A Welcome to Glascow

Day 4: I finally got a journal today, here in Skye, Scotland. It is 12:48am. In actuality I suppose it is day 5, but as I refuse to edit my mistakes it shall remain day 4. I'm sitting in a cozy chair of a very pleasant (if simple) bed and breakfast, drinking a cup of the best Scotland hot cocoa I've ever had (it's pretty much like any American hot cocoa with the notable exception that both the cocoa and myself are in Scotland). So far it's been one hell of a trip, and we've only just begun.

Scott and I left America the night of Friday, June 18th, and set down mid-day of the 19th. We expected to meet our parents the following day, which left us an overnight to wander and explore the large Scottish city of Glascow ourselves. The first thing that we noticed, during that long hour and a half that we spent lugging our luggage back and forth along the same lengthy streets in a confused attempt to find our hotel, is that Glascow has been constructed utterly without logic.

Our hotel was in the middle of the city, and from what I've seen Glascow city seemed pretty much like any big city I've ever seen in America, with a few minor differences. The most major of these is that just about everyone is white. This was actually kind of disorienting to me. In every other major city I can recall, minorities are pretty numerous. In D.C. I'd guess far more than half the population are clearly not from Caucasia. This absence of diversity isn't something I would have expected to rattle me, but it did.

Another big difference here is the traffic. I think most people know of the obvious differences. Cars drive on the left side of the road (somehow deeply disturbing, and not something I expect I will adjust to). Cars are tiny in comparison with American cars (we saw what looked to be a van except it was smaller than Sando, my station wagon). What most people do not know is that pedestrian conduct is a bit different in Scotland. The pedestrian signs take an eternity to say "walk", but when they do, all cars are given a red light. In essence, the walk symbol is the pedestrians’ personal green light, and they can walk wherever they please during it. Of course, this is not so easy to figure out when you're actually there, and no one bothered to tell my brother or myself what in Reagan's name was going on. The first time I watched people cross the street diagonally, walking without a care in the world as cars all around them revved their engines, I just thought people in Scotland were crazy.

Glascow shares D.C.'s talent in making street navigation into a game of chip's challenge. Thus if you are on a straight road starting at point B, with point A a block behind you, the road is almost certainly a one-way road. If you wish you get to point A, though it is merely a block away, it will most likely take roughly twenty minutes travel time (even if you do it perfectly and don't get lost), because the roads are appear to be the brainchild of Hitler.

However I have not yet mentioned the most annoying aspect of Glascow. The most annoying aspect of Glascow, and the reason my brother and I spent an hour and a half dragging our luggage back and forth along the same 5-block stretch, is that for some reason addresses are not displayed on most buildings. All buildings must, we've concluded, have addresses (we have the address to our hotel, so we suspect all the other buildings must have one too). However, for some inexplicable reason, they are displayed on only 1 out of every 20 buildings we saw (this is a very generous estimate, across the 5-blocks we found only 4 addresses). The 4 addresses we did find were laid out in a manner that managed to turn us around not once, or twice, but 5 times -- each time thinking we'd found new proof as to what direction the addresses were going. What a city...

A Scottish Mugging

During this time, I was stopped by a boy about my age with two elderly ladies in his company. In the thickest Scottish accent I’ve ever heard, he stammered something to me about a pound (UK currency), all the while holding out a handful of pence in front of him. From what I could make out, I thought he was asking if I could give him a pound for 100 pence change. I’ve lived in or by D.C. a long time, so I don’t know what got into me, but I uncertainly handed him a pound.

I stood there waiting for my change from him. Instead, he stammered even harder than before and in a thicker accent, pointing with one hand to the change in the other. Over the course of a good deal of hasty, shaky, incomprehensible pleading I made out the words “may I just have one more, please” (or something like that). He again made confusing gestures regarding the change he was holding. Stupified by both his words and manners (he looked ready to have an emotional breakdown) I still somehow thought he wanted to exchange a pound for pence, though this time I thought he was trying to offer me around 60 pence as compensation for a pound. This was clearly a bad deal for me. The man was not big, nor was he intimidating. However, he did have me on the spot, and had already seen another pound in my hand from when I took the first one from a handful of change (the pound is only in coin, not paper). More than that, the man seriously looked like he might have a seizure. So I handed him another pound. He abruptly calmed down a great deal, stammered a thank you, and began walking away toward a bus waiting there. The old ladies with him, both clearly embarrassed by his behavior, both thanked me as they followed behind him. I never saw any change, but then I didn’t wait around.

I’ve considered that this could have been a small-time scam, but I really don’t think so. If it was, the guy was really good at his act, and not too ambitious with what he wanted. If someone scans you in D.C., you can expect your back account to be drained by the end. 2 pounds is pretty paltry by comparison.

First Attempt at Sleep Abroad

Anyway, after finally finding our hotel (the willow hotel) we set out again for a very late lunch. We ate at an italian place called Dino’s. We wanted a more Scottish place, such as a good Scottish pub (which at least in Ireland tend to be pretty family oriented places which serve cheap food in addition to being a bar) . Sadly, most of the pubs we found seemed much closer to the American style of pub (smoky, crowded, unwelcoming, and without food). After roaming the city streets and finding 2 McDonalds, a Burger King, KFC, and an A&W, we caved and went to Dino’s.

The food wasn’t great, but there was some redeeming value, for I got to drink with my brother his first legal pint (the drinking age in Scotland is 16). Sadly it was Tennets, a beer I’d heard of before but don’t recall ever trying before. Personally, I’d be pressed to tell it from Budweiser. Still, a pint with your brother is a pint with your brother.

On a side note, have I mentioned how much I love my brother? I love my brother. I can’t remember quite when it happened, but somewhere along the line, the kid I constantly bickered with and who would just never go away became one of my best friends. I can think of few people in the world I would rather have with me here, and it makes me really happy to be able to honestly say that. We had planned on having a late lunch at Dino’s, but as neither of us had gotten any sleep on the plane, we passed out in our hotel room at 6 in the afternoon.

Sleep is odd here in Scotland. In Glascow it began getting light at 3:30am as it might at 5:30 in Maryland. Where I’m writing this in Skye (significantly north of Glascow) I watched the sunset at 11:30pm tonight. Jet lag is hard enough, but when late night in Skye looks like late afternoon in Maryland, I simply don’t know how to adjust. In any case, my brother and I went in and out of sleep until 10 the next morning. Near as I could tell, the partying outside stopped around 7am.

