In the last episode, I forgot to add an interesting detail. When I plopped down onto the grass and didn't get up for a while, a passerby crossed from the opposite side of the street and sympathetically asked if I was okay. I assured him that I'd had worse (which is true), and that I seemed to be able to walk (which is also true).
I slept poorly. My leg hurt a lot, despite the painkillers. I didn't go to the doctor right away, relying on the famous Russian "maybe it'll pass," and besides, early the next morning I had a highlands tour waiting for me. I really didn't want to miss out on it (though you'd think losing a leg would be way sadder). As a result, I got up at half past seven in the morning (an unprecedentedly early hour for me). I hobbled, leaving plenty of spare time, to Rabbies Cafe, which is located very close to the center and is where the tours of the eponymous company start. As it turned out, there were almost a dozen minibuses parked there, with several driving the exact same route. I was given the name of the driver-guide, which turned out to be Stephan. The dude, a short, middle-aged guy with a surplus of torso and a deficit of hair on his head, turned out to be a massive joker and started firing off jokes right from the get-go. I suspect that guides are bred this way, wherever it is they spawn.
A crowd of young Indians hopped into the bus with me, along with a couple of Qatari Indians, and two Malaysian Chinese, with whom I established the best contact. I would have, of course, preferred less exotic travel companions: not out of any racist considerations, but rather for ease of communication. As you know, the further away from the north you get, the thicker the accent, and the more incomprehensible the cultural code.
I asked for a seat where I could at least somewhat straighten my leg, which was completely incapable of being in a bent position anyway, and the journey began.
In a sense, I was lucky that there wasn't a whole lot of walking required, and that there were no grandiose plans for hiking in the mountains. That would have been completely beyond my physical capacity. As it was, at the very first stop where I could find a pharmacy, I asked for an elastic bandage for my joint.
The first stop turned out to be a small town with a nice roofless cathedral and a lush garden. The Scottish accent, just as I was promised, is absolutely unimaginable, and by some miracle, I understood one word out of ten. Fortunately, this was still somehow enough to get by, but what a person without my experience, who has only used English sporadically, would do is beyond me. Curiously, understanding Stephan was absolutely no problem at all. I think they don't just select them like that, but genuinely train them; otherwise, it's unclear how tourists would cope.
Stephan immediately declared that everything below Scotland is called Mordor, and there's no reason to ever go there. Later on, he also didn't shy away from throwing in jokes about the English at every opportunity. Probably intentionally fueling our stereotypes about the Scots' dislike for their conquerors.
As for the compression bandage, I acquired one and pulled it over my knee. It seemed to get a bit better. My mind was still very unsettled about what had happened, but I, like an experienced rider, reined it in slightly. After all, I've been living for a few decades now, and I've learned to understand my own hang-ups, demons, and the tectonic shifts from shocks. My experience told me that I most likely sprained my medial ligament. A quick Google search showed that there's no such thing as a ligament sprain; they are tears — partial or complete. In the first case, the healing period is a week or more, and in the second — a month, with very limited mobility, and the rehabilitation process is heavy and tedious.
It was clear that in the absolute worst-case scenario, I would lose the joy of the vacation entirely, and in the merely bad one — a significant part of it. In the best-case scenario, I had a chance to be walking like a normal human being again in a few days. The fact that my leg hadn't swollen overnight and there was no visible hematoma gave me some hope, and even though I understand nothing about medicine, it was encouraging. I really hoped, albeit without excessive optimism, that everything would heal in a week or two, and I would be able to crawl around the mountains, just as I had planned. If not in Scotland, then at least in Romania.
For now, I had to make do with what I had. Limping, I slowly and gloomily dragged myself around the area after all the other touristos had piled out. At the same time, I never felt sorry for myself, and although I guessed it would be better to be more careful, even with such an injury, pain, and an unbending leg, I still managed to walk more than 10 km every day, and the further along I got, the more this number grew. But this first day after the injury was not easy at all.
It began with us driving out of Edinburgh. Along the way, Stephan explained that the monument in the center, which looks like a Gothic church, is actually — to the writer Walter Scott, probably Scotland's main author. It's funny how the threads of fate intertwine, but Denis, whom I flew to see in Romania afterwards, had read Walter Scott, and is even reading him right now! Probably the only one of all my offline buddies who has read a ton of classic literature.
In the next episode, I'll finally move on from my sufferings to what I saw and learned on the tour (whatever I can remember). Once again, I didn't take notes, this time due to my anxious state of mind. You will also find out what I hate about traveling, and why I bought a tour instead of exploring the country on my own.