the horse, one would be stuck fast, and the horse would return to the water, dragging the hapless victim to his or her death.)

Gentle Heilan Coo!

We drove along the motor way, with yellow weather warnings periodically showing up on the signs alerting us to heavy rain (as if we couldn’t tell), but then we turned off onto two-lane roads and started our climb toward the mountains. Because there was only me, he made a surprise extra stop at a woolen mill where some Heilan Coos waited patiently in the rain for photos and food. For a £1 you could purchase a bag of carrots, raw potato, and other goodies for the cows, and they would take the food right from your hand with a wet sweep of their huge black tongues. I am sure they are used to standing in the rain, bedraggled and sad-looking, but I felt a little bad for the cows. They liked the veggies though and I was delighted to give them to the cows.

Misty Loch Katrine

Our next stop was Loch Katrine, a huge reservoir that serves Glasgow for its water needs. The loch was deep in the Highlands somewhere, up a twisty, windy road that was so narrow the tour guide asked me not to speak to him so he could concentrate on the drive. I was glad that I wasn’t the one driving—some of the turns were hairpin, and almost 90 degrees at points. Maybe on a day it wasn’t raining like hell, the road would be less treacherous, but it felt pretty scary and I thought he took the drive too quickly. But we arrived more or less in one piece, though I was a bit frazzled.

The Sir Walter Scott… if you look close you can see the rain

Had it not been raining, I might have done some walking along the trails that led away from the boat launch. There was a walk that went past some yurts that I was interested in looking at, but I really just wanted to get out of the rain. I got lunch in the little café—to-mah-to pepper soup and an egg salad sandwich on wheat, which was more lettuce than anything else. The boat ride wasn’t until one, so after lunch I called Mom on the area’s sketchy wifi to catch up with her. (She was fine.) The boat ride was on the Sir Walter Scott, a steam engine boat celebrating its 125^th anniversary. There were 41 passengers for our boat ride, but I was amazed to hear that back in the day, even up to the 1950s, the ship carried up to 500 people. I can’t imagine how 500 people could fit on the ship—we were cozy at 41. The Captain made a joke that people are “wider” now and so it would be a lot harder to fit 500 on the deck. What he didn’t say was where the 500 people would be going.

Another misty view of Loch Katrine

The rain pelted down and the deck was damp and cold but the ride itself was pleasant—the mountains were hiding in low clouds, and the loch splashed and wavered as the boat steamed its way through it. The Captain was full of cheery chat, among which included the fact that no sheep graze in the mountains surrounding the loch because diseased sheep made runoff into the loch, and poisoned the water…not so good for Glasgow.

Turret the Cat

Towser the Mouser

Eventually the rain subsided somewhat as we turned around to get to the boat launch. I returned to the coach and we made our way to the last stop, Glenturret, apparently the oldest Scottish distillery, in Perthshire. They don’t have an assured date, but they settled on 1763 based on archival research and a land deed. Glenturret was unique because they have distillery cats, Glen (shy; I didn’t see him) and Turret (quite gregarious and affectionate). A monument to Towser, the Guiness Book of World’s Record winning mouser, stands right as you are walking up a rise to go into the distillery. Towser caught almost 29,000 mice in her lifetime. Glenturret doesn’t have the mice problem it used to with the barley, so the cats are mainly decorative at this point, but I liked that they were there.

The smooth 7 Year

As for the whisky, I tried a dram of their Triple Wood whisky and their 7 year lightly peated whisky, which I liked very much, better than the Triple Wood, which I found a little harsh on the palate, even with its buttery notes. The distillery tour guide told me that they are phasing out the peated whiskies because they were never but 10% of their business. I think part of that is the recognition that peat is a basically unrenewable resource—but sustainability aside, probably phasing out the peated whiskies mostly has to do with the fact that it doesn’t make money for Glenturret. Another interesting thing about Glenturret is that it is half-owned by the Swiss company who also owns Lalique art glass. I had noticed all the fancy glass bottles and the Lalique markers, and wondered. The bottles are beautiful for sure. I would have liked to have checked out the Lalique Boutique but I didn’t have time. Still, seeing the Lalique bottles for the special whiskies was impressive. (So was the cost!) Even though it wasn’t an arduous tour, I was tired by the time we came back to Edinburgh. I think all the tramping in the rain did me in.

