EGPH - Edinburgh, Scotland, GB

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: de Havilland Canada DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi" (N8086K)
Guest Co-Pilot: William Wallace
Today’s episode is sponsored by The Spanish Inquisition RPG app—available now on iPhone, Apple, PC, and Android. Nobody expects their next adventure!
Date: Monday, 9 June 2025
Weather: Mist at dawn, clearing to scattered clouds over the Firth of Forth.

Flight Plan
Route: Scone (EGPT) → Talisker Distillery (EGEI, urgent detour) → Overfly: EGPN, St Andrews Golf Course, Balado Airfield → Edinburgh (EGPH)

Log Entry
As told by me, William Wallace—guest co-pilot, log entry writer, and champion of all things Scottish—this day’s adventure will not soon be forgotten. If you seek a tale of English order and quiet skies, look elsewhere; what follows is a true Scot’s account, full of spirit, wit, and just enough irreverence to make the Sassenachs blush.

We’d barely finished our pre-flight at Scone when the radio crackled with an urgent summons from the folk at Talisker. Smitten with Spam musubi (a delicacy the English wouldn’t dare try without a manual), they begged us to divert to EGEI. “We have a cask that cannae wait!” they pleaded. Only a Scot would answer such a call with haste and a hungry heart.

With Lani’s paw launching the “Nessie Alert,” the Buffalo’s cabin filled with the wail of bagpipes and Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir.” We landed at Talisker, where the distillery team greeted us with reverence and a case of their finest: Talisker 10 Year Old and a rare bottling of Talisker Storm.

The 10 Year Old was a homecoming—salt, peat, pepper, lemon, and bonfire smoke on the nose; silky, creamy, with orange, wood, pepper, and a wave of sea salt on the palate; candied ginger and a bright note of apple on the finish. The Storm was bolder and sweeter, with peat, oak, honey, and a chilli bite—enough to put hair on the chest of even the most timid Lowlander.

With the casks secured, we pressed on, and soon the links of St Andrews sprawled beneath our wings. Now, I ken the world calls this the “Home of Golf,” but let me tell ye: golf is a sport only a Scot could invent, likely as punishment for the English. Swinging a stick at a wee ball, then chasing it through wind and bog—aye, that’s our idea of a good time, apparently. I’d sooner face a line of English archers than a bunker at St Andrews. They call it the “gentleman’s game,” but I’ve seen more honest brawls in a Highland tavern. At least in battle, ye ken who your enemy is. On the golf course, it’s the wind, the sheep, and your own cursed temper. If the English want to claim golf as their own, they’re welcome to it—let them have the rain, the midges, and the lost balls. I’ll be at the 19th hole, where the real sport begins—with a dram in hand and my dignity intact.

But the true test awaited us in Edinburgh. We landed to festival madness—Fringe performers, Monty Python tributes, and coconut parades. The Bridgekeeper himself appeared, robes billowing, eyes sharp as a claymore.

“Stop! Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see.”

I stepped forward, sword in hand, heart pounding like the drums of Bannockburn. “Aye, ask your riddles, old man. I am William Wallace, son of Scotland. I fear no bridge, nor keeper, nor Englishman!”

The Bridgekeeper’s Questions:
1. “What… is your name?”
“William Wallace, and I’ll not be mistaken for another!”
2. “What… is your quest?”
“To bring freedom, whisky, and Spam musubi to every corner of this land!”
3. “What… is your favourite colour?”
“Blue—like the saltire, and the face I paint for battle!”
4.
The Bridgekeeper paused, then nodded. “Go on. Off you go.” The crowd erupted in cheers
.
Cardinal Fang appeared, grinning, and pressed the coconuts into my hands. “By order of the Spanish Inquisition, these are yours. And with them, a companion.”

From behind him stepped Patsy, humble and steadfast, now part of our loadmaster’s crew, callsign “Steed.” From that moment, whenever we strode afoot or rumbled in the Gopher Tanks, Patsy clanged the coconuts, the sound echoing like the charge of a thousand Highlanders. The English may have their horses and their pageantry, but we Scots have ingenuity, coconuts, and a Steed who never needs feeding.
It was then, standing atop the Gopher Tank, coconuts in hand, that I roared to the festival throngs:
“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom—or our coconut halves!”

After landing, we made for “Nudge Nudge Noodle.” The chef, inspired by our exploits, presented a special “William Wallace Ramen”:
• A robust pork bone broth, hearty as a Highland stew
• Thick, chewy noodles for strength
• Double eggs, soft and poached, for stamina
• Thick slices of chashu pork, seared with a torch like a battlefield
• A dash of fiery chilli oil for courage
• A sprinkle of green onions and nori, and—aye—a slice of fried Spam, in tribute to our journey
•
I faced the bowl with my claymore, declaring,
“Every man dies, not every man truly lives. But every man who eats this ramen will know the taste of freedom!”

Lani triggered the “Slàinte mhath! Button,” and everyone shouted:
“Let the English keep their tea and crumpets—tonight, we feast like Scots on freedom, whisky, ramen, and the thunder of coconuts!”

Closing Thoughts
Let it be known: a true Scot rides not alone, but with a loyal Steed at his side, coconuts clattering, and freedom in his heart. The pipes played, the coconuts echoed, and the laughter of friends rang louder than any festival crowd. If the English think they can outdo us in spirit, they’re welcome to try—though they’ll need more than tea and crumpets to match a Scot on a mission. Onward, to the next adventure!

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