Dispatch from Edinburgh #4–Isle of Skye Redux

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Occasionally, I think back to the trip I took to the Isle of Skye in 2023 and remember what a beautiful place it is, with its winding roads and green, green mountains spangled with purple foxglove (and sheep).  When I visited there before, I fell a little more in love with Scotland, and it’s said that if you’re not careful once you’ve been to Skye, the Faeries will get their hooks into you, and a part of you will stay there forever. It must be the case, for when I returned, I felt a little more whole.  Those rascally Faeries must have kept a little of my soul with them, and lent it back to me for the time I was there.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The morning I left, it was sunny in Edinburgh and not too cold.  I walked from my flat to the bus station, the streets empty, stopping periodically to rest my bad foot. I checked in with the Rabbie’s crew, then had the horrible realization that I forgot my charger for my phone.  Talk about bad luck! There was no way I could make it through the weekend on one charge (think of all the photos I would miss!), so the newspaper shop in the bus station extorted me to the tune of £40 to buy a plug and cable.  I suppose you could say I was lucky that they sold them, but I wince at the money I spent.  Then I went next door to the little café to buy a Coke Zero and a lovely carrot cake cupcake with inch thick cream cheese icing (remember, I like to eat my calories, not drink them).

I waited patiently for our bus to arrive, drank some Coke Zero, and shoved it in my backpack.  What I didn’t realize is that I hadn’t secured the cap very well, so soda went everywhere in my bag.  Fortunately, not all of it spilled, but it was enough that my hoodie (which I had shoved into my backpack) was soaked and it got all over my phone and wallet.  (My phone was fine, though.)  That was the second instance of bad luck of the day. But I wasn’t going to let something like that bother me.

By the time the bus pulled out of the station, it had started to rain. The third bit of bad luck. This was unfortunate, because I had forgotten to pack my raincoat, although I suspect that it was “forgotten” in the sense of not wanting to carry it around.  The waterproof (as they call it) is indeed a good rain jacket, but it is also hot and heavy (since it’s lined), and I didn’t really want to carry it. (Plus, I thought it was supposed to be sunny on Skye and that I would be ok with just my hoodie.)  That’s not to say I forgot it on purpose—I did really mean to take it, but I think subconsciously, I left it behind.  It was a choice I would come to regret.

Swimmers on Loch Lubnaig with a mountain in the background

Cold water swimmers on Loch Lubnaig

On our trip west through the Trossachs, it rained.  Then we stopped at Loch Lubnaig (which lay between mountains Ben Vorlich and Ben Ledi) and the sky was low and moody, the rain having picked up even further.  Several swimmers were out in the loch, their neon-colored swim floaties adding a dash of color to the dreich day, and the temperature was clearly dropping, so I don’t know what they were thinking. But they seemed happy enough, even with the rain. If I had worn my raincoat, I would have been perfectly content with the weather as well. As it was, I was wearing my Coke Zeroed wet hoodie, which only got wetter the longer I studied the fools on the loch.  So I headed back inside the bus to wait for everyone else to arrive.

The most photographed mountain in the world, Etive Mor; the clouds are low and hiding the peak.

Etive Mor

The rain became hateful for a while, smearing across the windows of the bus as we drove so you could hardly see out, everything a dull gray smudge of landscape. But we drove to Etiv Mòr and I dutifully jumped out for a photo; the rain had tapered off a bit. And then off to the Three Sisters.  You may ask, don’t I get bored of seeing these mountains?  The answer is no, not really.  I think everyone on their way through the Highlands stops in these places, so you just get used to seeing them if you go to the Highlands.  But as for me, when it comes to the Three Sisters, I find them rather holy, and they show different moods, depending on the weather.  In the rain, they seem a little bewitching, a little shy, and the clouds are low over their peaks, as if they are three ladies standing together behind coquettish fans.

Eilean Donan castle from the mainland, with the Scottish Saltire flag (St. Andrew's blue and white cross) flying

Eilean Donan castle, with the Scottish Saltire flag flying

And then we were moving again up towards Skye for a stop at Eilean Donan castle.  The last time I stopped at the castle, it was also raining, but this time I was especially cold, so I passed through the giftshop to stop at the café and enjoyed a “deluxe grown-up hot chocolate.” I’m not sure what made it grown up—it had marshmallows (real marshmallows, not those preservative-laden monstrosities we have in the States) and whipped cream, and chocolate shavings.  It was so warming and cozy that I hated to go back out in the rain.  But out I went.

I thought about crossing the bridge to the castle—not that I wanted to go in the castle, but it’s nice the way the island juts out into the loch, and I thought I could get some good pictures.  But whereas a few years ago, crossing the bridge was only £1, now it was £3.50 which is ridiculous.  I know these castles need the money for upkeep, but really, to jump that much in cost in just a couple of years, and just for a walk over the loch?  I think not.  So, of course, I got back in the bus.

The trip over the Skye Bridge is a nice one.  It’s not long, but a bit of magic hangs on it, as if the Faeries are waiting for you to make your crossing.  As soon as you get on the island, you feel the difference—the mountains practically fluoresce green, and you almost catch a bit of language you can’t quite hear. In the rain and wind, the leaves rattle, but the soggy sheep don’t seem to mind the weather at all. The road is two-lane for a while, but then turns into a single lane with many passing places. You get used to pulling over to let oncoming traffic get by.  And suddenly, you just feel lighter, as if the island’s magic spreads its diaphanous wings over you.

When we arrived in Portree, David dropped us off at our hotel, a horrid little place called Tongadale, not even down on the harbor.  The room was bare, like a dorm before you decorate it, and the bathroom was tiny too. It was fabulously expensive pricewise for what I got. Meanwhile, outside my window the pigeons congregated, and I heard their cooing all night long. For dinner, I went to the Co-Op to get a few provisions (crisps, “egg mayo sandwich” [egg salad], and a Coke Zero.  I had wanted to go to a chippy that I had been to before, but it was closed although according to the hours on their sign, it should have been open. I could have walked down to the harbor to take pictures, but the rain started up again, and I didn’t want to be caught in a deluge.  In the hotel, I ate my paltry dinner and read a book.

two thatched roof crofting buildings at the museum of Island Life on Isle of Skye

Crofting houses at the Museum of Island Life

I’m not sure what we were meant to do on Saturday morning, but David decided that we should go to the Museum of Island Life since it was raining.  This was a series of croft houses with antiques inside to show people what island life was like 100 years ago. One of the crofts contained a huge loom, others held beds, one was a kitchen, another was full of tools.  Inside, the crofts were very dark, and with the rain outside, there was hardly enough light to see anything.  I didn’t take pictures inside, although I should have taken one of the loom because it was very interesting.  The gift shop was also interesting, and full of wool things.  This was important, because I had left my beanie in my suitcase, and had no access to it.  So I bought a blue wool hat to wear, hand-knitted, and only £16, and it kept my head toasty.  There were lots of other items I thought about buying—wool socks and scarves for instance—but I restrained myself. Of course, I underestimated how fierce the winds on Skye are; I really regretted not buying a scarf, especially when I went to hang out with some sheep on the moors, waiting for the other tour members, and nearly froze.

