I board a bus to Troon, and soon find myself outside an intriguing visitor attraction. I think it is a ferris wheel, sitting in front of a ruined castle, but I could well be wrong. After my experience, I go for a walk.
I end up atop a small hill, a little bit like the Law in North Berwick. From the hill, the view looks somehow wrong, and I accept that I am probably on the east coast instead. I notice a huge, silver plane with propellors fly past at the same altitude as the top of the hill. The plane is so close that I can read the name, Loganair, on its side.
A moment later, I notice Concorde flying overhead in the perfectly blue sky. I think this odd. It seems to be descending, as it flies over my head, and I worry that it may crash. It continues past me, and ditches just off the coast, perhaps five miles below where I am standing. I see people jumping out of the plane.
I consider phoning the emergency services, before remembering that I don't know where I am. Instead I phone my parents, who immediately inform me of the news. I tell them that I know about it, and I can see it. I hear in the background a news announcer reporting mass casualties.
I ruminate on these events, before boarding the bus back to Glasgow.