The Wedding of Peter and Liz on the Isle of Bute, Scotland

In a modern incarnation of ancient celtic "Pre-Nuptial Purification Ceremony," Peter is captured and held on his Uncle's bed by his cousins, Brid and Clare the night before the wedding.   The groom is symbolically imprisoned by his female relatives to ensure good fortune on the day of the wedding.   Liz, the bride, in another undisclosed location, is imprisoned by her male relatives in a similar manner.   The anthropologist, Margaret Meade discovered the ritual among the Pictish tribes of Scotland and Ulster, the northern province of ancient Ireland.

he arrival on Bute of an Electric Bakery is the cause of much celebration by the locals who have suffered under the tyranny of gas for centuries.  

The women of Rothesay gather outside one of the numerous Menswear shops to protest the lack of women's clothing shops on the Isle of Bute.  The sale on menswear only fuels their rage.The Haggis Shop is licensed deal in game.  I fear this may involve Bambi and Co.  Do not ask what is involved in the preparation of haggis.

In good ol' Amurikay, it's called a "Barber Shop" but oh no, on this island that have to call it a "Gents Hairdressers," without so much as a nod to the conventions of proper punctuation.

They couldn't find another name for the local hardware store?  Have they no idea that some perverse Americans might visit the Isle once in a while?

The Carpet Warehouse needs no commentary.

One of the finest drinking establishments on the Isle is the Buteman.

Bute has every modern convenience, including rest room fittings.

Day One:    Arrival at Glasgow International Airport; meet brother, Muredach, his wife, Anne , and their daughters, Brid and Clare.  We get into rental car and drive to  Bute.
I'm happy to be finally here on the island, off the ferry from the mainland near Greenock, which is near Glasgow, which is in Scotland. The wedding will take place tomorrow at Rothesay Castle. The journey here has been thusfar filled with long
delays at Chicago, O'Hare and London, Heathrow. Then the ferry over to the
island in a strong gale, driving rainy sleet (it's 34 degrees this morning,
barely above freezing). My brother, Muredach, his wife, Anne, and their daughters, Brid and Clare, drove as a team from Glasgow Airport to the ferry near Greenock. On the Isle of Bute, the locals all look like characters from Beckett. I asked an old man walking a tiny dog (that looked like a rat) for directions to the hotel. He said, "I'm concentrating on the
dog at the moment, but let me think....will you hold the dog's leash
for me while I go across the road and ask my wife, for she's sitting
in that car yonder and she knows the isle better than I do?" So
there I stood with this wet little rat that looked up at me gingerly,
imploringly, in the driving sleet, while the old man tottered across
the icy road to a shape in a car that was, apparently his wife. I
watched them talk through the car window, which was steamed up, for
nigh on ten minutes. He nodded to her. The window was rolled up,
and the old man, with his walking stick, tottered back while I looked
at the small dog with a mixture of pathos and terror. The old man
told me that the hotel is on the hill. "Is it on the hill?" I
repeated. "It is," he affirmed, "on the hill." The hill is singular
on the island. The hotel was on the hill. I was sure of that. I
drove to the hotel. It is built from stone. The wind comes through
the gaps in the stone, as does the rain.  I'm sharing the lovely old room with Peter,
Moira's of son, on his last night as a single man.  There are two beds. There is a woman who brings food.  She does not talk. The man talks incessantly. About the weather.
About America. He asked me questions but answered them himself. I
didn't need to talk. I just drank tea and ate my scone and listened
while crumbs fell from my lips.    It was lovely and easy.