A black-faced sheep

A sheep on the moor

Afterwards, we stopped at the Old Man of Storr, which honestly, is just a big wedge of rock that absolutely looks nothing like a person, and then we went through to the Quiraing, on the east side of Skye.  It’s also basically just a bunch of rocks, but it’s very high up, and you can walk through the Quiraing on a path.  I only walked some of it—too worried that I’d get blown off the mountain.  The gale force winds found any hole in the stitches of my clothes and froze me.  Yet it was exhilarating to be up there—to be able to see everything, the lochs, the mountains, to be so close to the sky you could actually walk in the clouds—but just the same, I was glad when we gathered back at the bus; I was thoroughly soaked and ready for lunch.

We drove back into Portree, and I stopped at the Cuchullin Restaurant, hoping for fresh seafood.  They sat me at a table very close to two women in the corner, and we had a lovely blether as I waited for lunch. This is how the conversation went:

“Are you Canadian?  We’re Canadian.”

“Alas, I am American.”

“American?”

“Sadly.”

“Oh my dear!  Well, we’ll pretend you’re Canadian so we can talk to you.”

There was more to the chat, but it mainly had to do with “the maniac in the White House” (their words), how we all were enjoying Skye, as well as the fact that when the server brought my lunch, I had a giant bowl of mussels in front of me.  And I was completely mystified by it. “What am I looking at?” I asked no one in particular.

A plate of mussels

My unexpected lunch

Unfortunately, when I ordered the so-called “small plate” of mussels, I was thinking scallops. Bad luck strikes again—or so I thought. I have a fear of mussels—I think it’s because they look like weird, small ears.  I was also afraid they’d be hard to get out of the shell, but apparently with seafood fresh from the sea that morning, they came out no problem.  They were dripping in a sauce of butter, wine, and maybe cream, and they were delicious.  So now, I am over my mussels phobia—at least, on the Isle of Skye, I’m not afraid.

Sign on the side of the wall announcing Talisker Distillery

Talisker Distillery wall

That afternoon, the sun peeped out a bit, and we drove to Talisker Distillery on the Minginish peninsula.  I was really looking forward to this, because as you well know, I am becoming a whisky connoisseur.  I couldn’t wait to try a flight of Talisker.  And so imagine my surprise when a flight of 3 drams was £43!  For twice that, I could have bought a full bottle. Other distilleries that I’ve visited have offered whisky flights for about £23, and that was my price point. I noticed that none of the other people on the tour had ordered a flight either, and the bar was sparsely populated, although the gift shop/ reception area was crowded with folks. Maybe I should have splurged and tried a single wee dram, but even those were expensive. Anyway, booze-free, I meandered outside to watch the water of Loch Harport, where a few sailboats were bobbing.

From there we drove to the Faerie Pools (basically, pools filled by waterfalls) which were nestled between some tall mountains.  Another person on the tour had somehow injured his foot so the two of us stayed on the bus and went down into another glen full of campgrounds, while the hale and hearty of us took the path to the pools. I might have risked the walk except that the rain was persistent, and I was afraid of slipping on the stony path.  But David promised we’d go see the Faerie Bridge, so we didn’t feel cheated.  The campgrounds looked nice.

While I’m not much a fan of camping—it’s always too cold or too hot and the ground makes my back ache—I had the thought that camping in Scotland might be a fun thing to do—to be out in the fresh, damp air with the wind blowing through the glens. (Although it would be chilly at night, and probably wet.) Scotland has a right-to-roam law, enacted in 2003, which allows people to walk or camp on land freely, as long as the land is respected.  This doesn’t mean that you can camp in someone’s front yard—private property does exist—but it does mean that you can climb mountains and camp in tents or bothies or ride horses or bike pretty much where you like, especially on public lands, but some private lands too for recreational or educational purposes.  You could, probably, camp on farmland too, but really, with all the sheep droppings, it would be pretty messy.  Anyway, camping would be a new way to experience the Highlands.  Maybe some day I will try it.

A landscape of a stream and mountains under a cloudy sky

The stream that runs under the Faery Bridge

On our last day on Skye we drove to the Faerie Bridge that David promised, and the clear water ran quickly over the stones in the stream.  Apparently, an old wives’ tale suggests that if you stick your head in the Faerie Pools or in the water under the bridge, it will make you feel ten years younger and your face look ten years younger.  One of the men on the tour, a guy from Vancouver, sure enough bent down and put his whole head in the stream, despite the fact that it was cold and rainy.  I imagine the water was invigorating… if not cold as hell. He impressed everyone.  And he might have worn a few fewer wrinkles on his face after his plunge.

Landscape with a large loch in the foreground, and hazy mountains in the background.

Loch from high-up

Back on the mainland, we passed by Eilean Donan again, and drove up high to a viewpoint that looked down on the whole glen where the lochs looked lovely, and a pair of horses chewed grass in a paddock.

One of the horses, the white one, comes with some lovely folklore surrounding it.  In Scotland, white horses are magical.  They are either unicorns shielding their horns in invisibility when humans are around (unless the human be a virginal girl), or they are kelpies if they are near water.  Kelpies are demons that lure people to a watery death—if you see one, they usually walk by the shore, appearing tame and sweet.  But as soon as you reach out your hand to pet them, your hand gets stuck fast, and they drag you down to the bottom of the loch or ocean till you drown and then they eat you, bones and all.  This white horse in the paddock was appropriately distant from the loch, so I will guess it was a unicorn in disguise.  But you do see many white horses in Scotland—this is not surprising since the unicorn is Scotland’s national animal. But do be aware if the white horse appears near the water—they are just waiting to eat you.

A white horse and a brown horse on a green mountain background

Unicorn, or kelpie?

Our final stop before arriving back in Edinburgh had us visiting Taste Perthshire—I guess you could say it’s like Scotland’s version of a Buckee’s—a large gas station with a huge giftshop and restaurant attached.  It’s nothing like Buckee’s in the sense of marketing—there’s no beaver decorating anything—but you can find all sorts of Scottish paraphernalia, clothing, decorations, woolen goods, etc., and there is a lovely counter full of pies and pasties and a cheese refrigerator.  I bought a cheese and onion pasty, and a mushroom and cream filled Yorkshire pudding for my dinner.  But the main reason we stopped was to see the Heilan coos—which are always a big hit with people on a tour.  And they were indeed very cute.  Unlike previous times where we saw the coos and they lazed out in the pasture, these coos hung out under a small stable, making taking pictures of them easier.  They didn’t seem to mind the company, but they didn’t seem to want to be petted either.

I’m not sure what it is about Scotland’s islands that I love so much.  Perhaps it’s their novelty (in comparison to the urban nature of Edinburgh) or the fact that I respond to some bit of romanticism that surrounds them, but their remoteness attracts me.  In the case of Skye, the Skye Bridge ensures that those who live on the island can’t be cut off from the mainland—a much different scenario from some of the Outer Hebrides which are only accessible by ferry (like Mull or Rum).  While I do like the looks of Mull a bit more than Skye, if I had to live on the islands, I’d choose Skye.

