Day 33: Girvan - Fairlie

The night was quiet. Really quiet, no wind, no strange noises, no creepy-crawlies with too many legs. I even dreamed they were giving me unlimited treats, but just as I was about to bite into the third, I woke up.

Anyway, we set off north around 10, as if we were in a hurry to see new clouds. We made a quick stop at a place that smelled of freshly cut grass and old money. A perfectly manicured golf course with a Scottish flag the size of a bedspread. Papi Edu took a patriotic selfie with the flag waving behind him, and I took the opportunity to water a colonial-style hedge. And then, *voilà*! It turned out it was Trump Turnberry. Yes, Trump, like the one with the raccoon hair, but the Scottish version. They say this golf course is one of the most luxurious and famous in Scotland and the world, with sea views, a five-star hotel, and prices that give you more vertigo than the cliff next door. Since 2014, it has belonged to Donald Trump himself, who renamed it Trump Turnberry. Several Open Championships have been played on its courses, although lately, what's mostly played here is posturing with expensive polo shirts and electric buggies. It all seemed too stuffy to me. I didn't see a single ball-picker stick, or even a measly golfing mongrel.

We continued north and passed through the village of Alloway, where suddenly everything became very poetic, literally. There were signs everywhere announcing Robert Burns monuments. Robert Burns' birthplace, Robert Burns' garden, Robert Burns' museum, the sink where Burns washed his face. Okay, I made that last one up, but it wasn't far off. We didn't know who this Burns fellow was, so we parked and took a walk to find out. It turns out Robert Burns is Scotland's national poet, kind of like their Lope de Vega with a kilt and bagpipes. He was born here in Alloway in 1759 and wrote a ton of poems in Scots about love, freedom, whisky, and cows—not necessarily in that order. His most famous poem is 'Auld Lang Syne,' which you've probably heard on New Year's Eve while someone sings drunk without knowing the words. The main monument is in a well-kept garden, with Greek columns, statues, and signs explaining his life and work. All very pretty, yes, but also a tad cheesy, as if the park had been designed by incurable romantics on a haggis overdose. Papi Edu tried to read me some verses aloud, but just then some children ran past screaming, and I took the opportunity to tug on my leash. Poetic miracle averted.

After that, we continued our journey and stopped at a Lidl south of Ayr – you know, that sacred temple where it smells of cheap bread and frozen croquettes. Papi Edu bought the usual, and then we went to a pet shop. Me, excited. I thought: time for a treat, a bone, a ball, a squirrel-shaped rope, *something*. But no. He only bought kibble again, pipettes again, and a new retractable leash. Toys? Treats? Nothing. Is this even a life?

We continued north, passed through Troon, Ardrossan, and finally parked in Clyde Muirshiel Regional Park, right at the start of the Fairley Glen Circular Walk. This area is a landscape of gentle hills, green pastures, and dramatic skies where it looks like a unicorn or a depressed bagpiper could appear at any moment. Fairley Moor, at the top of the park, is open ground with spectacular views of the Firth of Clyde and the Isle of Arran – when the clouds allow you to see something. That wasn't the case today.

Since the weather wasn't cooperating – grey clouds, a light but persistent wind, and that fine rain that seems like it's not getting you wet, but it is – we decided to do a short hike. We parked, ate in the camper, and then went to see Glenburn Waterfall. Waterfall, they say. More like a timid trickle emerging from between the stones, like a low-pressure camping shower. But the spot was pretty, with tall trees, moss everywhere, and that silence that seems to whisper, "Don't run, you'll slip." And since the day wasn't good for more adventures, we stayed here. The few cars that had parked there in the afternoon left one by one, like stray cats hearing an alarm go off. We were left alone, with the camper in the middle of nowhere and the feeling of having seen a bit of history, a bit of luxury, and an outdoor Scottish shower. Me, meanwhile, I'm still waiting for my ball.