The New York Times published yesterday an article in their travel section on Scotland (A White Christmas in Scotland? Tartan Is Just Fine, by subscription) that was generally upbeat about Scotland, but not so flattering about kilts.

Our first hotel, Airth Castle, a half-hour’s drive from Edinburgh, more than lived up to our visual expectations: it is a 14th-century castle with turrets and is dramatically lighted and situated on a hill overlooking a valley and river. But we soon learned we would be staying instead in the modern annex down the driveway, since the castle’s bedrooms were under renovation.

Adding to our woes, a large corporate Christmas party, complete with drunken men in kilts, was taking place that night down the hall from our rooms. (The next morning, an empty Scotch bottle awaited us when we opened our door.)
Granted, this has more to do with the occupants of said kilts than the kilts themselves, but one might conclude that all rabbles are that rowdy.

And later,

Next we headed to the Palace of Holyrood House, the Queen’s official Scottish residence at the opposite end of the Royal Mile, the street that connects the two castles. The route is lined with shops selling every color of cashmere and lamb’s wool sweater, plus every form of Highlands dress imaginable. (Resist the urge to buy the entire family a set of matching kilts; you’ll regret it later.)
While this may be good advice, the author does not explain why this is a bad idea, say if the quality is questionable, or the credit card bill will be shocking, or if it leads down the slippery slope of kilt addiction for the whole family.

The author gives glowing praise for Scotland, however, as in her concluding paragraphs:

Driving back on our last day through the craggy mountains and endless lowlands of the Trossachs National Park, we all marveled at the frosted countryside surrounding us — wild glens, dark lochs and sweeping forests dotted only by the occasional cow.

When my husband surprised us by popping in a C.D. of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards playing “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes, I realized none of us had mentioned once the lack of snow since we arrived. A white Christmas back home suddenly seemed less memorable than this Scottish one.
Regards,
Rex in snowless Cincinnati