The trip may have started with several instances of bad luck, but in the end, I think I lucked out: Skye is magical, and the Faeries have kept part of my soul yet again.

 

 

Landscape with a large loch in the foreground, and hazy mountains in the background.

Loch from high-up

A red Heilan coo in profile, lying down

This cow ain’t moooovin’.

A red heilan cool

I tried to get him to come to me, but he wasn’t interested

A close-up of a yellow buttercup flower, with a bug on it.

A buttercup… do you see the bug on it, close to the center?

A stream between two Faery bridges, laden with rocks

I would not stick my head in this.

A stream with a bush of pink azaleas in the front

The Faerie stream, with azaleas

Image of mountains with low-lying clouds disguising the tops of them

The Quiraing

Five sheep on a green background with yellow flowers in front

More sheep

A cute lamb looks through the grass

An extreme zoom of a sheep far off in the moor, a barbed-wire fence is the blur in the front

A single croft house overlooking a moor

A croft house at the Museum of Island Life

A multi-colored statue of a Heilan Coo

A disco statue across from the Museum of Island Life

A moody loch with green grass on the left side and low clouds in the sky

A moody loch

A more with a white house hidden behind trees; the mountains in the back are disguised with low-lying clouds

A moody moor

A distant shot of Eilean Donan castle; you can see the bridge that crosses over the loch to the island. Low-lying clouds hang in the mountains.

Eilean Donan castle

 

A large woman wearing a blue knitted cap smiles into the camera.

Me wearing my wool knit beanie with a sheep design on it

 

Dispatch from Edinburgh #3–Port of Leith Distillery

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Today I took the Edinburgh tram into Leith so that I could go on a tour of the Port of Leith Distillery, across from the Royal Yacht Britannia at the Ocean Terminal. I’d been wanting to go to Leith because I wanted to see the water, so I just did a quick search of “things to do in Leith” and found the distillery.  It is the second only vertical distillery in the world.  (The other is in Sweden, I believe.)  What is a vertical distillery, you may ask?  It’s a 9-story hi-rise with the various parts of the distillery spread out over multiple floors—the grist mill being at the top and the stills at the bottom.

The Port of Leith Distillery was founded by two friends, Ian and Paddy, who had been BFFs since grade school, and became fans of whisky as they grew up.  They even started making early attempts at whisky with a copper pot still when they lived in London.  But they had big dreams. The distillery wasn’t meant to be vertically inclined however; they wanted to build a regular kind of distillery, but the land sale they had planned on fell through, but when the corner of Leith at 11 Whisky Quay opened up, they reconfigured the distillery and decided to go up rather than out.

Since whisky production takes a while, and they needed £14,000,000 to open the distillery, they decided to open a gin distillery while they waited. Unlike whisky, gin can be mass produced quickly; it can be distilled on Monday and on the shelves by Friday. Whereas whisky needs to be aged in barrels at least three years and one day before the spirit can be called whisky at all.  Ian and Paddy and their investors have yet to see a profit from the Port of Leith Distillery—but they are hoping to release their first bottles next year.  In the meantime, they also sell sherry, port, and table whisky, which is still whisky, just not particularly as fine as cask aged whisky.

Everything in the distillery is new—new mash tuns, new wash containers, new gristmill, etc.—and because it’s only been open a few years, everything is shiny and new (with the exception of the stills—they seemed kind of dull).  Our tour guide, Coll, was interesting and answered many questions, and he really knew the whisky making process from start to finish.

A very unclear image of fermentation in a whisky washback

Fermentation (on the middle right side of the photo)

I’ve been to a number of different distilleries, so the actual parts were known to me, but it was interesting to hear about the various kinds of yeast they use (a combination of three), the aquifer they drilled, the warehouse situation (the whisky is stored off-site), etc.  Every distillery is basically the same, so it’s the differences that contribute to the mix of water, barley, and yeast that help make a unique whisky. The thing that I was most excited about was the fermentation; there was a washback that was bubbling like crazy.  Unfortunately the window into the washback had collected a lot of steam so you can’t really see the bubbles in the photo I’m including.  But believe me, it looked really cool—some of the bubbles were big as fists.

Two large drums as taken from below; they are whisky washbacks

Washbacks from below

After we looked at fermentation, we went down to the still room—apparently it can be highly explosive.  So we were required to stand on the concrete platform overlooking the copper stills and told not to touch any metal. After I’d seen the beautiful polished copper stills a Cardhu, these dusty, dull-looking stills did not impress me, but I enjoyed looking at the spirit safe (basically a glass box with analyzing equipment), which is connected to the spirit still; this is where the “low wines” (alcohol spirit from the first distillation at the wash still) gets analyzed to check for quality and redistilled in the spirit still if necessary.  The alcohol level increases up to 65%, which comes out in three types:  the heads, the tails, and the heart.  The heads and tails spirit taste bad and are less desirable—they tend to smell sulphuric, and nobody wants to drink that.  The best part of the distilled spirit is the heart, and that’s what gets siphoned off to be barreled and developed into whisky.  There is only so much heart in a distilling process—the rest gets removed.

Dark copper still, lighted on the right from a big window

Still

After our tour, we had a tasting of 5 drams of liquor—two of plain (unaged) spirit, and one each of sherry, port, and table whisky.  Both of the unaged spirits had a nice flavor, but not any of the tones and flavors that would develop over time in a cask.  I took a sniff of the rich, vanilla-y sherry aroma and thought it was going to be great. I took one sip of it and set it back down.  I thought sherry was sweet; our tour guide said that a lot of folks believe that because we are more familiar with the “old dears” who drink cream of sherry at Christmastime.  (I laughed when he said that.)  The next dram was port—it was sweet, a little too sweet, but I finished it.  The final dram was table whisky, which is whisky that is young, I think, and often aged in virgin casks so it tends to be a little woodsy.  I thought it was fine, though I’ve tasted better—it didn’t have quite the burn of the single malt scotches I’ve tried before.  But then the guide said that you could buy a bottle for £30 in Tesco, which is less than half the price of a decent bottle of single malt.  And after we finished that fifth dram, we went back upstairs to the gift shop where we had one more dram to taste—this was a white port and it was delicious.  It would have been marvelous with a bit of either seltzer or ginger ale.  But by itself it was very sweet and summery.  I would have liked to have bought the white port—but I am always confronted with the dilemma of how to get it back home.  You can’t bring it back in your carry-on, and I don’t want to put a glass bottle in my checked luggage because heaven only knows how our suitcases get banged around in the plane’s hold.  Needless to say, I didn’t buy it, though I would have very much liked to.

A flight of liquors: spirit, sherry, port, and table whisky in small whisky snifters

Flight of drams

Afterwards, I stopped in Tesco to get a few groceries, and then took the tram back home.  I might go to the Leith Farmers Market tomorrow.  I haven’t decided.  But if I do, I’m sure I’ll post about it.

 

A large still with an "onion" bulge at the middle. In the background is a large window.