Day 2: Best Indian Food of my Life. Buh???

Once we dragged ourselves out of bed (as well we should after 16 hours of sleep) we found a cheap restaurant / pub in town after some solid searching of our area. Scott ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and I almost spit out my food laughing when he realized that there was ham on it instead (in the UK they call ham ‘bacon’, as we both knew from our visit to Ireland years ago, but had forgotten). I, myself, had a mint lamb burger (I’m not educated enough of the European meat industry to boycott it as I boycott America’s). I wasn’t too sure about the taste, but it may just be that I’m not used to lamb. I had a pint of Blackthorne’s dry cider with my meal. The taste was more subtle and less sweet than I’m used to in a cider, but I enjoyed it.

After that we went back to the hotel to await our parents imminent arrival. Through a bad miscommunication we expected our parents arrival around 1:30, when in fact they did not arrive until 5:30. So in essence, Scott and I spent our first full day in Scotland playing Settlers of Catan in our hotel room. However, given the limited experiences we had wandering Glascow, I can’t say as I feel overly much regret.

When finally our parents arrived, we hungrily departed to look for dinner. After a good deal of debate, my brother convinced everyone to try a gaudy looking Indian restaurant named the Kama Sutra. Who would have guessed that inside this tacky restaurant, with stick figures in vaguely suggesting positions all around the room, I would find the best Indian food I’ve ever had?

Now, my mother loves Indian food, and so I am familiar with a great many Indian restaurants in the D.C. area, and know which 3 or 4 are the best, and thus I am no stranger to Indian cuisine. No restaurant I’ve been to compares to Kama Sutra to my palate. One dish was so spicy that I discovered what I’d never before known: if the food is spicy enough it triggers my hickups. We all shared and I don’t remember what any of us had – only that it was wonderful and that my own dish was the spiciest thing I’ve had since the cafeteria played a prank on us in 10^th grade.

Along with diner I had a bottle of an Indian lager the staff recommended. With a name like Cobra, I’d never have tried it if they hadn’t. I was pleasantly surprised with that as well. You can see through it easily, which means it’s not my usual type, but it had a good deal of substance to it, and I approved.

Father's Day Pint

Did I mention it was fathers day? I convinced my father later that evening to let me take him out for a Father’s day pint with my brother. We noticed a pub that advertised having Orkney ales, and I hoped that it would have Dark Island on tap. The name of this pub was the State, and though it turned out to be a very pleasant and atmospheric pub, it had nothing made by the Orkney Brewery I so love. Both the bar and all the furniture seemed very upscale and classy, somehow it had a wallstreet-goes-drinking feel to it. But despite the upscale feel, 3 pints of good beer cost 6 pounds.

As a side note, drinking in Scotland is blissfully inexpensive compared to America. I’ve been sampling beer at almost every occasion because it’s not much more expensive than drinking soda. 2 pounds seems to buy a pint most anywhere. I think I’d be less averse to frequenting American pubs if the pubs didn’t charge 4 times what I could buy the beer for in stores. I’m going to miss Scotland’s pubs.

The beer of the night advertised to be from the Orkneys was called Kilburn Red. A little lighter than I usually like, but I was very fond of it, and it’s probably my favorite of the beers I’ve tried here. It has a funny almost fruit-like taste to it and was very tasty. Perhaps I’ll look for it again in the future.

Beer aside, my brother, father, and I had a long and wonderful evening of drinking and discussing psychology, politics, and feminism. It was a very nice was to end father’s day.

The morning sun saw my father, brother, and myself rise and take the long comedy of errors that was our walk to the car rental place. Once there, my father had the pleasure of attempting to drive on the left side of the road. Just watching almost gave me a heart attack, and I closed my eyes at least the first few times he had to take a left or a right. I can only imagine being the driver. Driving on the left hand side of the road is more disconcerting than I could have possibly imagined, but somehow we made it out of Glascow safe and sound.

It is now 3:14am in Skye, and it’s getting light again outside. I suspect it’s long past time I got me to bed. Goodnight,

~Allan

Day 3: The Road to Skye

I want to describe our trip from Glascow to Skye which took us about 8 hours with all our stops. I’m afraid though, that more than anything I’ve ever seen before, I have no words suitable for description of this place.

I’ve seen pictures before. I’ve seen movies, and car commercials. But in person, I was unprepared for the majesty of Scottish land. The night before we left for Skye, my brother and I stayed up late, assuming we would have many hours of car ride ahead of us to sleep the next day.

This “car ride” has been the most amazing part of my experience so far.

Despite the pictures, despite the Ford commercials, despite having spent at least 16 hours of my life viewing New Zealand via Lord of the Rings, I never really believed a place like this existed anywhere on earth. ‘Shocking’ is not an adjective usually used to describe beauty, landscape least of all. Truly, though, if I’d had my hands on my cheeks I probably would have fit right into Home Alone most of the trip. I couldn’t take my eyes off the land.

The trip yielded thin, winding roads snaking around small mountains up the emerald peaks. Around them, the plains were filled with bodies of water too immense for me to feel comfortable calling them ponds. We pulled over at Loch Loman, the largest Loch in Scotland. There, the sun and vibrantly clear sky turned the water a deep blue with its reflection. In front of us, was Ben Loman, one of the largest mountains in Scotland, still surrounded by other mountains, hills, and valleys. The view, as with almost every other view we saw that day, was spectacular. It was of one of these sites that I took my first picture here. Sadly, with the snap of every camera coming into focus, came my sudden understanding that a picture could never express the grandeur of the landscape to any, but only serve as a poor reminder to those who had experienced it before.

After stopping for lunch (the waitress was a very thin and nimble woman, about half my size. It’s true that there are faye in Scotland, and that they are can be quite alluring) the scenery only got more intense as we drove the Glencoe. Hills upon hills upon waterfalls and mountains and plains even more vast, more vibrant, and more plentiful then what had come before.

