By the way, Kirkliston boasts of one of the biggest distilleries in Scotland.
But it quite knocks all the romance out of Highland whisky to be told it is made from American maize instead of from malt. Ugh!
Splendid road through a delightful country all the way to Linlithgow. Pretty peeps everywhere, and blue and beautiful the far-off Pentlands looked.
At Linlithgow even my coachman and valet were made to feel that they really were in Scotland now, among a race of people whose very religion causes them to be kindly to the stranger.
Through Polmont and on through a charming country to Falkirk, celebrated for its great cattle tryst.
July 29th.—At Linlithgow I visited every place of note—its palace and its palace prison, and its quaint and ancient church. Those gloomy prison vaults made my frame shiver, and filled my mind with awe. “Who enters here leaves hope behind” might well have been written on the lintels of those gruesome cells.
There are the remains of a curious old well in the palace courtyard. A facsimile of it, when at its best, is built in a square in the town. Standing near it to-day was a white-haired, most kindly visaged clergyman (The Rev. Dr Duncan Ogilvie), with whom I entered into conversation. I found he came originally from my own shire of Banff, and that he was now minister of a church in Falkirk.
He gave me much information, and it is greatly owing to his kindness that I am now, as I write, so comfortably situated at Falkirk.
A pleasant old stone-built town it is, with homely, hearty, hospitable people. Many a toil-worn denizen of cities might do worse than make it his home in the summer months. There is plenty to see in a quiet way, health in every breeze that blows, and a mine of historical wealth to be had for merely the digging. The town is celebrated for its great cattle fair, or tryst.
Away from Falkirk, after holding a levée as usual, during which a great many pleasant and pretty people stepped into the Wanderer.