Still with an “onion” bulge

The Royal Yacht Britannia, looking down from the 5th floor of the distillery

Royal Yacht Britannia

A man stands beside a model still

Our guide Coll

View of apartments in Leith, with the red Forth Bridge in the background

Apartments–if you look hard enough you can see the Forth Bridge in the background

A view of the water with white clouds in the background

Not sure what the yellow things are, but this was a view from the 6th floor.

Two large ships docked in Leith harbor

A couple of ships in Leith Harbor

Dispatch from Edinburgh #2–Return to Mull & Iona

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I know I said I was going to write about the Isle of Skye next, but my trip to the Isle of Mull and Iona is on my mind, so I’ll come back to Skye.  (I will always come back to Skye—that place is amazing.)

For this trip, I took a train over to Glasgow to pick up the Rabbie’s tour which was leaving at 9.  But my train was at 6, which meant I left my flat at 5 and walked to Waverly Station at a slow pace to accommodate my dumb foot.  The 6 o’clock train was an “express” which meant it only made 5 stops, as opposed to later trains which would make more like 13 stops and would take up to an hour and a half to get to Glasgow.  The last time I took a regular train to Glasgow we had a 30-minute delay, and I didn’t want to take the chance that might happen again. I made it with no trouble to Glasgow, though, walked to the bus station and, like John Lennon, “[waited] for the van to come.” Fortunately, I got to the bus station before it decided to rain like hell.

When our tour guide arrived, he was great fun from the get-go.  He asked where people were from and did a find job of remembering everyone’s names.  And then he said something which totally surprised me.  He said, “I’m not going to say anything that JC Reilly doesn’t already know.”  I said, “What?”  He added, “She’s been on 50,000 Rabbie’s tours.”  And then of course he continued the joke to say that I had also been to Vegas, and what happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas.  It got a good laugh from everyone, but I was mystified, because how could he have known that I’d been on so many Rabbie’s tours in the past?  I was determined to figure out this mystery. (Turns out, he looks people’s Rabbie’s records up before a tour and saw I had been on a ton—so he thought he would yank my chain a little.)

We made our first “comfort break” at Luss, which is on Loch Lomond, and it’s a card-only payment to get into the bathroom.  But the card-reader wasn’t working.  So I thought I would use the baby-change/ handicapped bathroom, but as I was about to put in my 50p, the woman who came out gave a scathing review of the bathroom—there was something foul all over the floor (the toilet was leaking).  She said, “It’s grim in there,” which was remarkably subdued for a Scot to describe something, and then she and I had a nice little blether right there in front of the bathroom. She said she thought I was Scottish but then picked up on my accent, and asked me about home.  She wandered off to get someone to clean up, and I decided the smart thing I would do on a full bladder was buy a 2 liter bottle of seltzer water.  Because that makes sense.  But I did eventually use the bathroom and it was fine. And you might ask, why did I share this?  It’s because talking with strangers would wind up being a theme for the weekend.

A landscape of a distant loch with mostly blue sky and some mountains

Loch Tulla

I’ve not mentioned this before, but the trip up North to the Highlands has two paths—either you go through Glen Coe (on the A82) or you go through the Cairngorms (on the A9), although it basically makes one big loop.  After Loch Lomond, we drove up to a viewpoint at Loch Tulla, and then through Rannoch Moor, where we stopped to see Etive Mòr.  Besides being the most photographed mountain in Scotland, as I mentioned in the previous blog, Etive Mòr has the distinction of being featured in Skyfall, the 2012 James Bond movie, and our guide, Nick, was very good with the tunage, because he played Adele’s song “Skyfall,” which I’d never heard before (because I live under a rock) and I liked it a lot (though it was a big repetitive)—very appropriately Bond-ish. I didn’t get out of the bus to take another picture, but I did enjoy seeing the mountain again.

Landscape with mountains in the background and Rannoch Moor in the foreground

Rannoch Moor

Then it was off to Glen Coe to see the Three Sisters.  By this time, the rain had burned off, and the Three Sisters stood in their majestic sunny glory.  What was unusual this time at the mountains was that a man in full kilt played the bagpipes—badly.  Nick, walked past me and said in a low voice, “It’d be guid if he could fookin’ play the bagpipes right.”  I had to smile—Nick was so vehement!  The poor playing did not, however, despoil the beauty of the Three Sisters, and actually, even though the piper wasn’t so great, I thought it was nice that he was out there piping away.  His collection plate was pretty bare—but that didn’t seem to stop him from doing his busking thing.

After I enjoyed (?) a plate of interesting Scottish nachos (fortunately haggis free) at the Glen Coe Visiting Center (sorry for no photo—I couldn’t find my phone, but the chips were like 1/2 inch triangles), we continued on our way, driving on the Ballachulish Bridge over the narrows of the saltwater Loch Linnhe (pron. linny) and Loch Leven, a bridge that I’ve been over before, but I hadn’t heard this story which I’m about to relate.

view of Loch Linnhe, with mostly clouds in the background

Loch Linnhe

Apparently, the residents of this area were very superstitious and never wanted a bridge, because it had been predicted that if a bridge was completed over the Loch, danger and heartbreak would befall the town. (Faeries might have been involved.) But with the closing of the Ballachulish ferry, people still needed to cross the water. So when the Cleveland Bridge & Engineering Company talked to the locals, they learned about this superstition, and honored it: when they built the bridge, they left the last bolt off, which meant the bridge was not complete, thus keeping the town safe.

We finally got to the ferry point; first, we took the 3-minute Corran ferry ride, then we drove a bit more to get to the second ferry, this one which dropped us off at Fishnish (?) on Mull. (It might have been the Lochalline-Fishnish ferry, but I’m iffy about the placenames.) Whatever ferry we sailed on, we got the chance to get out of the bus to sit in the lounge on the port side.  It was raining so hard by this point that you could not even see the horizon—it was just a wall of water.  But 20 minutes or so later, we were back on the bus and driving off the ferry to make the 17 mile trip to Tobermory where our accommodations were. Unfortunately, while my B&B was very nice, it was at least a 20-minute walk for a person with good feet down a steep, steep hill (meaning coming back up would be a nightmare) to get to the harbor at Tobermory, so I just decided I would do without dinner because I wasn’t going to be walking.

Another person on the tour staying at the B&B, Victoria, knocked on my door and asked me what my plans for dinner were, and I told her that with my foot, that I was just going to stay in for the night. She offered to get me something but I said thanks anyway, and she toddled off.  But much later I heard a tiny knock on my door, and she had shown up with a sandwich and “crisps” for me.  Her kindness floored me—and she wouldn’t take any money for her gift. I was so touched.  And believe me, it was the best “British Pork and Mature Cheddar” sandwich (minus the pork) I’d ever eaten.  After that, I slept.

