In Scotland. Admiring the countryside, keeping an eye out for cameras, hoping to see Bass Rock, trying to figure out what that sign means and suddenly there is a terrific roar and the car shakes as an RAF fighter, flying at what must be the minimum height blasts right over my car and out to sea. It seemed like a mere 30 feet. Then, just as my heart starts beating again, his chaser goes screaming after him.
I wonder if all Yanks get such a welcoming greeting?
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