Edinburgh, Scotland 2025
It was my daughter’s turn to have some Dad time. Before we left France, I asked both children to think about what they wanted to do the most in the UK. Both of them said they wanted to go to Scotland—Edinburgh in particular. The Lourdes trip when I took them both had drained the coffers…
Killian had been.
Virginie had been.
Kate had never been.
It was my daughter’s turn to have me all for herself.
When I told them,
Killian nodded. “That’s fair.”
Virginie smiled. “We’ll do something together.”
And just like that, it was settled.
This day would be hers.
Just her. Just me.
Edinburgh, at last.
It would be a long day. I wanted to give her a full day—to let the city work its magic… We couldn’t visit everything, but for the first time I thought of Princes Street, and the Royal Mile, and Greyfriars Kirkyard. She’s fifteen—shopping first, history later—yet I’d offer her the quiet places anyway.
I just wanted her to feel the city, not just the shops.
We could always come back.
And next time, she’d walk these streets not because I brought her,
but because she chose to.
We walked along Princes Street looking at the chainstores, even daring to go into H&M but soon left once we realised that you have to be skinny to dress there. We moved on to M&S and had our second breakfast. The bacon roll she had on the train was “interesting” but hardly filling. I saw outfits that I thought she might like but was told, non!
I was on the lookout for a tweed spectacle case but despite looking in numerous tweed shops, I only saw the same things over and over again. I was disappointed, but Kate wasn’t! She saw a beautiful tartan étole that called out to her…
How could I refuse her? It would be perfect for winter and the wool was so soft.
We crossed the bridge next to the National Gallery,
Festival posters peeling in the wind.
Then she stopped—a shadowed shop glowing with silver.
The same one where Killian chose his claddagh six years ago.
“Like Killian’s,” she said, tapping the glass.
Not a question. A claim.
Inside, the air smelled of wool and old metal.
She ran her finger over the trays—
Past the ornate knots, straight to the simplest ring.
“This one,” she told the jeweler. “Like my brother’s.”
I watched her try it on, heart facing outward.
Right hand. My heart is free. (I didn’t need to say it.)
“For remembering,” she whispered.
Not “growing up.”
Just: This is mine now too.
Edinburgh breathed around us—
alive, urgent, temporary.
IJM Photography 