I have, at this point, emphasized the scenery, I hope! Far more than the roads themselves, though rest assured the roads will be long in my memory, cars throughout the UK are much smaller than in America. Gas is also far more expensive (likely not an unrelated fact). When gas hit $2 a gallon in the US, I almost cried. If a Scots had come to America, they would probably cry too, but tears of joy. Try $6.80 a gallon, that’s about the average I’ve seen here. Good thing the scenery is so nice to walk through I guess.

In any case, because the cars are smaller, the roads are also smaller. Curly mountain roads, of course, they make as thin as they can manage. So picture driving down lanes that are roughly half the size you’re used to, with cars, trucks, and buses coming towards you at high speeds from the wrong side of the road. To make things worse, you’ve got stone walls, steep drops, and other rough terrain to the other side of you. You may understand, then, why I do not fault my father for the frequency with which our wheels found unpaved road, or the side of the car was violently brushed by roadside hedge. Having a mack truck pop from around the bend at you, barreling down at you from what your first instinct says in your lane, will do that to you. I think the constant adrenaline rush as much as the lack of sleep caused for my father’s weariness when traffic cleared away to solitude.

We pulled over in Glencoe in front of a rather majestic peak so that my father could stretch his legs and wake up. It was only upon getting out of the car that we realized that just behind the car, in a cove on the side of the road, was a waterfall. We took the 5 minutes to climb down and sit by the pool, and Scott was most helpful in getting me across the slippery rocks safely. The water was freezing cold, of course, since it was probably melted snow from the mountains.

It wasn’t a particularly grand waterfall (as waterfall standards go). Every year I go to the getaway, and there’s a waterfall about the same size a bit of a walk from the campsite. This was a waterfall maybe twice or thrice my height onto a pool of water, bottomed by some kind of stone which, when wet, uncannily resembled brick.

I’m not entirely sure why, in the midst of a land of such astounding beauty, a waterfall that pales in both size and grandeur to much of what I’ve seen here was able to effect me as much as it did. I think it was because in another time, another place, I would take great lengths to trek to such a waterfall and admire its beauty. In this land, such beauty is hardly a thing of notice, shoved behind a roadside where few people are likely to notice it. It’s a semi-precious stone in a land of diamonds; astoundingly serene yet unworthy of notice.

As we drove, the beauty of Glencoe was emphasized by the dramatically shifting weather. Apparently a common saying in Scotland is “Don’t like the weather? Wait 5 minutes”. The weather seemed to be on a cycle, from clear, warm, sun-filled skies to overcast, to pouring rain at least six full times in the hours we were driving. The erratic weather simply added to my overall feeling of bafflement.

It was late in the evening when we arrived in Edinbane, the town in the island of Skye where we were staying. It didn’t feel late. I would have guessed it was around 4 in the afternoon when we pulled in, but I was surprised to learn it was already well past 8. It simply looked like mid-afternoon. At the recommendation of Hillary, our bed & breakfast hostess, we went to dinner at the “Old School” restaurant.

Old School was quite pricey, a good deal fancy, and very tasty. They had an appetizer of duck that was at least ten times better than my actual meal, though my chicken normandy was quite good. On draft they had Tennets and Tennets amber. I did not, under any circumstance, wish to try Tennets again after my taste in Glasgow. However, after much cajoling from my family, I reluctantly gave Tennet’s Amber a chance. I’m glad I did. It was among the tastier beers I’ve had here, though I didn’t love it, I hold it in high regard. I downed the first pint and immediately ordered a second.

As a side note, I find it funny that of the places we’ve eaten in Scotland, the two best by far have been the Kama Sutra and Old School. Not places I’d have eaten at by their name.

After dinner we went back to our hotel we went back to our hotel, and eventually, at 11pm, went out for a walk to watch the sunset. As we walked out to the pond nearby, a great blue heron descended a good distance in front of us and landed on the edge of the pond. He looked to us, regarded us for a moment, and departed as quickly as he’d come. I stood there shocked, having no idea that herons were native to the island, but very glad of it.

The Isle of Skye

The next day was the sole day we had to spend in Skye, a fact I have great regret in reporting. In any case, it meant we had a full day’s worth ahead of us without question. We started out with a tour of Dunvegan’s island to spot wild seals. The tour, which left from Dunvegan Castle, also sported a marvelous view of the surrounding islands, mountains, and ocean. The boat tour guide was quirky, friendly, and full of knowledge. I was lucky enough to be the first to spot a seal.

When I loudly and excitedly pointed out a seal far in the distance, I think our guide almost laughed at me. Once we got into the cove I realized why. There, the notion that there would be a challenge to spotting seals became ludicrous. They practically lined the shores of the many tiny islands, basking in the sun (which we were fortunate to have much of) without a care in the world. Because they aren’t exactly dangerous creatures, the man was able to bring us within a few yards of them on several occasions. For the life of me I’ll never understand how those ovular tubes of blubber manage to look so cute. I think maybe it’s the whiskers or the large black eyes.

Apparently the females had all given birth only three days earlier. Our guide informed us that female seals give birth on a predictable synchronized fashion. Kind of creepy, isn’t it? So we were lucky enough to see many tiny tiny baby seal pups. We even saw one in the process of giving birth, though we didn’t stay to see the entire process. Honestly, it wasn’t as pleasant to watch as you might think.

If I got one thing out of the trip, it was the most envy I’ve ever had for an animal. These Scotland seals get to spend day after day lying on these rocks that have one of the world’s most astounding views, basking in the sun (when there is sun) with their shellfish prey lying on the bottom of the water in abundance. Their only predator is man and the occasional killer whale that wanders its way into the cove. Why do people talk like heaven and reincarnation or diametrically opposed ideas?

Afterwards, we walked around the castle gardens a bit. They were pretty enough, and I enjoyed some of the more bizarre plants, but it’s hard for a garden to impress me. For all the gardens diversity, the most fascinating plant I saw was not even in the garden. Just by the docks where the tour boats launched, was a batch of trees leaning on the cliff. Their branches and leaves and even the entire trees leaned dramatically backwards, away from the cliff, not toward the ground, but perfectly parallel to it. Leaves and all, it looked perfectly as if it were held there by hurricane winds coming from the opposite direction. There was barely a breeze, but I fully plan on using the picture I took to convince people that we got caught in a hurricane. .

