Royal Tea Company

• Musing #2

Scotland is the highlight of my year.

A few days with friends. A shop at M&S. Charity shops. Cool weather. Fish and chips. A spot of tea. It is really quite difficult to ask for much more.

Sourcing in the Highlands can be tricky. The Scottish aren’t particularly known for parting with their heirlooms—or their wool, for that matter. It is common for woolens to be handed down through generations. Much of the porcelain you find is bits and pieces. Not a full service, but pieces of what remained.

Much like the wool.

Jewelry is much the same. Granny’s agates are fought over by the generations. They are around, certainly, but you aren’t likely to find them sitting in a charity shop waiting for an American with two empty suitcases.

Getting to Scotland, however, was another matter entirely.

There are trips where the journey is simply the irritating part between home and the place you actually want to be.

Then there are trips where the journey becomes an event in its own right.

This was one of those.

I was heading back to Scotland to see my childhood friend and her husband, do a little sourcing, do some social media work, and generally have a few days away.

The plan was not particularly complicated.

The universe disagreed.

We are lucky enough to have a bus service to the airport from a park-and-ride. That was the easy part. It was raining, and I left with plenty of time.

My local airport is very easy to navigate. I spent many years working there, so I know most of its quirks. I saw a few old friends, caught up for a bit, and made an earlier flight so I would have plenty of time in Charlotte for my connection.

I was feeling rather confident about the whole thing.

Perhaps too confident.

I had allowed only an hour in Heathrow for my connection.

I’ve done the connection many times. It’s a bit of a jaunt, but just barely doable.

And then came the tornado warning.

Because naturally.

There I was, sitting on a fully loaded 777 while a tornado warning was active.

The captain came over the PA to reassure everyone.

Everyone who had emergency warnings enabled on their phones.

Everyone who had just read the warning telling us to shelter because a tornado was passing.

Everyone who was now sitting inside a very large aluminum tube wondering exactly how much shelter a fully loaded 777 really provides.

As we rocked in the wind, I once again remembered those days working in aviation and was thankful that I was only responsible for myself.

Seatbelt firmly fastened.

Exits located.

And waiting.

There are moments when you stop being angry and simply become fascinated by the sheer absurdity of your circumstances.

This was one of those moments.

Eventually, mercifully, we left.

I missed my connection in Heathrow. I knew I would when we landed.

I didn’t run.

I made my way to Terminal 5, was rebooked on the noon flight to Inverness, and went about my business. The staff at Heathrow are always pleasant, which helps considerably when your carefully constructed travel plans have just fallen apart.

I had plenty of time for a Boots shop and a Starbucks.

If there are two things that make me feel better, they are fast-acting ibuprofen and a strong cup of coffee.

The flight to Inverness was uneventful.

And after all of that, Scotland had the audacity to be completely peaceful.

Which, as it turned out, was exactly what I needed.

Two days in Inverness is plenty to heal the soul. Especially one that has been through heatwave after heatwave.

I wanted sweater weather.

I wanted fish and chips.

I wanted a spot of tea.

Mostly, I wanted to stop moving.

My friends had picked up several auction parcels that I had been able to source before the trip. Given the current state of international shipping, it is almost cheaper to fly over and pick things up yourself.

Almost.

Time with friends is always important, and I rarely make many plans for my time in Inverness. A few rounds through the city center. A pastry at a favorite bakery. Listening to the bagpipes.

That’s usually enough.

This trip also coincided with the eclipse. Unfortunately, the Highlands weren’t particularly interested in cooperating.

Sunny all day.

Clouds exactly when we needed them to disappear.

But it was a good excuse to grab fish and chips and a battered sausage.

Just like last year when we went to see the puffins in Aberdeen, it wasn’t really about the thing we had gone to see.

It was about the experience with friends.

I wanted to try the updated M&S strawberry sandwich, but alas, I was a few weeks too late.

I did try the pistachio doughnut and cookie.

They were okay.

I still prefer the local bakery’s tonka bean croissant.

My time in Inverness was fun, as always.

A few pieces of Wedgwood. A few agates. A full suitcase slowly becoming a sourcing problem.

And then it was time to move on.

The bus to Glasgow is just as efficient as the train, just as scenic, and most importantly, considerably more cost-effective.

I like watching the countryside pass by.

There is something about sitting on a bus in Scotland, watching the landscape roll past the window, that makes the hours feel less like travel and more like part of the trip.

Glasgow is full of grand architecture, royal history, charity shops, and enough things to keep me occupied.

There was also a car boot sale that I wanted to see.

I seem to always arrive too early for these things.

Most of the vendors hadn’t even finished setting up by the advertised opening time.

I found a few pieces of porcelain. There was also a pile of silver-plated teapots.

I was tempted.

But they were too heavy for the suitcase.