At 8:40 the next morning, Nick picked us up and we went around Tobermory and gathered the other tour members. It was drizzly, although the sun peeked through here and there. Normally on this tour, we’d have taken a boat ride to the Isle of Staffa, and I was looking forward to going, because the last time I went, I didn’t feel well (and I neither climbed up the scary steps to get to the top of Staffa to see the puffins, nor did I risk the long but tiny path around the side of Staffa to explore Fingal’s cave). This time I had planned on being brave and trying to walk to the cave (even with the bad foot), but because of the unpredictable weather and choppiness of the sea, the voyage was canceled. Everyone on the tour was disappointed.  But Nick planned for us to visit Duart Castle instead.

Southern view of Duart castle on a grassy lawn

Duart castle (south view)

Duart is, as castles go, a moderately-sized castle with some white-washed walls. It is the ancestral home of Clan MacLean (pron. Mac-layne) that dates from the 12th century and it sits on the tip of a peninsula that juts out in the Sound of Mull. It was used as a home well into the 20th century.  The first room you enter is a small kitchen with a coal hob, used up until 1960.  It’s hard to believe that a kitchen that small served a castle, and I read on one of the notes on the walls that by the time the food reached the dining room (which was another floor or two up), the food was often cold.  (So you can imagine that water for baths would also have been cold!) Living in a castle, while the dream of every young girl (and old girl like me) could not have been particularly comfortable or cozy. But early castles were built for defense, not luxury, after all.

The ground floor also contains the dungeons and small jail cells that a person could barely sit in. But after you pass through the dark and dinge, you climb up the stairs into the Pantry and Sea Room, which was a later addition to the castle, allowing for a beautiful view of the Sound and Loch Linnhe. I sat there as the castle guide talked about the restorations of Duart Castle and looked north out into the Sound.  At the very far edge you can see Ben Nevis, and somehow the guide was quite pleased that we could see Scotland’s tallest mountain, despite the clouds.

A glass case filled with silver soup tureens and pitchers at Duart Castle

Silver service at Duart Castle

The Sea Room leads into the Great Hall (which included the dining room) which impressed with its antiques and silver, although it was not overly large.  There was a fire going in an iron stove and it smelled woodsy and wonderful, and helped chase the chill from the room.  In cases were jewelry and weapons and on the pool table was a glass case full of silver tureens, pitchers, bowls, and other table settings. But my favorite thing was a large smoky quartz brooch that a person would wear on their cloak.  They offered a replica of it in the gift shop, but it was a little out of my price range, especially because it wasn’t silver.

A large silver brooch with a huge smoky quartz jewel

Brooch

Upstairs were the bedrooms/ staterooms for guests, as well as the bathroom that still had the toilet, tub, and sink from the 1912 renovation by Sir Fitzroy, the 26th Chief.  I didn’t go upstairs to see them—I watched a video—because to get there you’d have to climb  a spiral staircase with a hand rope, and I didn’t think I could manage it.  After visiting the Great Hall, I left the castle and went to stand at the battlements and look out over the water for a bit before going into the café for a cheese scone.

And then we were off to Iona.  The CalMac ferry only took about 20 minutes to get there, and because we didn’t have a trip to Staffa in the offing, Nick gave us over 3 hours on the island.  This visit I was determined to see the Abbey—the last time I was there (2023?), we’d only been given an hour for lunch on the island because we needed the rest of the time to get to Staffa, and so I didn’t get a chance to walk there. This time, I was going. It had grown cold and windy though, so the walk to the Abbey was bracing. I found a bench across from the hotel gardens and enjoyed the many dogs that walked by, but eventually after resting my foot, I continued the walk and got to the Abbey itself.

View of Iona Abbey in Scotland

Iona Abbey

Iona Abbey is smallish, but appropriately sized for being the first Christian site in Scotland.  Apparently, how the aristocratic St. Columba chose its spot had to do with his wanting a place from which he could not view Ireland anymore (he had been chased out of that country over a plagiarism dispute around 560). Unfortunately, he chose a site on a dark, dreary day; when the sun came back out, he could see Ireland after all, but he chose not to move his community.  The Abbey dates from around 1200, long after St. Columba’s time.

A view of a courtyard with arched entry ways in the foreground

Iona Abbey Cloisters

I walked around the cloister which faced a courtyard with a statue in it.  On the walls were gravestones, but they were mostly unreadable. The cloister connected the monks’ cells with the church and offered a space for prayer and quietude.  The gift shop was an offshoot of the cloister; you almost wouldn’t know it was there except that the door was open.  I poked around inside, and then wandered into the Church and said some prayers for my family, and my kitties, and the world at large.

Stained glass window of the Holy Mother

Stained glass window of St. Columba

 

 

 

Surprisingly, the cloisters felt holier than the church did to me.  The church offered some beautiful arches and stonework, but not much more in the way of decoration.  And that could be because it’s not a Catholic Church anymore—or because the church had been raided by Vikings and the Protestant Reformation. Or, because, being on a remote island for a small Christian flock, maybe decoration wasn’t a big priority.  Anyway, it’s now the home of the Iona Community, an ecumenical church founded by George MacLeod in 1938, and made up of many religious denominations. This community sounds peaceful and good and believes in social justice matters.  In fact, there was a table full of dishes of ribbons for which you could donate coins for such causes as Black Lives Matter, the environment, AIDS/HIV, and others. (I had bought a little monk bear in the gift shop and gave some spare change for an environmental ribbon, which I pinned to his robe.) As for the altar, it was pretty plain and the stained glass windows  were small, but the church had a good vibe to it.

On the way back to the harbor, I stopped at the Larder to get some lunch and ate my cheese sandwich, crisps, and Coke Zero on a bench in front of the store.  A woman and her husband sat down beside me and we began a very interesting conversation about their visit to Iona. Apparently they are Scottish but have been living mostly in the United States for the last 20 years, although they have a flat that belonged to her mother somewhere in Scotland. Where in the U.S. did they live? I asked, and was surprised when they said, “Oh, Durham, North Carolina.”

So we talked about Durham and about Charlotte and Atlanta too.  I asked what they did with their flat outside of the 6 weeks that they stay there every year—did they AirBnB it?  This got a laugh.  It’s pretty difficult, they told me, to set up AirBnB’s—because of Scottish laws that allow people to stay beyond the time they’ve contracted to stay in a place. In other words, they don’t have to go, even if you want them to.  I thought that was amazing and weird.  But we had a good chat—it felt a little like I was home somehow, especially when we spoke of Charlotte and Atlanta. And it was nice not having to be embarrassed that I was American and to perform my embarrassment like I have been doing every time someone asks me where I’m from.

Ruins of the Iona Nunnery; a couple of stone walls and grass

Iona Nunnery

I finished my lunch, and they were going to continue to the Abbey so we said our goodbyes.  I stopped in a craft shop and then a Celtic jewelry store (Aosdàna) where I found delicate, silver handmade earrings.  I loved the jewelry there—although most of it was crazy expensive (several hundred pounds).  And I’ve been wanting to buy myself some jewelry from Scotland for years.  So I splurged and bought a pair of earrings.  They’re so delicate, though, I’m not sure I’ll ever wear them!

After passing through the Nunnery, I returned to the harbor where I found a bench to wait out the time before our ferry would return. And this man comes up to me and says,

“Are you someone important?”

“Me?”