The Cacao Jungle Room at the Chocolatarium

The next day I went to the Edinburgh Chocolatarium, a little hidden hole-in-the-wall chocolate shop off the Royal Mile. For £29, we could hear the history of cacao and chocolate making, taste several “flights” of chocolate from exotic places like Belize, San Tome, Colombia, and Ecuador, and make our own chocolate bar (mine was milk chocolate with candied ginger and candied orange rind). We drank a hot liquid chocolate made with oat milk that was so thick you could have spread it on a biscuit, as well as tried an Aztec chocolate drink that was made of cacao nibs (basically a macerated cacao bean), honey, water, and hot pepper. It was as bad as you can imagine. Very gritty, and not very chocolatey. And for this, they sacrificed 40 people a year to honor the gods who gave chocolate to the world—and 40 because there are an average of 40 beans inside a cacao pod, and 40 pods on a cacao tree.

Our Chocolatarium tour guide making the heinous Aztec drink

After we drank the weird Aztec drink, we could try as many bits of chocolate as we wanted. I had a flight of four—lemon poppyseed white chocolate, Vienna coffee chocolate, Cornish sea salt and lime, and Carrot Cake infused chocolate, and by then I was chocolated out. A girl of maybe 11 or 12 tried over 20. She never sat down. (We were supposed to retrieve the chocolate from the jars, then bring four at a time to our seats.) Not her though. She just ate them straight out of the jars. She was a serious connoisseur—but I was surprised her mom didn’t tell her to quit grazing and settle down and let other people try some samples. At the end, we picked up our chocolates and were led back into the store. I would have been tempted to buy a bar of the lemon poppyseed, but the £6.50 pricetag stayed my hand.

Lunch at the World’s End Pub

Then I somewhat enjoyed lunch at the World’s End Pub, which has been in business since the 1700s, when the wall to Edinburgh ended right beside the pub. I had made a reservation reluctantly (because really, a reservation for a pub?), but I was glad I did, as they only have about 6 or 7 tables to dine at, and a steady clientele. I tried their fish and chips, and while it looked very nice on the plate (accompanied by green peas, not at all mushy), it was surprisingly dry and tasteless. The tartar sauce interested me because it wasn’t like tartar sauce at all—it was creamy like yogurt with something crunchy in it. Maybe onions. I am glad I actually went to the World’s End, since it is a tourist trap, but I wouldn’t go again. The pursuit for Scotland’s best fish and chips continues.

At the end of the weekend I was bushed. Still not over my cold, I rather wore myself out trying to squeeze all the goodness I could out of the days. But it was a fun weekend. I wish you had been there.

Yurts on Loch Katrine

View from South Queensferry

Chocolate flight

One of the toppings I thought about putting into my chocolate bar

A tube of liquid chocolate for the mold

A wee sweet birdie

A view of Holyrood…do you see the plane?

Loch Katrine

No one fell overboard, thank goodness

A pretty flower in the rain

He looks sad, this sweet coo

The wee bird again

The Glenturret mash tun

Boat launch

My candy bar cooling in the mold

Loch Katrine

The two Aussies in the front of the picture talked to me all through lunch at the pub

On the deck of the Sir Walter Scott

A second chocolate flight

Orange rind and ginger for my candy bar

Another sweet coo

Dispatch from Edinburgh, #1

Posted on June 13, 2025 by JC Reilly

A large pink rose with water droplets on it against a green and white background

A fat rose outside my window

My First Week Back in Edinburgh

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman on holiday in Scotland must be in want of a cold. That’s right, I managed to get a cold and have been suffering with it for over a week. So I don’t have an amazing portfolio of pictures to show you, the way I normally do when I go to Edinburgh to teach. Of course that will change because I have to get better soon (please God, I must get better), and I will make some trips and take lots of photos, so don’t worry.

My class, while small, seems good. There are twelve women and two men, and they seem nice. I’m looking forward to talking with them more about the readings, and hopefully we can have robust discussions. They were a little shy this week, but it seemed like they did the reading and are engaged with the class, and that is all I could ask for.

Image of ornate crown molding at the ceiling, with poppies and tulips in white

Look at this crown molding in my apartment!

Tuesday, I found out that the GT professor teaching after me is teaching a class on mindfulness, so I asked him if it would be ok if I sat in on the class, and he welcomed me in. Mindfulness is something that has been—well—on my mind since I started taking the Happiness Studies class I’m in. I’ve been meditating and trying to regulate my breathing and just being really present with what’s going on in my life. (Granted, lately I’ve just been “present” with my cold, but you know what I mean.)

An image of an old building with a spire in the background and palm trees in the foreground.

A building near the Uni of Edinburgh’s Pollack Hall dorms

Yesterday in Dr. Verhaeghen’s class, we did a mindful eating exercise, and he gave us each a piece of chocolate from the Edinburgh Chocolatarium (which I’m going to tour on Sunday) and asked us to really look at it, notice its textures and appearance and color, then we were to smell it and notice any particular scents beside chocolate, and only then could we taste it. But we couldn’t chew it. We had to let it melt on our tongue first, and only at the very, very end could we swallow it. It was a sensuous experience, and delightful. The candy I had was a toffee with caramel (my favorite), and I had the most remarkable realization: that after eating the candy, I didn’t want to eat any more. It was as if the experience of noticing the chocolate with all the senses had given me a satiety—as if another piece would have just been too much. So that was novel. Now, when I go to the Chocolatarium, I’m sure I’ll be eating more than one piece. (I am ok with this.)

