Day 2: The day I turned 40 (& my toddler ate haggis off the floor)
My birthday! I had hoped to wake up in a castle for my 40th, but instead found myself at Dalmahoy, a country club and resort built in the 1720s, nestled in 1,000 acres of stunning parkland. Honestly, it was jaw-droppingly beautiful.
As our black cab turned into the long driveway the evening before, the Scottish countryside in May revealed its magic — lush green overgrowth left just wild enough to feel enchanted. The forests looked straight out of fairy tales. Dalmahoy was far grander than I’d imagined: an outstanding example of early classical house design, with a stately, symmetrical façade and timeless elegance that radiated from its every stone.
Inside, the décor matched the building’s grandeur — dark wood walls, mismatched patterns, heavy drapes, and classic oil paintings of stern-looking lords and soldiers.
We woke in Room 069 and set the mood with a Scottish Countryside (free) Spotify playlist, followed by what could only be described — generously — as Highland-inspired jigs. Let’s just say they would offend any trained eye. This came after teaching Lark the sacred art of dunking a Biscoff into English Breakfast tea.
(Side note: There’s English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast… why no Scottish Breakfast tea? What’s going on there?)
A stream of thoughtful birthday messages had already arrived from the Australian timezone, which was a lovely way to start the day — unlike the ordeal of operating a British shower. It took a fair bit of trial and error to realise that the tap with the red marking wasn’t for hot water, but for temperature in general, while the other controlled pressure.
By 6:55 am, we’d navigated a maze of hallways and a baffling floor numbering system (0, –1, 1, –2, 2) to reach the dining room, where an unusually large crowd had gathered for the breakfast buffet. Lark, full of red-haired charm and toddler energy, became an instant hit with a group of older American tourists, drawing smiles and coos with her sprightly antics.
A Scottish breakfast buffet includes all the usual suspects: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, toast, cereal, fruit, yoghurt, jams.
But the standout? Haggis.
There it sat, in all its brown, mottled glory, nestled between the sausages and scrambled eggs. The silver serving dish gleamed in the morning light — this was haggis’s moment to shine.
I took a respectful scoop and placed it beside my eggs, giving it personal space. Meanwhile, my new American queue friend from Oregon layered hers boldly over beans and smothered it with scrambled eggs. I couldn’t help but wonder: which of us was committing the greater offence to Scottish tradition? Was I being overly cautious? Was she too bold?
That moment felt like a cultural tightrope. One wrong move and I’d offend centuries of Highlanders and expose myself as terribly uncultured. I wondered how we were left to navigate this rite of passage without the guidance of a local elder. Who was committing the cardinal sin? Was I showing reverence — or just being weird? Was she committing a culinary crime? Is this the Scottish equivalent of mixing Vegemite with strawberry jam and rolling it in ham?
Truth be told, I still don’t know.
The haggis itself was surprisingly tasty — full-bodied and salty, with a flavour that reminded me of mince and a texture somewhere between ground meat and hummus. I’d rate it, honestly. Between that and Lark’s brazen red hair, I’ve decided there’s no need for a DNA test — I clearly have Scottish heritage.
~
Trying national delicacies is always a gamble. Thrilling, nerve-wracking, and often accompanied by a wink that feels more like a dare. It’s less hospitality and more hazing: “Let’s see if you really belong.”
It reminded me of the time I tried balut after a surf lesson in the Philippines — an experience that involved too much vodka and a duck embryo deep into its feathery third trimester. I powered through the crunch and feathers in the back of a van, determined to pass the test. The cheering that followed had the frenzy of a footy grand final. I later learned even locals wouldn’t have eaten one that developed.
~
As you can imagine, a breakfast buffet with a toddler running on pure “boy energy” is about as relaxing as a cortisone injection into a nerve-damaged foot. Lark kept disappearing, turning the morning into a frantic game of hide and seek. RaRa — a true legend — has become a master at it.
At one point, he returned proudly with Lark in tow, who sported a big brown smear across her shirt and a mouth suspiciously full. As he encouraged her to spit it into his hand and we inspected the contents, it appeared Lark, too, was trying haggis for the first time.
“Did you give her haggis?”
“No. Did you?”
Sweat emoji.
Now, considering she’s tall for her age — 97th percentile — but still nowhere near buffet height, my best guess is… floor haggis.
She ate haggis from the floor.
Of course she did.
(Side note: Lark had earlier licked a toilet seat while I was applying makeup in the bathroom.)
Why would you do that, Miss Lark!?
After breakfast, we found the hotel pool.
Now, the pool is significant because I always wanted a pool party for my birthday when I was growing up, but May in Tasmania is far too chilly for such antics. So instead, I mostly had potluck casserole dinners with my cousins.
Truth be told, Scotland in spring is also too cold for outdoor swimming, but the indoor pool was heated to bath-like temperatures, and I thoroughly enjoyed the lively atmosphere as we splashed around with RaRa, Lark, and a few locals — including a sweet 8-year-old (nearly 9, in 13 days, as she proudly announced) and her 6-year-old sister, who informed us she’d been bitten by a spider that lived in her bed. It latched onto her finger tip and wouldn't let go. As someone who doesn’t care for spiders, I found the thought deeply uncomfortable.
The level of detail children go into is always entertaining, but paired with thick Scottish accents, it was heartwarmingly charming. Over the course of about ten minutes, I learned:
“My mum and my aunty are sisters.”
“My sister has diabetes.”
“We’re planning to go to England for my birthday.” (I later heard her dad’s audible surprise at the idea.)
But the real corker — the one that made me chortle like a kookaburra?
It came down to delivery. Miss Nearly 9 took off her goggles, rubbed the water from her eyes, and leaned in.
“My grandmother and grandfather have a house around the corner, but we don't get to see grandfather very often. I can't see him for my birthday. Do you know why...?”
Feeling bad for a potentially strained family dynamic, I offered a generous interpretation — perhaps he was just busy. She shook her head and smiled.
“Noo, that’s not why.”
I scratched my head, perplexed. She continued to smile. When I leaned in, intrigued, she paused dramatically, gave me the cheekiest look imaginable, then ran one index finger across her throat and declared, in the thickest Scottish accent:
“He’s dead!”
~
We checked out at 11 am and caught another black cab to Bunk Campers Edinburgh to collect our home on wheels — the campervan that would carry us into the Highlands for the next eight nights.
That night, lying on a slight incline in our Ford motorhome at Douglas Fir Wood, all cosy and warm, I noticed it was still light out at 10 pm. I couldn’t help but feel that my not-quite-castle, floor-haggis, impromptu-pool-party birthday had been perfect in its own peculiar way.
It wasn’t the regal awakening I’d once imagined, but it was infinitely better — filled with laughter, surprise, and just the right amount of chaos. Turns out, 40 doesn’t need a crown or a moat — just a strong cup of tea, my RaRa, a charming toddler, and a good story to tell.