With a quick stop for lunch at a local pub, I once again made the mistake of ordering a hot dish with cheese in it with the assumption that the cheese would come melted. I’ve done this several times now. Before, I ordered a cheese and onion jacket baked potato in Glasgow. I envisioned a steaming baked potato with melted cheddar and friend onions. What I got was a steaming baked potato with cold lightly shredded cheese and raw onion. Without tasting it, I knew I wouldn’t finish it. In any case I ordered a Tetley’s with my dish, and much like Tennet’s, I’d be hard pressed to differentiate it from bud or miller.

Our hostess, Hillary, had recommended an hour long walking path that brought us around a very hilly area to find a wonderful view of a cove, with blue waters and islands right out of Pirates of the Caribbean, while also bringing us quite near the aptly named Coral Beaches. All this time, gazing at the scenery, I had fantasies of what it must have been like to have been a member of the highland clans. To climb, wander, and roam these hills and call them home. It would have been a rough life by any estimate, but I couldn’t stop looking up at the hills and picturing the people who used to claim them. Odd to think in such a peaceful magnificent land were people who led such harsh lives.

So when we decided to part from the path and make our way to the white sand beaches via some hill climbing, I was all for it. The hills had been calling me to climb them since we set out anyway. I’m not sure I can quite express the joy I took in climbing them either. I have never been much for hiking – oh I love being in serene places and longs walks through them, but only rarely hiking. It had just never appealed to me overly much, and indeed I am not in the shape a hiker must be (last time I went hiking, the entire group had to turn back because I couldn’t go on any further). But there was something about the hills that kept calling to me to play with them, climb them, bask in their majesty and wondrous views they provide. When I wasn’t climbing them, I was staring at them and day-dreaming of climbing them. It may sound a little dramatic in the description, but I was feeling quite dramatic at the time.

The point of all this is that I took a great deal of joy in perusing the hills on our path to the coral beaches. When we finally arrived there, the beach provided a most wonderful and unique view of the vast ocean, obscured almost entirely by a myriad of tiny islands, some rising abruptly with steep emerald cliffs from the water. It is a view I sincerely hope I will never forget.

The Coral Beaches of Skye

Once there, there was nothing that was not spectacular about the coral beaches. To start with, the beach itself was covered in a variety of bizarre and sometimes quite large seaweed. I never expected, of all the things to be fascinated with, that I would find myself enthralled with seaweed, but then until that day I never had an idea that seaweeds like these existed.

One type was found in ball-like clumps, and for all intents and purposes just looked like a large ball of suction cups. I’ve seen toys very much like it, means to stick to windows when thrown. Apparently nature made those first. Who knew?

Another type grew out from the highest point of a rock and covered the rocks entirely with very fine, thin, strands of light green seaweed that could not possibly have resembled dyed-green human hair than it did. I actually spent a deal of time considering the feasibility of taking the seaweed as a wig. Unfortunately there were little problems like the seaweed shriveling up and dying, but if I had been able to place that seaweed over my head as it grew naturally on the rocks, I would have had a wig that could rival anything a wig-maker could produce.

The most remarkable spectacle of the trip, however, was the beach itself. The white sands of the beach turned out not to be sand at all. Instead, the entire beach was made up of very tiny fragments of white coral, each bit the size of perhaps 10 grains of sand. The bigger pieces even had tiny little branches. But the fragments resembled sand so well, both in texture, size, and appearance, that no one in my family realized we were not standing on a beach of sand until we had been there for at least 20 minutes. I eventually discovered the truth of it after staring at the “sand” in an effort to find shells, and even then it wasn’t quickly apparent. I must have been shell hunting for 5 minutes or more before I noticed.

The shells, of course, were as amazing as everything else. It was not without good reason I was looking for them. There were more fully intact, elaborately spiraling shells on this beach than I have ever seen in one place in my life. Staring at just a small spot on the beach I found far more delicate things than I could ever dare remove. It was an enchanting beach, and if I have not fully expressed it by now, there is nothing for it. If pictures won’t express it, neither will a thousand words.

Eventually we left the Coral beaches of Skye. It was hard. But my brother’s inclination toward highland frolicking led him to persuade my family that there was an easy shortcut to the path by bypassing the trail and going over the hills. I was fairly certain that what he proposed was incorrect, and while my family took off for the shortcut, I uncompromisingly took the path back. Boy, am I glad I did! My family discovered that bog can blend almost flawlessly into a hilltop, and by the time I was back at the car, my parents and brother were not half the distance there. My brother took the wrong step and had his shoe sucked off, and I can only imagine what it was like getting it back, but the rest of the walk was probably not fun, even putting aside the constant need to estimate where the ground would be sturdy and where it would provide only a very thick mud with grass growing on top. In the end, I ended up leaving the car, and very slowly met them half way, chided them, and led them back to the path. After stepping in that crap, I doubt my brother’s left shoe, or his left foot for that matter, will ever be the same. *

*This story is entirely true, providing you switch the places of me and my brother

Graveyard of the MacLeods

We had a tasty dinner that night, though I enjoyed most the feeling of utter exhaustion and sunburn melded with utter contentedness. I had a pint of Fraoch’s with dinner. I believe Fraoch is the other Scottish import I’ve spotted several times in America. It was a pretty tasty heather beer, though it couldn’t hold a candle to skull splitter or dark island.

It was my parent’s anniversary, so there were several heartfelt toasts (actually we’ve had toasts every night since we came here, to think of it). After dinner my parents took some alone time, and my brother and I went for pints at the local bar across the street. We had a very enjoyable night talking about friends, politics, psychology, and the like. My brother started with a McEwen’s a fairly tasty light brown beer. I myself had a beer called “Monk’s ale”, a beer as dark as Guinness, but somehow utterly without any flavor. I didn’t much like it. For dessert, we both had a pint of a mediocre dry cider called “Scrumpy Jack’s”. As cider goes, it was definitely drinkable, but not lovely by any means.

But wait! Before I end the story of this day, I forgot something very important. Early in the day, even before the seal boat trip, we were driving on the road when we saw a site that caused us to pull over. What we saw was what appeared to be a very old church, roof gone and walls crumbling with a large graveyard behind it. When we went to explore further, we realized what we took for an old church was actually an indoor section for the honored dead in this large gravesite. The stone marker outside informed us that within this part was buried the bodies of the clan MacLean who had, for 10 generations, served as pipers for the MacLeod chiefs. The stone made no mention of the even more fascinating find within, where we found not one, but four former chiefs of the clan MacLeod were buried, along with several of their sons and daughters. Each of their graves bore their name and how many chiefs had come before them (I think the buried were all between the 40^th chief and the 55^th though some stones were hard to read).