A free Palestine flag hanging in a window

Free Palestine! A Palestinian flag in a window across from mine

Since I haven’t really gone anywhere since I’ve been here, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly observing out my window, watching the birds. I’ve seen a number of seagulls, and a ridiculous crow determined to eat something he found in the road, only to have to fly off when the buses roll by. There was a myna at my window ledge, but I couldn’t get my camera out in time. But he seemed quite interested in looking in at me while I looked at him. I’ve seen yellow finches, and sparrows and fat Scottish wood pigeons. The other morning, the tree directly outside was full of mourning doves cooing. I’m no birder, like Kathleen Jamie in Findings is, but I enjoy birds in nature. There are a surprising variety of birds in Edinburgh—you wouldn’t think so, since it’s a city, but there really are. It’s one of the things I like about being here.

I know this wasn’t a particularly thrilling post, but it’s the best I can do being sick. I will have more soon.

Scotland 3.0

Posted on May 18, 2025 by JC Reilly

Now that it’s past my birthday—in other words, half-way through May—I’m feeling the nervous energy of going back to Scotland this summer. There’s so much to do to get ready—laundry, packing, teaching prep, laundry (did I mention that already?) and so much on my mind. As much as I enjoy being in Scotland, which truly feels like a second home, there are adjustments to be made—in temperament, in expectations, even in time management—and it’s hard leaving my life in Georgia. I’ll miss C, I’ll desperately miss my cats, and I’ll miss my very American creature comforts (like pizza and a king bed). And while the compensations are many, it’s hard being absent from my everyday life for two months. I can hear some of you say, “Oh poor JC, how hard it is for you to live in a beautiful country full of culture and mystic mountains and men with sexy accents, you poor dear.” Well, I did say there are compensations, after all.

This time I’m teaching only memoirs/ nonfiction. In the past, I’ve taught memoir, fiction, and poetry (to greater or lesser success) but I’ve revised what I want students to do for a big project this time around. I want them to write their own travelogue, specifically about Scotland. They will be reading Jackie Kay’s Red Dust Road, Kathleen Jamie’s Findings, Robert McWilliams The Kiss of Sweet Scottish Rain: a Walk from Cape Wrath to the Solway Firth, and for a dash of fun, Sam Heughan’s and Graham McTavish’s Clanlands: Whisky, Warfare, and a Scottish Adventure Like No Other. The authors are two actors in the Outlander show, and while it’s not AMAZING literature, it’s definitely charming and gives a different perspective on Scottish life.

Hopefully my students will look past the fact there’s a lot of reading (though it’s not hard) and just allow themselves to get sucked into the stories that are being presented. I also thought only having them have to read 4 books instead of 6 or 7 as I have done previously might allow them to go deeper into the material. We’ll see. (I am afraid they—and I!—might get bored droning on about the books for 5-6 days at a stretch, but hopefully we can co-create knowledge that we’re all interested in.)

I have been reading other books for insight. I read (most of) Sally Huband’s Sea Bean: a Beachcomber’s Search for a Magical Charm: a Memoir, which is about a woman who searches the beaches of the Shetland islands for useful detritus, specifically sea beans, which are seeds of large plants that have drifted across the ocean. Finding one is, apparently, quite a prize, especially if you can get it to grow. I’ve just gotten to the part where she starts discussing how much plastic washes up on shore, which breaks my heart to think about those relatively pristine islands being befouled by floating garbage/ plastic. But I chose not to have the students read this book because it wasn’t—if you’ll forgive me—Scottish or memoirish enough. And it’s also very slow. But I’ve certainly enjoyed learning about the Shetlands, and I hope to finish the book soon.

Another book I’ve been working my way through is Lochs & Legends: A Scotsman’s Guide to the Heart of Scotland, by Andy the Highlander (Andrew McAlindon, with Lily Hurd) which is kind of an armchair history of Scoland. It’s light but informative. Finally, I picked up Scotland: The Story of a Nation by Magnus Magnusson, but let’s be honest, it’s thick and I’ve only been using it as a doorstop. I need to actually crack open the spine and read some of it. (But it’s thicccc with four C’s!) I do like to give a mini lecture on Scottish history at the start of the class, and I got this book to help me do that. I swear I’ll start reading it ASAP. Maybe tomorrow, in other words. (Haha.) I do have other notes on Scotland prepared, but I did think this book would add some richness to my knowledge—of course, I should have been reading it all along. Mea culpa.

