Echoing the wisdom of Ecclesiastes, Scotland is participating in its “time to mourn” at the moment. We lost a heart-breaker to Italy tonight, 1-2. (Not sure about the “we” there, but I’m dual UK/US citizen and I’m sure not Italian.)

Though the outcome wasn’t what we would have hoped, the atmosphere of the pub was just perfect. We arrived 45 minutes before the match and had to fight for a seat. We heard later that some pubs had to stop letting people in more than an hour before the match began. The buildup to kickoff brought about a wonderfully optimistic and friendly atmosphere in the room, only to be dashed a minute into the game when Italy scored from 5 yards away. After that start, hey, at least it could have been worse.

(A surreptitious picture so I wouldn’t get beat up. Ann, you owe me big for cropping you out.)

I’ll opt not to debate any of the many questionable penalties, but leave you with this image. It’s one of those moments when I would have killed to have had my camera.

So I was driving to the church about 10.30 (doesn’t matter why) and in the cold, pouring rain, I saw the most sombre Scot I’ve ever seen, walking slowly down the sidewalk wearing a kilt and Scottish cap, a flag draped around his neck. He looked about as authentically Scottish and authentically heartbroken as anyone ever could. I wanted to stop the car, but I just drove on. It was his time to mourn.