I have to tell you the truth. I’m getting tired of the obligatory group dinners that touring requires and we long to go off on our own, dine when we choose, where we choose and how we choose. That will happen tomorrow.

Meanwhile, last night was our “traditional Scottish dinner,” complete with a charming, kilt-clad, bagpipe-playing clansmen, a couple of Scottish dancers and a huge platter of haggis.

And yes, the haggis was piped in, and a very long, dramatic poem about it was recited before knife was taken to the loaf of organ meat and we could dip in.

Ok, I’ll admit it. I tasted it.

It tasted like chicken.

No, actually it didn’t. It tasted like spicy sausage and if I didn’t know it was hearts, lungs and all sorts of other organ pieces, I probably would spread it on a piece of crusty bread and enjoy it.

But since I know what it is, I couldn’t get more than a taste down.

Haggis. Once in a lifetime is enough.