“Yes.  You look very important.  Like you know things.”

“I’m not that important, but I am a published poet.”

“Really?  Have I read anything you’ve written?”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh.”

He seemed truly disappointed that I didn’t turn out to be a VIP—although, I doubt I looked like a VIP, windblown with my raincoat and beanie on.  He said goodbye and turned away, and I thought, I’ve missed an opportunity to brag on myself. And then I remembered, I’m no braggart, and nobody cares about poetry anyway.  So no big deal.  And then, one of the ladies on the tour sat down next to me and offered me the most delicious strawberries I’d ever eaten. So sweet and so red they make the strawberries we get back home look like anemic little ghosts.  And just as suddenly, it started to rain and she hurried off.

But by then the ferry had arrived and we all shuffled back on to Mull. I haven’t had a chance to say that here is true beauty to be found in the Isle of Mull—I know the name is rather dull (ha! dull Mull!), but if it’s possible, Mull is even greener than the Highlands, and the mountains seem steeper and more mysterious.  Driving around Mull, you tend to see a lot of red deer (as well as sheep and cows) just running along the hills; I think Nick said there’s some phenomenal number, maybe 6,000, that live on the island. (We only saw a few, and one of them, sadly, was dead by the side of the road.) But with the rain and dark clouds, the island was moody and bleak and lovely.  I kept thinking how much I would like to live here.

This time, when we drove back into Tobermory, Nick said he’d give us all 30 minutes if we wanted to find something to eat and then he’d drive us to our B&B’s.  This was a godsend, because by then it was raining like hell and there was no way I was going to walk into town from the B&B for dinner.  But since we were there, I went to Hook’d and got a beautiful piece of haddock and chips, and ate that in the B&B and went to bed early.

The CalMac ferry to Mull on a backdrop of Mull's mountains

CalMac Ferry to Oban

The next day, we took the ferry from Craignure to Oban.  Right as I left the ferry terminal, I smelled the most delicious garlic buttered seafood at a harbor kiosk but didn’t have enough cash to get some scallops for lunch—a true pity. I suspect everything they were selling came fresh from the sea that morning. I decided to skip touring Oban, even though I wanted to check out the Oban distillery for a dram, because of the dreaded foot.  So I hung out in a Costa coffee shop and read a book until Nick retrieved us.  The ride back to Glasgow seemed long.  We made a few too many stops for my liking, one at the Nether Largie Standing Stones (in Kilmartin), one in Inverary, one in Glen Crowe at the Rest and Be Thankful viewpoint, and one at Loch Lomond again (just a potty break).  I didn’t get back to my flat in Edinburgh till almost 9 p.m. And I pretty much fell into bed after a shower.

I recommend Mull and Iona—and Staffa, if the weather permits—because seeing these places is somehow holy and remarkable.  And if you want a good book that talks about these places, I really recommend Madeleine Bunting’s Love of Country; it’s replete with details about the history of the Hebrides.  And it’s wonderful.

A grave yard at Pennygown

Pennygown graveyard

Old ruins of Pennygown church

Old ruins of Pennygown church

A picture of Pennygown graveyard through tall grasses

Pennygown graveyard, Mull

Duart Castle from a side view

Duart Castle

Three walls of Duart castle surround a grassy courtyard.

Inner courtyard of Duart Castle

A view of the Sound of Mull, with grass in the foreground and clouds in the back

Sound of Mull (from the Duart battlements)

The Sea Room of Duart Castle, showing a large bell, wheel, and binnacle from the RMS Lochinvar ship. To the left is the entrance into the Great Hall.

The Sea Room

A long view of the Great Hall, with antiques and paintings.

View of the Great Hall from the entrance

A piano in the Great Hall of Duart Castle, right as you go in

Piano at the entrance of the Great Hall

Portraits of Lady MacLean and Col. Fitzroy MacLean

Ten small, fancy daggers in their sheaths in a glass case in Duart Castle

Daggers in the weapons case at Duart Castle

Another view of the Great Hall from the opposite view. In the foreground is the dining table and a chair.

Great Hall looking north toward the entrance

A view of herb gardens with the Sound of Mull in the background

Hotel gardens on Iona

A small chapel with a stone wall in front of it. This is St. Oran's chapel at Iona Abbey

St. Oran’s Chapel at Iona Abbey

View of the Sound of Mull looking at Mull from Iona

View of the Sound of Mull

A tall Celtic stone cross in front of Iona Abbey. This is MacLean's Cross.

MacLean’s Cross

A view of the cloisters, with light coming through the arches on the left side of the photo

Another view of the Cloisters at Iona Abbey

A large statute that looks something like a closed flower with a dove sitting on it.

Cloisters statue

A long view of the inside of the church, featuring wooden chairs in the foreground an a large stone arch in the back.

Inside the Iona Abbey church

A detail from the cloisters of a man's head about to drink from Jesus's cup.

Detail of the Cloisters

The Iona Abbey great stone arch over the altar space.

The Arch above the altar space

Statue of St. Columba beneath an arch at Iona Abbey

An altar statue at Iona Abbey church

On the floor of the Abbey, a gravestone that may contain the sepulchre of St. Columba

Sepulchre of St. Columba

An altar at Iona Abbey, with ivy growing on the walls

The altar at Iona Abbey

A big house with lush gardens in the foreground. It is George MacLeod's summer home, near the Abbey

George MacLeod’s summer home, Dunsmeorach, near the Abbey

A stone burial crypt of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll

Duke and Duchess of Argyll’s crypt at Iona Abbey

Another view of the ruins of the Iona Nunnery

Iona Nunnery wall

On a leafy background a fat little bird stands on a branch

This chubby guy was singing his heart out in Iona harbor.

More ruins of the Iona nunnery with mostly grass in the foreground.

Ruins of the Iona nunnery

A sunny mountain view from the Craignure ferry depot

A sunny mountain view from the Craignure ferry depot

A tall, white lighthouse on the Sound of Mull

Lighthouse on the ferry ride from Craignure to Oban

A statue lying down near the altar at the Iona Abbey

A statue near the altar at the Iona Abbey

A large standing stone from the Kilmartin cairns

A standing stone at the Nether Largie standing stones

A flock of shee0

Sheepies running free

A flock of sheep behind standing stones at Kilmartin cairns

Nether Largie standing stones

A large fishing trawler docked a Loch Fyne, called The Vital Spark

Fishing trawler at Inverary, on Loch Fyne

A view of Loch Fyne in the foreground with mountains and sky at the back.