Truly, I am looking forward to my third summer in Scotland, and I hope to do a few new-to-me activities, like go to the Writers’ Museum, visit St. Giles’ Cathedral (and this time actually going in instead of hemming and hawing about spending £5 for the entrance fee), maybe take a Ghost Tour, and finally, finally, finally take one of the double-decker tour buses around the city. (I keep saying I’m going to do that, then I never do.) I also thought about going to Surgeon’s Hall, especially because Kathleen Jamie writes an essay about it in Findings, but honestly, I’m too afraid of being squicked out. (I do have a low tolerance for yuck… even if it would be intellectually interesting and teach me a lot about the history of medicine.)

Anyway, I promise you lots of pictures and lots of reporting on my visit… one more thing I have to add to my never-ending list of things to do in the coming weeks! (Oh dear!)

Leopard Aesthetics

Posted on May 2, 2025 by JC Reilly

I’ve been reading more poetry lately. For a while it I read all Regencies, all the time, because I want to write more Regency novels, but the last one I read was really bad. Like, I’ve been half-way through it for two months and am wondering if I—gasp—dare not finish. Life is too short to read bad books, I believe, but I also hate to leave a book behind. So instead of tossing it out altogether and starting a new one which will hopefully be more engaging, I’m reading poetry. It’s good to have a break anyway because even when poetry is “bad,” there’s always something to be learned from it—some new connections with language and thought and creativity to be made.

Last December I ran Atlanta Review’s first ever chapbook contest, and we received 115 chapbook submissions, all of which I read. Some of the poems were wonderful, some were dreck, and some weren’t poems at all (at least, not what I’d call poems), but reading 115 chapbooks was quite the enterprise and it often entertained or moved me. It certainly reinvigorated me as far as reading poetry goes—even though it was just part of my job. And it reminded me that writing books of poetry really is something lots of people do—it’s not just the few of us living in our ivory towers, but it’s insurance salesmen, and accountants, machinists, nurses, software engineers, fast food workers, and teachers. It’s not just MFA-ers trying to publish their theses, and that’s beautiful that the poetry community is so broad these days.

I don’t remember if I mentioned my friend Ed before, whom I met last year at the Tinker Mountain Writer’s Workshop, but he and I started a book club—Leopard Aesthetics Book Club to be exact—with the goal of reading contemporary books of poetry and spending 3 hours on a Saturday morning discussing it. So far we’ve read We Contain Landscapes, by Patrycja Humienik, The Parachutist by Jose Hernandez Diaz, Happy Everything by Caitlyn Cowan, Nocturne in Joy by Tatiana Johnson-Boria, and Slaughterhouse for Old Wive’s Tales by Hannah V. Warren. We may have read one or two others, but those are the ones that I’m remembering right offhand. We meet at Marietta Coffee Company on Roswell Road and we just hang out and dish poetry. MCC has great iced caramel macchiatos which I syphon down in a snap as Ed and I go through the poems of the book, make incisive (or inane) comments about what we’ve read, and generally spend a lot of time laughing and talking.

We get together about once a month and I become so energized by our discussion that it makes me hungry for the next time we visit. I realize I don’t have a “poetry friend” group, not anymore, and so I feel really lucky to have met Ed and to have formed a great friendship with him. He’s a neat person—generous, funny, and interesting—and we text and share poems too. It would be wonderful if Leopard Aesthetics would grow a community of poets and poetry readers around it, but so far neither Ed nor I have branched out like that. There’s still time, but for now, Leopard Aesthetics is just the two of us.

And if you’re wondering why “Leopard Aesthetics,” it has to do with a conversation we had where we were discussing different writing “schools” and the different aesthetics they espouse. We couldn’t think what our aesthetic was, so we each came up with a list of names for our book club that somehow represented what we thought our aesthetic should be. Ed chose my top suggestion and we became Leopard Aesthetics. We haven’t determined what that is exactly, but it’s becoming clearer the longer we hang out.

Anyway, our next book club selection is Real Phonies and Genuine Fakes by Nicky Beer. Dolly Parton graces the cover which I’m taking as a good sign. I’m hoping Ed and I can meet soon. I think this book is going to be great.

I know I took a year off from writing my blogs, but I promise it won’t be that long before I write again. After all, I’m going to Scotland again this summer—and you know I’ll have plenty to say about that!

