Day 21 (August 4): Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

I can’t believe it’s been three full weeks. I am exhausted, exhilarated, excavated, and exuding enthusiasm.. (Should write a poem about that.) I rise before the alarm goes off, quickly shower, and stow the last of my clothes into my carryon. Should I take the leftover black currant jam? The leftover cheddar? The packaged snacks the hotel leaves us?

No, no, and no. My suitcase is bulging. I will be fed on the plane.

Arielle wakes, sleepily, and gets ready while I walk to the car park to get the car. It’s still there! I am absurdly thankful for this (had a nightmare about it’s being stolen and we had to walk back to Edinburgh airport). 

I return with the car, and we say good-bye to our rather plain room (unadorned except for a ghastly cartoon figure that we understand is in all the hotel rooms and is a popular Scottish version of Dennis the Menace).

Linda Nemec Foster’s husband found this picture so disturbing in their room that he tried to unscrew it from the wall so he could hide it in the closet. I think we all felt the same way about it.

Crowded and usually a bit messy, but it was home for a while.

Arielle and I decide there’s just enough time for breakfast (after all, the restaurant opens at 7 and breakfast is included in our room fee), so we eat a hurried breakfast of granola and fruit. Then we swing our bags into the faithful little car and drive south in the rain. I suppose it is fitting for it to rain on this day of leaving, but I am disappointed that we will miss the vistas that Scotland is famous for.

We drive back past Falkland, past the hills where I walked, past the great bridge over the Firth of Forth. Traffic is light, and we arrive at the airport in good time.

There is even time for one last cup of tea together, so we sit at Starbucks and wait for our gate assignments. Then a final hug and good-bye, and….Scriptoria 2026 is truly ended.

My flight to Boston is uneventful (I watch the series 1923 instead of sleeping), and I find an excellent Delta lounge in which to relax for the five hours prior to my flight home.

And then—tired beyond words—I wait for dear Phil to pick me up and chauffeur me home. I am even too tired to go out to the garden, which amazes both of us. I climb into my freshly washed and line-dried sheets and fall into a sleep in which poetry, planes, and pleasant memories intertwine and mingle. 

Scriptoria is over, and I am home.