Also in this graveyard, outside with the lesser notable MacLeods, standing about as tall as I do, was an elaborate albeit very worn Celtic cross gravestone. The inscription of this magnificent stone read “here lies the body of [can’t remember] MacLeod, who died at the age of 75, founder of the first Celtic club, San Francisco, Ca., USA.” I thought that was pretty funny.

A small bit away, at the top of a much steeper hill, my father noticed a gaunt stone arising abruptly from the ground – that is, a standing stone. It was clear to all of us that we had to see it up close.

We walked rudely past the sheep grazing by the church to climb the crumbly rocks and sometimes quite steep terrain, and near the top it became very clear that we were, indeed, looking at a standing stone. It wasn’t a pretty thing. In fact, it looked more than a little ugly, bending over backwards more than slightly with a warped, discolored texture. At its base, still out of breath from our climb, we read the plaque at the stone’s base with wide eyes. “Millennium Stone: put here in the year 2000 to commemorate the new millennium”

Needless to say, we began abruptly talking about what a nice view of the surrounding towns and lakes the hill provided for us. From the crest of this hill we could look down and see a huge portion of the small town, at least half a dozen mountains, and three large bodies of water at varying points in the distance. We were definitely disappointed with out faux relic, but writing about it now, I’m still glad we went. Of course we joked about it a lot later, but honestly, if we hadn’t had such high expectations, the climb really would have been worth it for the view alone.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, actually does finish my long and glorious day on the Isle of Skye.

The Tote Stone

The next day was to be a day of travel. We aimed to leave Skye and make our way to the Hebrides, and our boat was scheduled to leave at 2pm. Our boat was a good distance away from where we were, so we resolved to keep our site seeing stops close to our route for the day. Sadly, we couldn’t find most of the sites we were looking for. Most everything we’d seen in Scotland is utterly unmarked for or by tourists. We’ve rarely seen any other tourists, and we have tended to consider ourselves pretty lucky if we happen to see a sign to direct us to what we’re looking for. I really like that, to be able to see these sites and ruins that don’t seem particularly marked as tourist attractions, but that they are simply a part of the land. However, the downside of this is that you basically have to spot what you’re looking for, likely as not to be a good distance from a road and surrounded by grazing sheep in some farmer’s back yard.

At any rate, we only found one site we were looking for, the Tote stone, so named because it was a standing stone in Tote. As standing stones go, it was rather unremarkable, standing about half my height, surrounded closely by a wooden fence that formed a tight box around it. It did, however, have some ornate, though very faded, Celtic circles carves across it, assumably done by whomever took it upon themselves to put the stone there thousands of years ago. I believe this stone is thought to have been done by the Picts, and is the only standing stone I saw with any sort of ancient engravings.

On our way driving to our boat, we lucked out when we happened to find what looked to be the ruins of an old outpost turret guarding the water. However there was a sign on the gate reading “private property: Keep off!” and on the door of the tower we could read (using our binoculars) a sign reading “danger”. Thus we assumed it was deemed unsafe for visitors.

We picked up our tickets to the boat trip, but our lack of scenic distraction led us there a good hour or so early. So we set off on a scenic trop recommended to us by the boat’s ticket man.

Two-Way One-Lane Roads

I thought we’d seen winding, twisty roads before. But the road to Skye was nothing compared to this two-way road with only one lane, which snaked and coiled its way across the vast mountains. In order to allow cars to go two opposite directions in this one lane road, there were frequently placed “passing places” which were essentially small bits of shoulder which appeared here and there, sometimes barely the length of our car, to allow one of the cars to pull over and let another pass.

This system works fine and dandy in theory, and thankfully even in practice it worked for us. For the life of me, though, I don’t know how it did. The roads frequently and consistently wrap through and around mountains allowing only extremely limited visibility, and cars drive around many of these curves at such speeds that, while not high by beltway standards, are certainly not slow either. Courtesy procedure is to honk when going around one of these curves, theoretically letting anyone coming the opposite direction from around the corner know there’s someone coming the opposite direction in their lane. This system did not prevent a good number of very close encounters whereby everyone in the car collectively inhaled a sharp breath, but for all we know the horn honking may have prevented an actual accident from occurring.

Though I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, there have been infrequent sheep randomly walking on the side of the roads ever since we arrived in Skye. Here, the sheep and cow placement was upgraded to frequent. We had seen several sheep crossing signs before. I suppose there were too many sheep here for them to bother with, or perhaps instead the sheep were given the periodic Human Xing sign, because they truly seemed to think it was their road. Many was the time I thought we might actually ram a ram, but still it seemed that the bulls remained entirely uncowed. Wool the notion of hitting a sheep might not be enough to make one fold to sheer terror, it is definitely enough to make ewe think.

For the life of me, I had trouble thinking these were all domesticated sheep, because while I saw sheep everywhere, I saw no homes in these mountainous hills. There were an awful lot of sheep to be lost though, and I suspect some sheep dogs simply get lots of exercise running around the hills to round up their fold.

The view though… once again, the view was splendid. Yes, I know, Emerald mountains, blue mountain streams, yada yada yada,. I’ve written at length of the scenery already, but each viewing of it restored the sense of majesty, awe, and beauty anew.

Along the route, we came to Duntulm castle, or the ruins thereof. Castle is really kind of an overstatement. It was just a tad bigger than an outpost, which I suspect was its primary function, since it was overlooking the ocean by some pretty dramatic cliffs. It seemed like a place that, when the castle was fully built, would have been pleasant for about a day before the combination of harsh winds and a drafty quarters would have made it an unpleasant place to stay, despite the view.

We couldn’t stay long there, sadly, on account of not wanting to miss our boat. So I don’t remember it all that well. The cliff, so dramatic, I remember clearly. The ruins were pretty sparse though; no roof, and only bits of wall, and a small section still preserved dug into the ground. One bit of wall held up a window with a great view of the ocean and an island in the distance. It was a cool place, but for such a small and unpreserved set of ruins, it was pretty touristy, and there were crowds swarming in and around them. I had thought the MacLeod graveyard was far more interesting of a find, but that place didn’t even have a sign, let alone a swarm of tourists. Perhaps this place got such attention because it was so close to the Skye ferry.