Romance, Research, and Writing a Summer Novel

Posted on July 15, 2024 by JC Reilly

ICYMI, I have spent the summer writing a Regency friends-to-lovers romance novel, called A Duke for Lady Ellen, which follows the adventures of poet Lady Ellen Brightly in her pursuit of an eligible husband in London. The story is set in 1816, after the wars on the Continent, so Society is celebrating the London Season in full force. Lady Ellen, who initially isn’t too keen on getting married because of her tendency toward clumsiness which alienates potential suitors, meets up with the Duke of Danbury at a ball and interest blooms. I don’t want to spoil the plot, but another suitor, the middle-aged Earl of Hambidge, comes on the scene and Ellen finds herself equally attracted to him. Hijinks ensue.

I’ve read a lot of Regency novels. What I like about them is that they are total fantasies—women of privileged (alas, white) backgrounds whose sole life purpose is to secure a husband. Money for them is rarely a concern, and they have loving parents and good breeding, and are basically set up to succeed. And if they are not of a privileged background, they usually have such a nobility of spirit, they can’t help but capture the eye of some obscenely wealthy titled rake (Cinderella stories of a sort). So you can see the appeal as a reader—these novels completely take you out of your hum drum quotidian milieu.

Lots of harsh realities are glossed over in these novels, if they are mentioned at all. If you’re a Marxist, you realize that these ladies searching for husbands are commodities themselves AND they get their privilege on the backs of tenant farmers whose rents support the titled gentry and on the backs of a servant class who make in one year probably less than the cost of a few of the heroine’s ball gowns. Less savory elements of London society (small “s”) exist, but for the most part, these women do not interact with people who are struggling to survive through crime or prostitution or begging. If poverty is mentioned at all, it tends to be in terms of the charity work that these Society women do to alleviate the problem.

Granted, the gentlemen that the women marry tend to be hedonistic rakes who only reform their wicked ways because they fall in love with the heroine. And sometimes, the men come from poor backgrounds and have “bootstrapped” their lives by becoming titans of industry. So they are rich and therefore “deserving “of the heroines’ love. But more often than not, the men are rich and titled from the get-go, and they are immediately captivated by the Lady at the heart of these stories.

Rarely—at least in all the novels I’ve read—is race even addressed. This might be my fault because I have not researched POC writing Regency novels like I should, so that’s on me, but when it is discussed, the issue of “race” is always framed in terms of a white person who will risk being ostracized from Society in order to be with their love. I just read Cara Maxwell’s Jilted in January (part of The Rake Review series, #1), in which the hero, Edward Johns, is Chinese on his mother’s side, but he’s rich as Croesus, and that buys him (some) respectability, even if he’s considered the most “unmarriageable” man in England. He does not want to marry Persephone Cuthbert—not because he doesn’t love and desire her—but because he’s afraid she will tumble down Society’s ladder for marrying him. For her part, she seems fine with the fall—she maybe trips down one rung max, and when they marry, winds up living in perfect happiness the Limehouse district at the docks, also known for being a China Town. So race isn’t a barrier to happiness (as it shouldn’t be), even if it feels unrealistic for the age.

In Emma V. Leech’s To Break the Rules (part of the Girls Who Dare series, #4), the main character Senorita Lucia de Ferria is called “exotic” but her exoticism inflames the men of the ton. No blonde-haired, blue-eyed English rose, she nevertheless is passing as European, but it turns out she is actually Aashini, an Indian, trying to hide the reality of her background. The book gives her a very poor, traditional-seeming grandmother who may or may not be psychic, a woman who embraces Viscount Cavendish for her granddaughter. He loves Aashini and when she “comes out” as Indian at a big Society ‘do, he couldn’t be prouder. She also has nine other young women friends in the series who don’t seem to care about her race at all—which is loving and inclusive of them. But again, unrealistic.

Another book that (tangentially) deals with race is Elisa Braden’s Anything but a Gentleman (from the Rescued from Ruin series, #7). This time the character of color, Shaw, is not the main character, but he is the assistant and manager of the hero’s club and is wealthy because of his position. He is also a very dark South Asian and he’s very in love with the sister of the heroine. The sister, Phoebe, is pregnant by Lord Glassington, who only comes to heal at the very end when he is tricked into re-proposing marriage to Phoebe. But by then Shaw, who has nursed Phoebe back to health after an illness, declares himself to Phoebe, promises to love her child as his own, and tells Glassington to get lost and pay up the gambling debts he’s incurred. Braden takes care to have Shaw explain how Phoebe’s marrying him will hurt her future prospects in Society and is very clear that he’s aware of the difference in their status. But, as always, true love overcomes everything, even differences in race. But of the three books I’ve mentioned, Braden seems the most aware of the transgressive nature of the interracial relationship within Regency S/society—yet, the transgression remains between minor characters. The main characters are white and white hegemony is upheld.

