A gale-force wind swept in from the North Atlantic in Ayrshire, Scotland, and flung a shower of hail at us as we left the house. It was January 25th and we, Miss Taggart and I, were on our way to celebrate Robert Burns birthday. He lives on in his legacy of poetry and music and, in particular, with the celebration of the annual Burns Supper.
When I first attended the Scottish International Poetry Festival in Ayrshire, I was housed with Miss Taggart. She ran a guest house with windows framing the magnificent view of the Isle of Arran.
Each night she waited for my homecoming offering cocoa and oatcakes and we sat in her cosy kitchen while she educated me as mu
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