We caught our boat fine and on time, though a few times this was in doubt. On our one lane road we came to a traffic jam, where a young lady on a bike had hurt herself somehow. The lady we gleamed this information from said that some had been waiting over an hour for the jam to clear, so it was fortunate that we weren’t stalled for more than 10 minutes. We also had the entertaining encounter of having a sheep fold charging down a hill at our car.

Deer Park

“It’s Monday morning on the oceans peak

And to catch me mackerel that is what I seek

Once I’ve caught my fish that the seal’s don’t take

I will bring ‘em home for me mum to bake!

Cho: I can fish boys!

I can cast it out!

I can pull the lure!

I can catch some trout!

I can fish boys!

The mackerel’s on my line!

I’m a Rathbone lad and this here fish is mine!

Well the seals are tricksey -- I know they want my fish

When I reel the line they think they’ll have a dish

So I’ll pull the line to where they cannot swim

And they can catch their own fish when the light grows dim

Well the crabs are hungry, they all want my bait

First they grab ahold and soon it is too late

But I’ll keep it moving so they cannot chew

For to lose my bait, well that would never do!

I can fish in ponds and I can fish in Lochs

I can fish the seas and I can fish from docks

I can fish in surf when the waves are tall

And I won’t stop fishing ‘till I’ve caught ‘em all!

~The Rathbone Lad, sung to the tune of Collier Lad

Written by the Rathbone/Van Buren family in a time of bordom

The boat trip was pretty uneventful. I was sad to be leaving Skye, I was truly enchanted with it. I lost a pound or two in poker with my father (who seemed to break about even) and my brother (who cleaned up at mostly my expense). Once ashore we had a good drive to Back, a town just outside of Stornoway in the Hebrides. Along the way we passed a plant which sprung up leaves about half as big as I am. They were funny because the leaves resembled somewhat something you might see in a salad. But the leaves were not half as soft as they look, course, rough, with spiky undersides to their leaves. Not for eating, unless perhaps you boiled the leaves as you do spinach.

Native plants aside, we happened to encounter what looked to be a stone turret in very good condition at the top of a hill to the side of the road. We pulled over to look at it. When my father and I hopped out to look (my mother and bro didn’t have the energy) the plaque at the base of the path declared it to be a modern dedication to the Deer Park Revolutionaries. The Scotsman had been driven from a large chunk of land years past. Once it had been settled and a different lord ruled the land (still British) the Scots petitioned her to return the land to them. In response, she turned it into her private deer park. The Deep Park revolution occurred when 8 people marched into the land and informed the groundskeeper that the land was theirs. They then proceeded to camp in the woods for several days, killing every deer they could find, and generally wreaking minor havoc. All 8 men were acquitted in the trial that followed, and if memory serves me, the plaque said they got their land back.

Three doorways at the base of the monument signified the three communities the eight revolutionaries came from. To symbolize the 3 events of the revolution (Scots were driven from the land, Scots mess up Deer Park, Scots get land back), there are three stones standing out along the top of the turret. To honor each of the 8 that took part, there was a stone taken from each of their houses and used to create the turret-esque monument with inscriptions on each stone numbering them 1 to 8 (though why they wrote those numbers rather than the men’s actual names, I’m not sure). It was kind of a cool monument in any case, though not centuries old, it was filled with symbolism.

Back for the First Time

Finally we arrived in Back. Back is a rather weird city from what I’ve seen. Located just a short distance from the small city Stornoway, Back does not have the same oh-my-god-I-think-I’m-going-to-faint views that pervades so much of Scotland. That being said, it would be a disservice to Back to imply that it was at a lack for beauty, having its fair share of perfectly placed sparkling blue rivers snaking from the roadside deep into the green hills. It was also a coastal town, and any view of the ocean has me at hello. I love water.

All the houses here are made of stucco (commonly seen in Mexico) which gives them a cheap, unstable paper Mache feel. Back is a small town, but filled with houses, showing at least a few hundred people live there in a fairly densely populated space. Yet there is not one restaurant in Back, nor even a single Pub. The best form of entertainment within the town that we were able to find (albeit a good one) was the beaches, and though it was midsummer, the water was far too cold for swimming, and there was no one on them. In Back we found a total of three buildings that were not households, and one of them was a post office.

Back had a very impoverished, sad feel to it somehow. Perhaps this is because I have not much of an idea how these people could make a living. There were sheep, which meant some wool, but the squeezed together lay of the town is certainly not formed around a wool market. There were a few other Bed & Breakfasts like ours, but it certainly is not a town thriving off of tourism. Perhaps they mostly commute to Stornoway.

In any case, we arrived at the Brevig Villa (our Bed & Breakfast), talked to our hostess, Ms. Mackay, and quickly headed Back out (pun intended) to get dinner. Ms. Mackay had recommended a place called the Royal Hotel in Stornoway (recall there are no restaurants in Back). Sternoway is a very small city, mind you. I’m not sure city is even an appropriate term. All the shops were squeezed into a 5x5 block area (by my rough estimate) complete with a public library and tourist information center.

We found the Royal Hotel easily enough. They sat us down and took our drink orders, only to come back several minutes later and inform us that the chef was backed up, and could not take our order for the next 15 minutes. However they assured us that if we were patient and willing to have a pint, they could take our order soon.

So we waited.

About a half hour or more went by before finally the waitress came over to us and informed us that the chef had decided to “refuse to take any more orders tonight”. I wonder just how short staffed they could have been. The place was not even half full, and the restaurant hours had it open for another hour and a half. More than a little miffed, but unwilling to yell at the poor waitress they had sent out to deliver the news, we marched out without paying for our drinks. They didn’t ask and we didn’t offer.

We spent the next 20 minutes trying to find a place to eat at such a late hour. By this point it seemed that most places were already packed full or no longer serving. Thankfully, we were finally able to get food at a hotel restaurant, catching the tail end of their serving hours. A little bit expensive maybe, and the food was nothing special, but it was food. By this point, we were all pretty happy to see food in any form. That night I had a pint of McEwans. All was good.

