I joined a tour at a Single Malt Distillery in Scotland and made the mistake of admitting that I was driving. The young woman looked at me queerly and repeated the question. “Are you the driver?” I admitted that I was and was informed that I could not partake in the tasting at the end of the tour. Instead, they would give me the to-go kit.

The tour was the same as all tours, something about boiling barley and putting that into kegs for a while, and the tasting began, just me and two couples, none of whom were apparently driving, which was confounding given that the distillery was in the middle of the nowhere.

The young woman, our tasting host, had gone to prepare my to-go kit, and I looked around at the others and realized how silly and naïve I was in that moment. More than that, I realized that I always oscillated from being silly and naïve, like now, to being the very opposite, whatever that was. It was an essential character trait of some kind.

The girl returned with the little bag. “I changed my mind,” I told her. She looked at me quizzically. “You’re not driving now?” “No, I’m not.” She paused, presenting her naïve and beautiful self as she had learned to do. “As long as I don’t know about it.”

I drank all of the tasters and they were delicious. “Goodbye, everyone.” I stood up before the others had finished. “I’ve got to catch the bus.” There was a collective laugh – I was oscillating now – and bought a bottle of special wine cask 15-year-old and took a couple of pictures of highland cows.

It was a lovely evening, some sun flashing out from the clouds at times. The road wound idyllically through the rolling hills, and I came around a corner, maybe a little fast, and saw two round balls in the middle of the road. I pulled to a neat stop and squatted down to examine the hedgehogs, the pair just sitting as they were. I tapped one with my shoe, making it scurry off.

The other wouldn’t move, but balled up where it was, and so I rolled it to the side of the road and continued on to my hotel.