Author: Christine Eberle

Seventy-seven miles walked. Nine buses, six ferries, five trains, three flights, two subways, and one tram. What do I remember most from two weeks in Scotland and Ireland? The people. (And their dogs.)

Maybe my introverted self is just more inclined to talk with strangers abroad, or maybe the Scots/Irish are more naturally garrulous and convivial. Either way, on a trip in which gorgeous scenery was a given and meaningful time with pilgrim friends (Iona) and dear family (Omagh) an expected high point, many surprising human and canine encounters linger in my imagination.

Having arrived in Edinburgh at the time of the King’s Garden Party, Porter and I were treated to the sight of many ladies in fancy hats and men in full kilt regalia. At a pub for dinner that night, we struck up a conversation with an older couple at next table. They’d come all the way from the Orkney Islands to have tea at Holyrood Palace with Charles, Camilla, and eight thousand fellow Scots. They were absolutely radiant about the experience, but also about their home island—so far north that it was formerly owned by Norway! Despite the challenges of the man’s thick brogue, Porter and the husband quickly launched into a conversation about gardening, while his wife and I discussed the delights and difficulties of life in such a far-flung place. (I had an easier time, as she was striving to “speak more properly” in the capitol!)

In the port town of Oban, we had dinner in a pub with shared tables, where we met a young couple whose English bulldog, Bluebell, was doing a fine job of keeping the floor crumb-free. (Scotland, you had me at dogs-in-pubs!) Later in the meal, we chatted with a man named Ari who was riding his motorcycle to Ireland—from Finland. Crossing countries by bike and channels by ferry, he was following his bliss with precious little baggage. Though I’d been feeling pretty good about my streamlined packing (no giant suitcase for me this time), I felt a flurry of envy for the freedom he described.

On the isle of Iona, we took a boat to the tiny isle of Staffa to see nesting puffins and their pufflings. Cuter birds may not exist anywhere! But again, the highlight was a conversation I struck up with boat mates Gerry and Lynn, who were staying on the Isle of Mull with Monty, their three-year-old “flat haired double poodle” (the shaggy offspring of a cockapoo and a golden doodle). Though they’d done a lot of international traveling earlier in life, now they only want to go where they can take their dog. Consequently, they are getting to see some beautiful parts of their own country. (Thank goodness Monty likes boats!)

The next day, we bundled up and took a long walk to one of Iona’s beaches, sharing a picnic lunch while sitting on the damp sand with our backs against a warm rock. Walking back, we passed an English bulldog whose people looked familiar. “Bluebell?” Yes indeed–and her companions Andy and Sara, who were on a day trip from Oban. While we were marveling at running into each other again, approaching from the other direction came Monty, Gerry, and Lynn on a day trip from Mull. What were the odds that we’d simultaneously encounter two dogs whose names we knew—who were staying on two other islands? The magic of Iona knows no bounds!

Leaving Iona for Glasgow, we took a quick ferry hop to Mull and then a 75-minute bus ride across its length on a (mostly) one lane road. Our bus driver, Andrew, entertained us the whole way, greeting people out the window, telling us their occupations and bits of their life stories. Passing his own house, he said “Look, there’s me wee dog—and ach, the gate is open!” Shouting at his phone (no hands off the wheel for him), he called his wife to alert her.

Glasgow was our last stop in Scotland. We arrived under the weather, less energized to navigate another new city. On our second night, walking through a quiet neighborhood on our way to an Indian restaurant, we were greeted by a lady wrangling trash cans outside an Episcopal church. Our American accents outed us at once, so she asked how our holiday was going. I mentioned how much we’d been enjoying the people, but confessed that she’d been the first in Glasgow to speak to us. “That’s terrible,” she exclaimed. “You should come in for a cup of tea!” Clearly, she meant it, and had we taken her up on the offer, I’m sure it would have been a fabulous conversation. Just minutes from our dinner reservation, we declined, but were comforted to know that, even in the big city, Scottish folks have open doors and open hearts.

Of course, it’s not just the Scots. Regional cultures vary, but people are people and warmth abounds. Catching a glimpse into the lives of some of God’s other children and discovering fond connections there is one of travel’s great gifts.

How to open myself to such delightful encounters when not protected by travel’s anonymity—now there’s a question. How to be one of those people for those I encounter back home is an even better one.

How might you open yourself to a delightful encounter today?