Hebrides Day 1: A Trip to Town

We woke up early, as we had been want to do in Scotland, and were served a traditional Scottish breakfast. Actually we’ve been treated with this basic meal everywhere we’ve stayed, many times to my chagrin. Here’s the massive breakfast: Toast and bad coffee or good tea with cereal or yogurt if we desire, followed eventually by a half baked tomato (I love tomatoes when they’re raw but when I eat these I have to choke them down) a few odd sausage links (I’ve always hated sausage links. I think it’s the casing that makes me feel ill, because I’m fine when it’s ground sausage), and egg (mmm) and two strips of what they call bacon here, but would be called ham in America. Their “bacon” is kind of interesting. I suspect it’s cooked but not prepared in the same style as American bacon, because it does bear a slight resemblance to American bacon in the taste. Still, I much prefer the American version.

After breakfast we determined that a trip to the shops of Sternoway was urgently required. My father needed a memory card reader to save his pictures onto his computer, freeing up space in his camera. After such an amazing week I was hoping for some internet access being that I had not yet booked hostel reservations, nor indeed found hostels, for my nights in Munich and Geneva. Hell, I hadn’t even figured out how I was getting from Edinburgh to Belgium once my family abandoned me. My mother, the grand charter of our expedition, wanted to stop at the tourist office. For the record, She really did plan it all without much assistance from the rest of us, except where she insisted on having our input. We’ve all been quite happy to sit back and enjoy the Lorraine Tour guide. And naturally, my brother just plain enjoys shopping, especially in odd places, so off we went.

The public library in Scotland offers free internet access – not an uncommon thing in America, but a saving grace here, where internet cafés charge two bucks for 15 minutes of access.

After we’d all done our things, we wandered the shops and happened upon a lovely little wool store tucked away, almost hidden, in an alley. All three males of my family bought ourselves Scottish-style (perhaps better known as Newsies style) wool caps, and I think we all love our hats (and I think my mother is jealous that they’re definitely a male-only look). I also found and purchased a green sack-pack I found. For those of you who have seen it, it kind of reminded me of the style of Grindcore’s hippy-sack.

The man who owned the shop was the most insanely friendly person I have ever encountered. He taked our ears off about things I cannot fully remember, such as American football, fishing, and where we should visit in Scotland. This included running up his stairs and grabbing some fishing rods he owned to demonstrate for my father and brother (the fishermen of my family) how to use them for fly fishing. He also ended up bringing down maps from his upstairs for him to excitedly show us places and routes he strongly recommended, some for fishing and some just for their beauty. He spent a great deal of time ranting about Harris, how wonderful it was, and how we had to go. It took me at least 20 minutes to make him notice that I had picked out and anted to purchase my green sack. He was quite helpful and definitely a character. He’s the reason we later actually went to Harris, though we had earlier decided not to.

As a last stop we picked up a few baguettes and hunks of cheese as a picnic lunch (some at St. Mary’s may be aware just how much I enjoy this particular meal) and picked up a variety of meat pastries and a couple of varied bottles of beer for a later picnic dinner. Food, caps, and sack in hand (that’s not what I mean, pervert) we departed for our second destination of the day, the standing stones of Calanais.

The Standing Stones of Calanais

*WARNING*

Before I go on, I ought to inform the reader about my pre-existing relationship and fascination with standing stones. Roughly 6 years ago when I went to Ireland, I had my first experience with standing stones when visiting the Stanton Drew Stone circle, and I have never forgotten the feeling of intense fascination each stone inspired in me, nor can I accurately describe it, because it is somehow quite different than other fascinations. It’s a feeling of awe and reverence for these vertical rocks. At some point in time, for reasons suspected religious buy largely lost to history, groups of people risked death and expended vast amounts of time, energy, and planning to alter the landscape for thousands of years. They are perhaps both the oldest and most significant remnants of civilizations lost largely to memory and understanding.

In some cases, such as Stonehenge, the stones were not taken from a convenient location (note my sarcasm on the word convenient) but from obscenely long distances transported by means we can only guess at, so that they could have rocks made of the type they desired (in Stonehenge’s case, blue stone, possibly because blue stone is mildly warm to the touch).

Calanais is the only stone circle to rival the grandeur of Stonehenge. Stonehenge is known as well as it is because its stones are massive giants imported from far, far away, and because it is the only stone circle with intact capstones. That is to say, once they had built their stone circle, they hoisted other massive stones (as I recall many were well bigger than twice my size) and balanced them like a bridge with one end resting on each of two neighboring stones. Thousands of years ago they did this, and many of these capstones have yet to fall.

One can fault them for any religious or mystical beliefs or motivations one assumes the creators might have had. However, to create anything able to last a few dozen centuries in weather so harsh, you have to give them points for craftsmanship.

How many people died in the creation of these circles and why? Speculation will probably be the best answer we’ll ever have.

But I rant. Back to Calanais. Calanais rivals Stonehenge simply by the sheer size and number of standing stones. There are 47 stones still standing in Calainais. 47 stones, I mean damn! The majority of this stone circle, however, is not actually a circle, but an odd design. Though none of the plaques I read there suggested it, the design looks to me, from a bird’s eye view, like a stick figure. It has the biggest stones in the center, forming a circle, with a short few stones going in one direction (the head) and two long rows of stones going in the other (the legs) and two small branches of stones going off to the left and to the right (the arms). Most researchers compare it to a celtic cross though (despite that the celtic cross design is not half as old as Calanais).
The largest stone there is just off center of the actual circle, and behind it are the remains of a small, now dug up, burial caern. Historians seemed to think that because the stone formation is so very old, its meaning and use has changed dramatically throughout time to the locals. At some point they decided it would be a good place for burials of certain people for whatever reason. Later generations thought this was a terrible violation of the circle and dug the buried up and tossed them away.

I hesitate to describe my experience. A part of me thinks the awe stirred in me by these rocks is just plain silly. But a much greater part of me perceives the stones with a solemnity and respect reserved for very few things or places in this world. I have no doubt that my family thought I was acting weird.

Callanais was a thousand times less touristy than Stonehenge was. We couldn’t get within several yards of Stonehenge, and it was quite crowded. Callanais, by comparison, had a tourist center just by the standing stones and a few people wandering amidst the stones. Other than that, it was pretty private for such a significant site. Perhaps the coolest part of its display was that people were allowed to camp by the stones. In warmer weather it might have been a very cool (but not cold) experience.