This is one of those moments when sourcing meets reality.

I could buy them.

I could love them.

I could also pay an airline to transport a small collection of silver-plated teapots across the Atlantic.

Sometimes the answer is no.

Was it a bust?

Not really.

Would I plan my diary around it next time?

Probably not.

I then went up to the Barras Market.

Again, most hadn’t opened yet.

But I noticed something else.

No Photography signs.

Everywhere.

That was disappointing.

No live.

No pictures of interesting things.

No real evidence that I had even been there.

It was like many of the other flea markets I’ve visited. I’d go back. I do hope, though, that I could talk a few vendors into allowing some photographs.

Or, dare I say it, a live.

The bus to Dundee was just as scenic.

I do like watching the scenery go by.

The hotel in Dundee had an amazing view of the docks and the V&A. I arrived too late to do much shopping, but a Tesco sandwich, mineral water, and a stroll around the city were definitely worth it.

I turned in early.

I had to be up early the next morning because I was heading to Errol for what is billed as the largest car boot sale in Scotland.

The early bus ride and then the walk to the venue were worth it.

This was what I had been hoping for.

All kinds of things were available. Professional pickers. Everyday families selling their wares. Tables full of things that had clearly lived several lives before arriving at the car boot.

I didn’t find a huge amount that I wanted to bring back.

But it was worth it.

I’d definitely return.

Back in Dundee, I stopped at a few charity shops. One was a vintage clothing store, and I found a few pieces that would actually fit in my suitcase.

Which, at this point, was becoming the real sourcing challenge.

Not finding things.

Finding things I could physically get home.

My bus to Edinburgh was canceled.

Unfortunately, that meant I was arriving very late into Edinburgh.

I could have taken the train.

I could also have sold an internal organ to pay for the train.

The price was eye-watering.

So I stayed with the plan, took the later transportation, and eventually made it to the airport hotel. Fortunately, I had booked one I could walk to from the airport.

A bite in the hotel.

Bed.

I needed all the rest I could get.

Because the return trip would be just as close as the way in.

I had one hour to make my connection.

This time, however, I would have security at every stop.

And I was carrying two large jewelry boxes full of costume jewelry.

The airport wasn’t nearly as busy as I had expected.

Security unpacked my suitcase to look through the boxes.

It wasn’t particularly long.

It could have been longer.

Coffee.

Another ibuprofen.

And off I went.

Then the weather started interfering with the carefully constructed sequence of flights, connections, buses, and transportation that supposedly gets a person from one country to another without incident.

My connection went sideways.

And suddenly I was participating in the Heathrow Airport Games.

Specifically, the 2026 edition of How Quickly Can One Middle-Aged Man Get From Terminal 5 to Terminal 3?

The answer, apparently, was very quickly.

I made my way to the bus to Terminal 3, then the ever-long walk to security.

And then another bag search.

I wasn’t running.

Briskly walking.

Purposefully striding.

Actually, it was a jog.

With a heavy suitcase.

Purposefully making my way through Heathrow, trying to make the connection while carrying whatever dignity I had left.

Eventually, I made it to the flight to Charlotte.

I wasn’t the last to board, at least.

Most of us looked like we had just completed some sort of airport endurance event.

The flight to Charlotte was uneventful.

We departed late but arrived on time.

Security again.

Bags searched again.

At least this time I had plenty of time for my connection.

We boarded.

It was warm.

It was raining heavily.

So we waited for the weather to clear.

Thirty minutes.

An hour.

And then, because apparently arriving at the aircraft was not enough, we were deplaned.

Then we reboarded.

At some point, the scheduled departure time of approximately 6:00 p.m. became 9:30 p.m., because time itself had apparently stopped being a meaningful concept.

We eventually arrived around 11:15 p.m.

I had missed the last bus.

So, naturally, I got an Uber to the car.

By the time I finally made it home, it was around 1:00 in the morning.

I was still up at 7:00 a.m.

No rest for the wicked.

And yet, somehow, I was already thinking about Scotland again.

Because the truth is, Scotland was lovely.

The travel was exhausting.

The sourcing was unpredictable.

The car boot sales were sometimes a bust and sometimes absolutely worth the early morning.

The weather did what Scottish weather does.

Transportation had opinions.

Airports had opinions.

Security had many opinions about my jewelry boxes.

But I found some things.

I learned some things.

I spent time with friends.

I ate fish and chips.

I drank tea.

I listened to bagpipes.

I watched Scotland pass by through the window of a bus.

And somewhere between the charity shops, the car boot sales, the missed connections, the suitcase searches, the coffee, the ibuprofen, and the very long walk through Heathrow, I realized that perhaps the trip didn’t need to be efficient to be good.

Sometimes the journey really is part of the story.

Even when the journey is trying very hard to kill you.

Scotland was worth it.

She usually is.