It requires a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding.

That knuckle-end of England--that land of Calvin, oat-cakes, and sulphur.

I look upon Switzerland as an inferior sort of Scotland.

I haven’t even been here an hour and already, Edinburgh is the city of my dreams.

But he'll never be fully recognised, because Scots literature these days is all about complaining and moaning and being injured in one's soul.

After walking the Royal Mile, we visit Edinburgh Castle. Overlooking the city from the grassy hilltop of the Castle Rock, the fortress itself looks as though it has been carved from the very stone upon which it sits. It is powerful yet elegant, lavish yet wholly inviting to anyone fortunate enough to find themselves standing at the castle gate. These are doors and walls and windows that have seen kings and queens, saints and sinners, voyagers from all corners of the world. And now us.