Considering the bias that the white British had towards Indians, it seems like pure fantasy to imagine even minor characters of different cultural backgrounds getting together. But this is romance, and love always triumphs, even if it’s unrealistic…Of course, I realize harping on a romance novel’s unreality is like saying water is wet—there’s nothing realistic about romance novels, so introducing diversity in these ways should be celebrated even if the color lines in Regency England were much more impermeable than they are now. But then I’m speaking from a white point of view, and I don’t have a scholarly background in 19^th century literature, so take my opinions with a pound of salt.

But back to discussing A Duke for Lady Ellen!

Writing a Regency romance was not hard, per se, probably because I’ve absorbed many of the tropes, expressions, and plotting elements just from the sheer number of Regencies I’ve read. I know my book does break some of those plotting elements—for instance, the big sex scene comes almost at the end of the book (Chapter 25), although there is a little pawing at each between main characters earlier on (Chapter 10). And even in the point of view: mine is third person limited, so we never get inside of the hero’s head because it’s told from Ellen’s POV. At best, she supposes certain things about other characters and their motives, but she doesn’t know. And using third person limited POV is probably a rookie mistake, and one I wouldn’t repeat. All of the Regencies I’ve read are third person omniscient, which allows readers to see other things than what the heroine directly experiences.

Writing a Regency should have been harder for me because of the research such work requires. I did do some research, mostly about conveyances, money, the mail, and the peerage. But to write something well, especially in an era for which I don’t have a background, research should be front and center. And for me on this novel, it was not.

Let me give you the biggest, most egregious example where research could have helped. I didn’t know it, but choosing 1816 in which to set A Duke for Lady Ellen was a Bad Idea—quite a problematic time for England (and the rest of the world). I only found out half-way through the writing that 1816 was considered “The Year Without a Summer” (and then, only because of an offhand comment that Chris made alerting me to the fact). Apparently, a volcanic eruption in Indonesia sent particulates in the air and decreased the world’s temperature by a degree or two, making crops fail and causing famines across England and world-wide.

So I had to retrofit my story with nods to the weather and crop conditions to bring a little more realism to the book. Not that anyone in my book seems to suffer for the most part about The Year Without a Summer… just another one of those glossed-over harsh realities I mentioned, I guess. (If I had done research earlier, then I could have incorporated the details more organically and “realistically” instead of ham-fisting them a bit.) But really, I should have done at least a cursory look into 1816, other than arbitrarily choosing a year just because the Napoleonic wars were over and I didn’t want to deal with military history. Next time, amirite?

Still, all things considered, I’m happy with the novel. I’m sure, writing it as quickly as I did (in the span of several weeks), there are mistakes. And I changed my mind about who the hero really was kind of half-way through because I fell in love with him, and dropped characters in and out of the story as needed for plot, but over all, I like it. I’m proud of it. And I know that some people have read it: at least two of my friends have, and Mom and Chris plan to read it too. I would love a wider audience than just folks I know, of course. But I’ll take who I can get.

Read a little (or a lot!) and let me know what you think of it! It’s free!

Writing and Summering at Home

Posted on June 7, 2024 by JC Reilly

from the NY Public Library Digital Collections

I’m not in Scotland this summer for REASONS, and while I am sad about it, I’m dealing. Of course I think about Scotland all the time—last night I was dreaming of Outlander of all things, even though all I ever watched was the first season. I really think it’s my spiritual homeland, like I am meant to live there some day. I was even looking at real estate in Edinburgh and the rest of Scotland for a while, and found some places that didn’t look too expensive. (Of course, they didn’t look too big either, but that is beside the point.) Anyway, the point of telling you this is so you know not to expect a travelogue from me. Of course, I haven’t written since last year, so you probably don’t expect anything from me!

Now for the update. Writing and I had been at loggerheads for a while. I hadn’t really had a chance to write anything because of those same REASONS I mentioned a second ago. (And I’m sorry to have to Vaguebook, but suffice it to say there are some real meanies out there who wish me ill. But writing about that is for another day, if at all.) So of course, not writing poems was making it harder and harder for me to be ok. If I’m not writing, what am I even doing?

But the summer has been really productive for me, writing-wise. I tasked myself with writing a villanelle every day for May (while I didn’t quite get 31, I got 26), so I worked on that project. Some of the villanelles turned out better than others, but it felt really good to produce that work. (Most still of course need to be revised, but there’s always time for that.) One of the ones that did turn out well got picked up by Midsummer Dream House, and you can read “Heart-bird” here.

