My connection to Robert Burns is largely influenced by a Seattle friend - Robert Sinclair, a Scot - who annually hosts a party to celebrate the great poet’s birthday. Each invitee is charged with writing a poem in Burns-style; the winner, chosen by the host, receives a bottle of single malt scotch. Suffice it to say that I know more about the high esteem in which Burns is held by his countrymen than I know about his poetry. Serendipity informed my recent visit to Scotland when I found myself standing in front of Burns’ first Edinburgh home.
