The next morning, we skirted the Rappahannock River and walked through the Historic Mill District. At one time, the river provided power to a host of mills that lined its shore, and a means of transportation for their wares as well. Now the buildings stand defunct, worn at the edges by time and covered with climbing vines. Markers on Sophia Street explain what businesses occupied the various dilapidated buildings and what impact they had on the local community.

Later in the day, we picked up a map for a self-guided tour of Old Town Fredericksburg, and our “Continental” experience went from Greek to Irish. We stopped in to eat at a lovely little restaurant called The Blarney Stone and reveled in the Celtic music coming over the speakers and the Irish specialties on the menu. We each ordered the shepherd's pie, and I added on the soup of the day (potato leek), which was delicious. Even so, when the pies came, I was regretting that choice. They were HUGE. Champ that I am, I finished mine off, but Dawn, wimp that she is, had to get a doggie bag for hers.

Wandering brick sidewalks along the streets of Old Town, we passed scores of antique shops and one-of-a-kind, owner-operated boutiques. We gazed in windows, ooh-ing and ah-ing, then continued our loop past some of the historic sites. We walked in the back gate at the James Monroe Museum to check out their garden but got sidetracked. There was a bust of Monroe on a pedestal, and I stopped to take a picture.

“He needs glasses,” Dawn said. Then she placed her glasses on the bust and held them on while hiding behind the pedestal. “Take a picture,” she said, laughing. I did. Then she snapped one of me in an imaginary heated discussion with the President. That was about the time when we discovered we were being watched through a window by the museum curator. Dawn hid her face in embarrassment and we both had a good laugh.

We continued our circuit through Old Town, and after a while we heard a strange keening in the distance—a caterwauling that can be confused with no other. We heard bagpipes. And they were coming closer. We hurried the block-and-a-half that separated us from the music and saw a procession heading into a building. When we got there, we found it was, of course, a pub. This one was called the Otter House, and there were two men in kilts playing “Scotland the Brave” outside the front door on the sidewalk. The tiny parade was organized to celebrate the arrival of the pub’s mascot, a stuffed otter. Because, you know, nothing says Scotland like a stuffed otter.