I did not actually enter the circle itself for more than half an hour. I walked around, touching each stone, admiring it, feeling I had some obligation to understand each stone at least a little bit before entering the circle. When I say “understanding the stone” I mean that for each and every stone standing there, I cannot estimate how many people must have risked and perhaps found death to ensure the stones transportation and erection.

The first feeling I had when I began this process was to go straight to the largest and most important/interesting looking stones and pass quickly over the stones in seemingly less significant positions. But in a monument such as this, each stone must have been meticulously picked out, chosen for some reason and purpose (though admittedly the reason might be something along the lines of “here’s a big one”). I wanted to look closely and notice all the details and quirks of each stone.

Walking from stone to stone studying each stone, touching each stone; somehow it all felt like I was half in a dream.

Some stones in grain and in dimensions seemed to have a certain order and pattern, others complete chaos, colors streaking in every direction. If I tried, I could make out faces in some of their patterns (unintentional, I’m sure). One stones had a pretty distinguished heart shape, enough that I question whether it was crappily carved in at some point.

I was still exploring the outer stones of the group when my family wanted to settle down for our picnic. I told them to go on and eat without me. I was almost done with the outer stones, not having yet stepped foot in the inner circle, when my mother suggested it might be time to get going. Without much good reason I found myself fighting off an angry close to fury at her suggestion. When she added “if you don’t mind” (probably having seen a twitch in my facial expression) I answered pretty calmly that I did mind a little bit, and asked for a few more minutes.

By this time I had my heart set on breaking bread in the circle once I had finished exploring the stones. I hastily explored the stones of the inner circle, and finally the center stone. Honestly, none of them seemed as interesting as the stones of the two parallel lines I had named the “leg stones”, though they were much more massive. Whether purposeful or not, the “leg stones” all seemed to have a sunken in circle somewhere in the midsection of their surfaces, which struck me as the focal point of the stone. This feature was exclusive to the “leg” stones, however, and did not appear in the stones of the main circle.

The small ruined burial cairn in the off-center was just big enough that I might have lied in it if I had wanted to try, and just tall enough to make a perfect bench for lunch. I sat there and broke my bread and ate my cheese. Perhaps a bit slow for my mother’s taste, but it felt a good, if solemn, meal.

I finished.

We left.

The other 3 Stone Circles I saw that Day

There are two other standing stone circles close to enough Calanais to be seen from there. Both circles pale in comparison to Calanais, but are nonetheless ancient runes in their own right.

The circle closest to Calanais had the least intact stones of the three circles, 5 if I remember. Several places where stones had been were clearly marked, as was true of Calanais. Just as before, I walked around the circle exploring each stone before entering the circle. Inside the circle, as before, I ate a small chunk of my remaining bread.

The third circle was quite close to the second. Sillueted against the sky, the stones looked tall and gaunt, and there were clearly at least twice as many as there were in the second circle, and they appeared to stand as the tallest of the three circles.

Once we got there (well, once my father and I got there – my mother and brother stayed in the car) we realized what a comical illusion the view had given us. There were around 11 stones all told, and all but a few were shorter than I am.

This circle has quirks to it that the other did not. Inside the circle just off-center were three larger stones in a somewhat triangular formation, and further to the other side of the circle, opposite their formation, was the tallest stone. The plaque at the bottom of the road told us that the three-stone formation was a suspected tribute to the triple goddess. The stones here were all fascinatingly wild with their colored and grain patterns. In particular the four stones inside the circle were interesting. We could not take long (I had begged my mother into letting us stop at this last one, tired but feeling the need to see the whole set of circles, and we could not let her and my brother sit in the car forever).

I broke a hasty bread to eat in the circle, and we made our way back to the car.

Though it temporarily escaped my memory, this was my fourth encounter with a stone circle today. My first was incomparable to the rest, but significant enough to put to paper.

Happenstance found us driving by a sign noting the stone circle of Achmore. From the roadside we could see none, but we thought it was worth a try.

The wind was high. I left my cap in the car after the wind blew it off several times. I tried to keep my poncho from writhing and whirling around me, giving the illusion that I was some amorphous plastic blue mass (or so I imagine) by putting my belt on over the poncho. Unfortunately even this did not impede the wind from having its way with my poncho, and it continued to billow wildly, giving me a new sympathy and understanding for Spawn.

Unfortunately the “stone circle of Achmore” may have been a correct title, but one could not have called them “the standing stones of Achmore” as none were standing any longer. For all the harsh winds and boggy terrain we went through to get to it, we couldn’t tell the stones that had previously been standing from stones that had not. The terrain was boggy on its own merits, but it didn’t help that people had been peat farming all in and around the stones. I suspect it was only of note because the circle, when standing, must have been quite big in circumference.

I independently investigated a few of the further stones after my family had had the good sense to turn back. The best I found was an interesting looking stone which may or may not have been standing at one time. I took a pebble from it, for I did find it interesting, and two stones in Calanais looked very similar in grain to it; a mess of chalky white and black crevices.

the Brock of Carloway

In any case, after the stones were through, we took a sojourn into a town called Carlo way (a name I got quite a kick out of). We went to find the Brock of Carloway, a crumbled Pictish fortress and dwelling overlooking quite a view of the land.

Essentially, the fortress used to be a cylinder followed by a large space followed by another tall cylinder (the fortress height was about as tall as 7 or 8 men by my estimate.

In between the two layers were several levels of stone, so that there were roughly 5 or so floors to it, or at least there had been in days long past. The levels looked pretty intact still, but they were off limits now, and frankly I wasn’t going to test their sturdiness. The Picts must have either been really short or had lots of back problems, because all the entrance-ways were a little more than half my height. They were cool playground ruins though.

We went late back to our bed and breakfast following all this, for to picnic on the meat pies and varied baked snacks we had bought earlier from the bakery. The informal picnic feel was a nice change after eating out as often as we had been, and the meat pastries were all pretty good.

With dinner we all split two beers we had bought. The first was McEwan’s Championship. It was thick, dark, and very very tasty. It was gone quite swiftly, and I shall look for it in the future when I’m back in the US. The second was a dark beer called Hobgoblin. We got it because it was called Hobgoblin. It was drinkable for certain, but definitely not thrilling.