Loch Fyne

Another lying-down statue at the altar at Iona Abbey

Another statue at the altar of Iona Abbey

View of Glen Crowe, known as the Rest and Be Thankful viewpoint; basically a big valley with a road in it

View of Glen Crowe, known as the Rest and Be Thankful viewpoint

A sunny day in the churchyard at Kilmarten

Churchyard at Kilmartin

A tall, thin stone church next to some grave stones

Kilmartin Church (for sale)

A small cruise ship on Loch Lomond

Last stop of the weekend… not that we went on the cruise

A standing stone

Another Nether Largie standing stone

Another view of the inside of the Iona Abbey church, looking towards the altar

Another view of the altar

A grinning woman

Me, freezing my face off on the ferry to Oban

Dispatch from Edinburgh 2026 #1–Lots of Castles

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It isn’t a trip to Scotland that I don’t spend the first several weeks sick with some kind of bronchial/ sinus issue.  I’m not sure if it’s the airplane cabin air or if I am cursed, but I have been sick since arriving.  Fortunately, I’m on the mend, but hacking, sneezing, and general achiness does not make one’s health conducive to traipsing around the beautiful spots in this beautiful country.  But I don’t let a little thing like a hacking cough and fever stop me—I came prepared this year with OTC cold meds, Advil, and a family-size bag of cough drops.  When it’s the weekend, you better believe I’m out in the wilds of Scotland on one Rabbie’s tour or another. (Honestly, they should pay me for how many tours I’ve gone on—either that, or make me an Honorary Driver!)

The first weekend I was here I enjoyed the “Scottish Castles Experience,” a tour that ran up the eastern coast of the country, up to Aberdeen, where I had never visited before.  It was cold and windy that morning, but sunny, a little unusual for Edinburgh which wears its damp like a badge of honor. It would turn out to be a mostly sunny trip—and a little too warm for my raincoat.  (Granted it was still in the low 60s, so I was chilly when I chose not to wear my coat, but the damn thing is so heavy I didn’t really want to tote it around.)

A train bridge over the Firth of Forth Scotland, with a cruise ship in the background

It doesn’t look it, but this bridge is actually red.

Anyway, the tour began with a quick stop to view all three of Edinburgh’s bridges over the Firth of Forth.  There’s the red 1890 cantilevered bridge—the eponymous Forth Bridge, designed for trains; the 1964 Forth Road Bridge, a suspension bridge, which now only allows high occupancy vehicles and taxis to use it; and the Queensferry Crossing Bridge, a cable-stayed bridge. These bridges are famous because they were each built in a different century.  And it’s said that there’s a legislative bill going around to make sure that in 2100 or thereabouts, there will be a fourth bridge over the River Forth with a fourth bridge style. I don’t know if this is going to happen, but if Edinburgh keeps growing, they might need another bridge in 74 years.

The front entrance to the Falkland Palace, with turrets and lots of windows facing the street

Falkland Palace

A side view of Falkland Palace, focusing on the King and Queen's quarters ruins

A side view of Falkland Palace; you can see that the King and Queen’s quarters are only ruins now.

After that, we got on the road for real, and went over to the Kingdom of Fife to see Falkland Palace. But our entrance to the Palace wasn’t until 11:30, which gave me a little time to walk the High Street of the little town of Falkland.  I stopped into a bakery and bought a lovely sourdough boule and a hunk of cheese which I saved for lunch (knowing how the places the tour stops for lunch are notoriously expensive.)  I had been to Falkland Palace several years ago, and considering I was also walking around on a busted foot that refuses to heal, I chose not to climb the various steps in the castle.  The castle is beautiful though; it was originally a hunting lodge for various kings before it was fancied up and became more of a residence.  It has somewhat of a ruined air to it; the king’s and queen’s quarters are nothing but old stones, but it’s worth going to see for sure. Since I hadn’t had a chance to really wander the grounds, I chose this opportunity to do just that.  The flowers were lovely, although some paths were blocked off.  In the garden, Mary Queen of Scots installed the first tennis court there in the 16th century.  I mostly smelled flowers and basked in the sunshine.

View from gate towards the sea, St. Andrew’s cathedral

After Falkland Palace, we headed on to St. Andrews, home of the £1 public golf course; I don’t, however, know if it’s still £1—it seems like everything is more expensive this year.  We stopped there for lunch, but I was determined to head to the old abbey.  Of course I had been there before too, but I hadn’t walked the whole path around the abbey and cemetery.  I had to take several breaks because of my foot—this would become a recurrent pattern for me—but I did find a nice raised crypt to sit on by the wall with a locked gate, and it was a lovely view of the beach, where someone was chasing after their dog who decided to take a swim.  I would have liked to go down to the beach, but I was afraid I wouldn’t get back in time.  So I just encouraged people who walked by to look out of the gate.  Three people took me up on my suggestion—a French couple and a woman who held a cigarette in her hand.  (I tried not to breathe smoke.)  But then I got up to complete my tour around the abbey and wandered back to where the bus was going to meet us.  Again I had to sit for a while, and I had some bread on me that I threw to the crows.  They were very happy until these big-ass seagulls appeared and started jumping for every tossed crumb.  I didn’t realize it, but you’re not supposed to feed the birds in St. Andrew’s, but I’m not sure if I had seen the sign first if I would have obeyed it.

An image of Dunnottar Castle, overlooking the North Sea

After that we drove to Dunnottar castle, which was down a rather steep hill.  I would have liked to go in—other people on the tour were entranced by it, based on their conversation where they met me at the café—but I could see it and it looked lovely.  A woman who became friends with everyone on the tour—Anne—told me she stood over the cliffs of the North Sea and was overcome with the beauty of the place.  She didn’t go inside the castle (some of the other tour guests did), but I got the feeling she didn’t need to, to enjoy the space.  I enjoyed it, even though I was far away from the castle.

That evening I holed up at the Aberdeen Douglas Hotel, and it had what is known as a wet room—this is to say, the entire bathroom was the shower.  It was so strange, and I managed to get water everywhere.  There was water on the toilet, the ledge behind the toilet, the little walkway to the sink.  And it felt weird showering out in the open without the enclosed walls of a typical shower.  I actually kind of liked it once I got my mind around it, but it was kind of messy. After my shower, I ate my cheese and bread boule, and then got into bed to do a little reading.  I fell asleep early.

Castle Fraser

The next morning, I ate the rest of my cheese and bread boule.  I could have eaten the (free) breakfast in the hotel, but I was kind of dithering and didn’t make it down in time.  But that’s ok—they offered a full Scottish breakfast which I’m not too keen on.  When the bus picked us up, we drove off to Castle Fraser near the River Dee.  This castle has a special visitor’s book for all Frasers across the world—it made me think of my old tennis partner Peggy (Fraser) because she could have signed the book. She would have loved the large rooms, so spectacularly decorated with furniture down through the centuries.  The Great Room was fun to imagine as the place where all of the action would have taken place—dances and get-togethers of one kind or another, maybe meetings.  There were fancy bedrooms with imposing furniture, a lovely place setting and dinner table with a crystal chandelier of over 5,000 crystals, private sitting rooms, a smoking room, a library etc.  Everything you could wish for your castle furnishing needs.  I liked the library too; it holds over 2000 volumes in it, and two turret nooks perfect for following the sunlight and being able to read.

I didn’t go up on the roof, though that was an option; the spiral stair cases were narrow and you only had a central handrail to hold onto (which is to say, there weren’t rails on the wall, just this one vertical rail), and with my cane and bad foot, I didn’t want to walk up another stair case which would mean I’d have to come down again, overstretching my torn Achilles.  Anne did go up to the roof and said the views were especially remarkable, but that I really didn’t miss that much.

