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On paper, it sounded like heaven: Ten days in bonnie Scotland, one for each year of our marriage. Just us and no kids, like a honeymoon without the jitters. We'd seen Braveheart, we'd read Robert Burns, we were ready.

Eight hours on a plane later, we found out why they call it "jet lag." Our bodies were in Great Britain, but the rest of us was lagging somewhere over Greenland.

And first task? To stuff our exhausted, bleary-eyed bodies into a tiny rental car, get behind the wheel on the right side of the car, and drive down the wrong side of the road. Well, wrong to us. Very right to the Scots, and in fact, the only safe option. It was soon easy to pick out the other Americans—they were the ones using turn signals.

I drove; Bill navigated. Correction: I hyperventilated and Bill worked with a map the size of a tablecloth in a car no bigger than a breadbox. On our first honeymoon, in North Carolina, we'd had a few minor disagreements about where to eat or when to stop for a stretch break. Now, ten years later, the stakes were much higher—we had what the Scots call an "argle bargle" over which road would get us out of the airport, for heaven's sake.

"It's that way!" I insisted.

"Stay in the right lane! I mean, the correct lane. No, the left lane!" Bill barked back.

Peace returned when we spotted a sign marked "Way Out," the first of many directives that had us doing double takes. The yield sign read "Give Way," a roadside trash barrel became a "Refuse Tip," and highway construction was announced with a simple "!" We were less certain about the sign that commanded, "Litter Please;" and the enigmatic "Heavy Plant Crossing," which suggested a large, leafy ficus dragging itself across the pavement. Then there was the petrol station sign that warned "No Naked Lights." Certainly not, even if we are married.

Driving along the A-75 into Dumfries, we were so taken with the pastoral scenery and the Solway Firth (a scenic bay) stretched to our south, that we hardly spoke at all. On our honeymoon, we'd read aloud every sign to one another and chatted constantly, trying to take in both our surroundings and the strange and wonderful reality of marriage. Now that our relationship was even stranger and more wonderful, we often communicated silently, holding hands. A gentle squeeze meant "I love you." A tender tap meant "Don't miss what's out the window." A soft caress meant "Only six hours 'til bedtime." A sudden grip meant "Don't hit the sheep!"

Sheep rule in Scotland. The edge of town wasn't marked by convenience stores and car dealerships, just sheep grazing in the fields, by the fence, on the road, under our car. Because we got so very close to these beasts, we discovered that, rather than branding their sheep, the Scots spray paint them. Picture a fluorescent red design on the south end of a northbound sheep. It looked like sheep graffiti.

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