And now I’m working on a Regency romance on Wattpad (currently #51 in Regency) called A Duke for Lady Ellen. I’ve published nine chapters so far, and am looking to publishing about 25. This is my “gateway” novel—to see if I can start writing romance novels in earnest. So I’m not worried about finding a “real” publisher or getting an agent or anything like that. This book is an opportunity for me to try something new, to push myself in a new direction. I’m enjoying it so far. Chris, for whatever reason, is really proud of me, although he has not read it so far. (Well, I’d hardly expect him to read a romance novel, even if I wrote it!) But it’s nice to have him cheering me on. I hope you’ll give A Duke for Lady Ellen a glance. Even if you don’t like Regency romance novels, I’d appreciate any feedback you’d want to give it. I want to improve! It will probably take the rest of summer to write it, but I will work on poems as well, so at least my writing “dance card” is full for the foreseeable future.

In other news, my friend Sarah Carey is coming out with her first full-length collection, The Grief Society Minutes, from St. Julian Press (sometime later this year, I believe) and I’ve got an ARC. I’m so happy for her, and I’m looking forward to reading some quality poems! I’m really surprised this collection has taken so long to find a publisher, especially because about 2/3 of the poems are published in quality journals—but finding a publisher is always a numbers game—you just gotta keep sending it out and sending it out. I’m glad that she found a press for this book—now, onto the next one, Sarah! 😉

Other than all that, things in my life are ok. I’m glad it’s the summer, even if I don’t have Scotland. At least I can write and feel happy about what I’m doing.

My Last Scottish Tour

Posted on August 4, 2023 by JC Reilly

I wanted to get in one last tour before I flew back to Atlanta, and had been eyeing the trip to the Ayrshire Coast, featuring Burns country and a trip to Culzean (pronounced “Cul-ayne”) Castle. But it left from Glasgow, and that extra step—going to Glasgow—is what had prevented me from going on the tour any earlier. Did I really want to get up at the crack of dawn and catch a train? But I put on my big girl panties and took the express to Glasgow for one last adventure.

I had picked up a sandwich and a pain au chocolat at Sainsbury’s for breakfast and walked to the Buchanan Bus Station and found a seat. The pigeons were interested, and I can’t help it, I threw bread to them—they’re experts at looking so hungry. But then they frenzied all around me, stepping on my shoes, flying onto my legs, flying to the garbage bin right at elbow level, trying to cadge some food. One pigeon even perched on my index finger (until I shook it off) and another flew at my head! The other people in the waiting area were as amazed (and frightened) as I was. What is it about pigeons that they attract as well as repel? They are kind of charming, but maybe it’s the old idea that they carry disease. (Gross–I just Googled the diseases pigeons carry. Why did I do this?) But I kept feeding them as I waited for the bus to arrive.

And when it arrived, who should be our driver, but good ol’ Stewart! I was so happy to see him yet again, and the feeling was mutual. The tour was small—there were only seven of us: four people from Australia (two were sisters, though one lives in Berlin), a couple from Aberdeen, and me. We bonded pretty quickly, but then Stewart is good about making everyone feel welcome and comfortable. I knew that it would be a wonderful day.

Whitelee Wind Farm

Our first leg of the journey saw us at the Whitelee Wind Farm, on the Eaglesham Moor, about 9 miles outside of Glasgow. It was an unexpected stop, but something about all the wind turbines, with their graceful lines, and blowing blades, was compelling to watch. The wind farm has 215 such turbines, with the capacity of 540 megawatts of power, and it’s the largest on-land wind farm in the UK. It was a chilly and somewhat drizzly morning, so we all went inside to the coffee shop, and sat and chatted for half an hour over a cup of hot chocolate, until it was time to head out. I would have liked a little time to visit the wind science museum, but it was also nice just to visit with the other people on the tour. Sometimes it’s ok to forego museums.

Culzean Castle–I love how this picture came out.

Our next stop was Culzean Castle, home of Clan Kennedy (and later President Eisenhower, who was gifted the top floor), and fortunately, the drizzle had stopped. The sun even popped out a little, making the Firth of Clyde (which feeds into the Irish Sea and backs up to the castle) seem bluer. There was a bit of a walk through the woods from where Stewart dropped us off but it was pleasant, and when I got to the castle itself, I took a few moments to look out on the Firth and admire the soft waves. The castle, which dates from the late 1700s, had a proscribed path to follow for touring, which took us through dining rooms and bedrooms and sitting rooms and even a room decorated entirely with pistols and other weapons—like, thousands of them. (Turns out it’s the armory.) Of course, the rooms were finely-appointed, with rich red carpeting and bedspreads, and paintings everywhere, including what I’m sure is a Canaletto painting of Venice. The castle also had a couple of bedrooms with cradles made to look like small boats. The kitchen was a bright yellow, and led out to a tiny gift shop where (of course) I bought a guide to the castle.

