It looks like I won’t be wearing a kilt as we hike the West Highland Way.

It’s not that my heart was set up on it. The whole idea started as a bit of a joke. I think Susan suggested that her husband, Brian, wear one because he has nice legs and would look good in one. He good-naturedly went along with the idea.

Rose said my legs were OK, too, and maybe I should wear one. I went hot and cold on the idea.

There was immediate debate over the pros and cons of wearing nothing underneath the kilt. I’m told going kilt-and-commando is a thing. At least, the fodder of some painfully unfunny cartoons, circa 1945–1955.

It seemed to me that a kilt would be a very comfortable piece of clothing on long walks. But there are midges to consider, even though their season seems all but over. Clouds of the tiny insect apparently descend upon exposed flash and feed like Amazon piranas. I’ve seen the videos. It can get ugly out there. Scotland even has a website that pinpoints dense midge populations on a 1-5 scale. It is operated by the company that makes Smidge, the go-to midget repellent. So there’s that.

We had plenty of opportunities to buy kilts in Edinburgh. There is apparently one store selling kilts for every 10 people in the most touristy districts, like the Royal Mile. It’s pretty crazy. There are high-end makers of kilts who have been in business for centuries.

We were looking for the cheaper version that said both “Authentic” and “Made in China.”

We found cheap ones. When push came to pulling out the debit card, Brian demurred. His reasoning was plausible. He is of Irish descent and his clan has its own colors — which you wouldn’t find in a Scottish tourist shop. It didn’t feel right to wear the tartan of the Stewarts when he was a Connors.

Coming from a family of Irish horse thieves, our tartan was prison stripes, so I lacked Brian’s plausible denial.

Besides, what started as a lark, was feeling a little dodgy. In Edinburgh on Saturday, there were numerous men in kilts. Most were connected to either a wedding party or a set of bagpipes. Either way, they all looked rather grand and dashing, in an “Outlander” knockoff kind of way. Even pudgy guys seem to pull off kilt-wearing well.

The idea of me wearing a kilt started to feel clownish, with a wee dram of disrespectfulness for the culture. A culture I’m beginning to love, by the way.

So I bought a tweedy flat cap instead. I’ll be rocking that on the trail, instead of an American-style baseball cap.

If you’re looking for anything coherent or insightful about Edinborough or Glasgow, I’m here to disappoint. We’ve spent so little time in either city. A couple of nights in Edinburgh to celebrate Rose’s birthday and one in Glasgow so we can get the early morning train to Milngavie and begin hiking.

I’d say one of the highlights of Edinburgh was the birthday dinner for Rose Alcantara at Howies on Victoria Street. We made reservations ages ago — my hiking companions are all reservation-making fiends … I am not. The place was packed. And with good reason. They set a mean table.

The line of people waiting outside was clearly filled with foodies hoping that someone with an actual reservation would fall sick and die so they could pick up the table.

Howies menu is seasonal, all-Scottish, and delicious. The venison casserole was rich and unambiguous. It was game meat the way game meat is supposed to taste. Roast lamb, haddock, pea-and-mint risotto — I’m not all sure what everyone else was eating but the lip-smacking and exclamations were drowning out my own lip-smacks and mumbles of delight.

Earlier yesterday, we rambled around Edinburgh Castle in a foggy drizzle after a brief but informative tour — but honestly, I’m not going to try and find my notes. Once I heard that the names of more than 200,000 Scottish men and women who died in combat, starting with World War I, are inscribed in regimental books in one of the many museums within the walls, my enthusiasm began to fade.

Across the courtyard from the rolls of the dead is the stately stone mansion reserved for the castle’s commandant. I wanted to knock on his door and ask if he was comfortable sharing the top of the hill with the ghosts of 200,000 fallen comrades.

The whole rest of our time there, all I could think of was the many officers who bought their commissions and blithely sent young boys into battle to die. Our guide casually discussed the various cannons aimed out toward the city and their firepower. My thoughts grew darker.

I found considerable cheering up in nearby St. Giles Cathedral in Old Town. Not a religious cheering up. Like all grand churches of Europe, this one is an architectural marvel. Also, it has cats. You could hear them mewling as we gazed at the intricate stained glass windows.

Atop one ornate alcove, I spotted a large ball of colorful yarn, the kind of ball someone makes to save their enormous collection of many colored strands of string. Its diameter had to be more than a foot. That’s some serious collecting. But what was it doing in the church? Something for the cats to play with?

Even more curious was the monument to Jenny Geddes, a congregant who threw a three-legged stool at the head of the church’s minister when he tried to impose the Anglican readings of the English on the Protestant faithful. Her act was said to spark the resistance that led to abandoning the unification of the English and Scottish religions.

How is Jenny Geddes memorialized? With a large metal replica of a three-legged stool.

Well, it’s different.

If I tried to tell you anything about Glasgow, you could legitimately accuse me of fakery. Our time here has been so short. We spent more time listening to Kyle the hotel clerk as he extolled the city’s architectural charms, its plethora of free museums and festivals, and the multiplicity of ripping good pubs than we actually spent walking the city streets.

I did watch on TV Portugal defeat Scotland 2-1 in Nations League play last night, thanks to a late goal from second-half sub Ronaldo. Yeah, that guy. I can only imagine what the sounds would have been like on the street below my hotel room if Scotland had held on to its 1-0 halftime lead. They were hardly muted, coming as they were from the ripping good pubs nearby. But they weren’t triumphant.

Well, no time for that. We must wake up in four hours and shuttle over to the start of the West Highland Way.

One last thing. I mentioned the flat tire on our bus as we left San Miguel de Allende and I may or may not have logged it in as an omen. I have mixed feelings about omens — whether or not to believe in them. Our connecting flight to Edinburgh from Heathrow was scuttled and we did have to take a train the next day.

So there’s that. Close to omen fulfillment.

This morning I received a message from a dear friend in the form of a prayer. I want to share it with you:

“I am praying this Sunday that God will grant you supernatural strength to get your 74-year-old body with your 24-year-old spirit up and going each day. That you will see such amazing vistas that you will want to keep going. And when your head hits the pillow, that He will grant you rest sufficient for the next day’s trek.”

I read this in the Scottish National Art Museum. Well, not the museum but its cafeteria where we were enjoying a scrumptious breakfast. When were were walking through the park toward the Waverly train station, Rose and Susan spotted this piece of paper on the ground, almost and answer to my friend Linda’s prayer:

I photographed it right where they found it.

I’ve got a good feeling about this adventure.