Day 83: Maybole - Lendalfoot

Today we got up early. So early that the sun hadn't even had its coffee yet. By half past nine we were already on our way, even though it was only a ten-minute drive, to the very town of Maybole. The plan: to stop by the vet to comply with one of those post-Brexit human rules that even they don't fully understand.

It turns out that British dogs, ever since their humans left the European club, need a digital “Pet Travel Document” to cross into Northern Ireland. But that doesn't apply to me. I have a cool foreign passport. The problem is that, passport or not, all dogs need a pill against the dreaded “tapeworm”. In Spanish that's called “tenia”. A little word that sounds like a lizard, but it's an even nastier creature.

The vet took the pill with a "this is going to be a struggle" look on her face, but I, being the professional I am, gulp!, swallowed it without a fuss. No syringe with water, no struggle, no drama. She was so surprised she almost applauded me. "How easy it is with this little dog," she said. Of course, madam, I'm an international expert in border procedures.

That said, the procedure cost almost 40 pounds. Daddy Edu made the universal gesture of a human saying goodbye to money with resignation: a sigh, raised eyebrow, and "well, what can you do." After the legal rip-off, we headed south.

As we passed through Turnberry, everything was in chaos. Police cars, closed roads, cameras, journalists, and a lot of showboating. It turns out that Donald Trump himself was at his golf course —the one that bears his name just in case he forgets— meeting with Ursula von der Leyen, the President of the European Commission. Although according to daddy, the "meeting" part was quick, and he spent the rest of the day playing golf as he knows how: cheating and celebrating his own imaginary holes. A classic.

After the presidential show, we arrived at a place we'd had on our radar for weeks. Back then there was no parking, but today, there was. It's a wide area next to the road, almost like a park, with benches, grass, and a feel of a place where truckers stop to eat bacon sandwiches. But the curious thing is the monument to the Russian submarine Varyag, which sank off this coast in 1920, just 500 meters from here. Poor Varyag had more lives than a cat: first it fought against the Japanese in 1904, then it was rescued, sunk again, sold, refloated, used by the British... and in the end, it ended up here, rusting away in the cold waters of the Irish Sea. A shipwreck with a diplomatic passport.

Since we arrived early, we snagged a good spot. A couple more trucks and a couple more campers joined us, but there's plenty of space. That said, for walking we are somewhat limited: between the road with constant traffic and the sea, there isn't much room. But the views make up for it. A lovely blue, calm sea, and even a ray of sunshine.

Daddy Edu started working on the blog, and I... well, I focused on what I do best: resting as if I were paid by the hour. My paws are still complaining about Ben Nevis. My body craves a sofa, and my soul, a blanket.

And here we'll spend the night, among waves, trucks, and Russian memories. Tomorrow, Northern Ireland awaits us.