Heading into Glasgow had been a good idea, while sipping lattes in the Royal Mile. By the time we'd made our slow way back to the car, tiredness and the fog were both setting in.
We made it halfway to Glasgow before the latter became so pronounced that I could barely see more than twenty feet ahead. Which is a little worrying when you're hurtling along a motorway. However, we could see well enough to spot the hazy glow of a service station with the promise of more hot coffee. Then pulling up there, neither of us could help but notice that it was another of those rest areas, which I'd sworn didn't exist in Britain.
To say that we decided to stay put belies an hour or two spent dithering over the point. Phone calls to two different friends elicited them crawling through news sources, Tweets and live streams from Glasgow's George Square. Judgment calls made from afar about whether they would press on, if they were in our position.
In my heart, I wanted to stay here, but history and hospitality both were beckoning me on. It was only Ember's final admission that she was exhausted now - jet-lag adding to a day spent climbing Edinburgh's steep cobbled streets and closes - and she too would prefer to stop now.
We walked to an off-license for cider, whisky and snacks, then climbed into our nest in the back of my car, lodged well towards the rear of the car park. Fog twisted and whirled; the conversation covered half a world and leaped across the centuries too; our little picnic complemented the listening; and periodically we'd put the radio on to hear the results of the ballot come in.
Though, in truth, I fell asleep in the early hours before it was clear to anyone which way the country had gone. We learned about that over coffee in the service station cafe next morning, when the fog had cleared and the night before seemed as a dream in an in-between space somewhere between realities.
For there had been no telling then in whose country we might awake come morning. It was all too soon to tell.
We never did get to Glasgow, though we skirted its outer edge. Our journey home took us instead to Moffat for breakfast - which was very lovely and afforded Ember the chance to sample haggis - but which held no hint that history was flirted with, then cast into a footnote the day before.
The country had voted 'no' and life went on, then continued into Cumbria and home.