Outside the castle, I walked through the gardens which were nice, but not overly impressive. They had a great lawn though, and I could imagine someone setting up lawn tennis there. People walked their dogs and one family seemed to be fighting and shouting at each other in Portuguese, I thought, never mind that I was sitting on a bench seat and couldn’t help but to listen in. I wondered what they could be arguing about. It seemed like the father was impatient with his younger son, the same younger son that was being bullied by the elder son. Their mother was shouting at her husband to quit shouting at the kids (I presumed). But eventually, they slipped past the wall to the garden and I had peace again. But I was getting hungry, so I made my way back to the main entrance, where there was a café.

My lunch was comprised of “creamy macaroni cheese” (they don’t say macaroni AND cheese in Scotland, I’ve noticed), chips (fries), and a little salad. I don’t really understand why you’d serve a starch with a starch side, but the chips and entrée were tasty, and the salad was small but good. Afterwards, I poked around the gift shop but didn’t see anything that spoke to me, and I met up with the Australian sisters and we chatted some more. They were eating jellybeans.

Stewart and the others arrived, and we got back on the bus and did a little touring. We drove past Trump Turnberry Golf Course and gave it a universal Boo! And then we drove on something called the Electric Brae (known locally as “Croy Bray”), a stretch of road that appears to be going uphill, but is actually going downhill. (A “brae” is a slope, declivity, or hillside, according to the dictionary.) Stewart got out some water and demonstrated: he poured the water on the ground, and it looked as if it were traveling upwards on the ground, instead of downwards. I took a picture of the sign, but for ease of reading, this is what it says (punctuation mine):

“This runs the quarter mile from the bend overlooking Croy Railway Viaduct. In the west (286 feet above ordinance datum) to the wooded Craigencroy Glen (303 feet AOD) to the east whilst there is this slope of 1 in 86 upwards from the bend to the glen, the configuration of the land on either side of the road provides an optical illusion making it look as if the slope is going the other way. Therefore, a stationary car on the road with the brakes off will appear to move slowly uphill. The term “Electric” dates from a time when it was incorrectly thought to be a phenomenon caused by electric or magnetic attraction within the brae.”

Dunure Castle

Then we made our way into the town of Dunure (which sort of rhymes with—ahem—manure), to poke around the ruins of Dunure Castle, which dates from the 13^th century. There’s not much left—a keep, some outer walls, and a beehive shaped dovecote (or “doocot”) which appears well-liked by pigeons and gulls. I climbed the stairs to the top to look out on the sea, and passed a fenced-off part of the castle, where an empty whisky bottle lay in the dirt and rocks.

Burns Cottage with vegetable garden

Afterwards, we were off to auld Rabbie Burns’ cottage and museum. We passed by Brig o’ Doon (the bridge over the river Doon), making me think of Brigadoon, the 1954 movie with Gene Kelly and Van Johnson). We listened to “Tam o’ Shanter” on the way—I think I understood maybe 20% of what was said! The cottage was a long, cream-colored building with a thatched roof. It was quite dark inside, but all around the walls were words that Burns had used (or made up?) in his poetry. One wall reads, “This cultivated the latent seeds of Poesy” from a letter (I presume) from Burns to Dr. John Moore, in 1787. Part of the cottage would have housed smallish animals—goats and chickens, maybe sheep—part was an area for a butter churn and other household tasks. There was also a kitchen with a tiny baby bed constructed into a wall. I wasn’t sure where the adults slept.

On the Poet’s Path, a bronze mouse

The Robert Burns’ Birthplace Museum was a twelve-ish-minute walk away on the “Poet’s Path,” so after looking at everything in the cottage, I headed there. A few statues stood along the way, representing images from his poems, including a large mouse from “To a Mouse,” and a bench with “The Twa Dogs” (Caesar and Luath). The museum, when I got there, was also decorated on the outside with Scottish language words that Burns had used. Inside, again, the room was dark, to preserve the pages of books, ephemera, and portraits of Burns and his family. To my mind, the room was too dark, so that you had to struggle to read the information cards on the wall, but it was kind of nice to see how appreciated Burns is, not just in Scotland but internationally (on display were copies of his work in Polish and Russian and maybe Chinese). It does my poet-heart good to see another poet so beloved… even if that other poet writes in an almost unintelligible language (to English ears, anyway).

When I was finished with the museum I stopped in the giftshop and bought a couple of things, including a copy of “Tam o’Shanter,” thinking if I could see the words I could maybe figure out what is being said, a dictionary of Scottish words, and (of course) a museum guidebook. Then I went to the café and drank a mint lemonade and ate a raisin shortbread (very tough). And by then the museum was closing, and it was time to ride back to Glasgow.

Stewart very kindly dropped me off at the Queen Street station, and I promised that I would see him again next year (assuming I go back to Scotland to teach). Then I caught my train and headed back to Edinburgh. A delightful tour overall.

More photos