We stopped in Ballater for lunch; it had started to sprinkle, so I was glad I had my raincoat.  I wanted to eat at Fish Shop, but when I checked Google it had multiple £££ signs, indicating it was expensive (up to £60 for one person!) so I nixed that idea, and popped into the Balmoral Bar instead. This was much more my vibe—a typical pub, but with lots of windows, so it wasn’t too dark inside.  The rain poured as I enjoyed a delicious fish and chips (peas were so-so) and a glass of Coke Zero (with ice!).  I always think I want a pint to go with my fish and chips, but then I never order one.  Anyway, the fish was perfect.  And while I was inside, a man walked in with his dog who was very well behaved.  I noticed on the wall there was a rules sign for pooches—three barks and they’re out.  But this dog sat hopefully, waiting for someone to drop their chips.

Image of Crathes Castle from the back, with a large green tree before it.

Crathes castle

Once we were back at the bus, the next place on our itinerary was Crathes castle.  It’s a handsome-looking castle, and I did go inside to look at the kitchen and the “downstairs” servants’ area, but my foot was not up to walking the steps, so I made my way out to the gardens.  They have walled gardens that you need a code to enter (this is to prevent random dog walkers and nonpaying visitors from going inside), and after a brief call to Mom, I entered.  The midgies were out, but I didn’t let them bother me.

A large shaped tree in the center of the Crathes castle walled gardens

A tree at Crathes castle in the walled gardens

Large abstract topiaries at Castle Crathes

Crathes castle topiary

Chock full gently misted flowers, the gardens gave off their heavenly scents. I walked from place to place, finding new-to-me blooms and little spots to sit and enjoy the afternoon spritz, but eventually I wandered back to the gift shop (of course!) and bought a few little things to bring home, including what I thought were caramels but turned out to be some weird vanilla fudge I did not care for.  We went back to Aberdeen to spend the night, and I worked on homework for a little bit, then I crashed early.

Sunday morning, I chose to take breakfast in the hotel.  I saw Anne and wanted to sit with her, but she didn’t invite me, so I kept to myself.  The full Scottish breakfast consists of tea, toast, bacon, sausage, beans, charred tomato, (runny to my mind) eggs, black (blood) pudding (yuck), and mushrooms.  They also had cheese and croissants, but I stuck with toast, ate some slightly dry cheddar, and a big portion of sauteed mushrooms.  The robust tea woke me up, and the orange juice, while not cold, was definitely pulpy and strong. I had been running on time, but something didn’t agree with me, and I had to duck into the bathroom for a bit too long (I know, TMI!), so by the time I got down to the reception desk, I was a few minutes behind, and in trying to check out, I managed to leave my cane somewhere.  Of course, I didn’t realize I was missing my cane until I got to Fyvie castle—which I loved by the way—and had to walk a long distance without it.

I am not sure what castle this is. I think it's Fyvie but maybe not?

Possibly Fyvie castle… or is it the back of Crathes?

In Fyvie castle, we actually had a guided tour, and it made all the difference from the self-guided tours of the other castles.  Our tour guide was bright, informative, and very enthusiastic about the castle.  She knew everything and could answer any question a person might have.  Fyvie castle is known for its portraits by Henry Raeburn, a famous 18th century Scottish portrait artist who painted many of the people who lived there.  The castle also has many richly decorated rooms with heavy red velvet curtains and red wallpaper.  It even has a nursery and a governess’s room on the same floor, which apparently demonstrates the status the governess had with the family; instead of being in the servants’ quarters, she had her own little room.  The Fyvie castle is known for being visited by King Charles and Camilla, and for holding weddings in a room that has a true player pipe organ—with huge pipes and everything!  Apparently, the songs are printed on scrolls with littles holes in them, and where there is a hole, a note plays.

In a tall room with a decorated ceiling, there is a pipe organ with actual pipes near the roof

Fyvie castle pipe organ

Fyvie castle also boasts a couple of ghosts.  One is the ghost of a happy, beloved dog who died rather tragically, and the other, a more mysterious ghost, is known as the Green Lady.  There are little felt green lady dolls all over the castle, and our tour guide mentioned that they tend to move.  The Green Lady, they think, is the ghost of first wife of the Earl who lived there, who wasn’t particularly pleased that her husband married someone young and pretty who gave him children.  She even, apparently, scratched something on the window ledge of her husband’s bedroom.  I looked at it—it wasn’t clear it was a word or phrase.  It could have been anything to be honest, maybe scratching from the claws of a large bird.

After Fyvie, we moved on to Elgin for lunch, where I stopped in an out-of-the way pub known as Thunderton House.  A sign on its wall outside reads that Thunderton House was

Formerly the Great Lodging of Scots Medieval Kings.  Re-built by Alexander, 1st Lord Duffus C. 1650.  Prince Charles Edward Stuart stayed here in 1746 prior to Culloden.

I was intrigued by the history, and the offering of a “Sunday Roast.”  I obviously didn’t have a reservation, but there was a table for one where they squeezed me in.  Sunday Roast was delicious:  it offered braised carrots, some peeled potatoes, fancy cabbage, curried mushy peas (which tasted divine—best mushy peas I’ve had in all of Scotland), and a vegetable Wellington (this would be a mixture of root vegetables wrapped in a pastry) with blue cheese sauce.  On top of all that, they offered sticky toffee pudding, a Scottish favorite, and it quickly became my favorite too. I had often wanted to try sticky toffee pudding, but I don’t usually get dessert—only this time, it was part of the lunch.  I cheerfully could give up all desserts but sticky toffee pudding.  It is something you must try one day.

We spent the afternoon driving to the Culloden Battlefield and then to the Clava Cairns, standing stones over 5,000 years old.  Culloden was the site of the 1746 Jacobite uprising which ended badly for the Scottish.  It is a great field with high grass, and you can feel the solemnity there.  It’s quiet, and I do want to say there’s a holiness there.  But actually, it’s just a big grass field.  Had it been a bit drier, I might have gone wandering in the grass, but I chose to go to the café instead.

I found a Pepsi Max (they were out of Coke Zero, and I made do, because I believe drinking it will shave off a few years from Purgatory for me), and looked around the café to find a place to sit.  This time Anne invited me to join her, and we both talked about having been to Culloden before, and what we thought about the tour, etc. Anne, who will turn 60 in July, had been really kind to me throughout the tour, constantly checking up on me because I moved more slowly than the rest of them.  She was very afraid she might have overstepped her boundaries, but actually, it was quite nice.  I felt cared for, and seen.  I even gave her my phone number and email in case she wanted to get together while I was in town.  So far, I haven’t heard from her, but she might contact me yet.

A large mound of stones at the Clava Cairns standing stones area. A couple of people walk in front.

Clava Cairns

The bus tour guide rounded us up afterward, and we went to the Clava Cairns, which I’ve also seen multiple times.  They’re interesting, but they are just stone mounds off the road.  Anne told me she loves them, and I tried to look at them through her eyes, but I think by then I was really too tired to appreciate seeing the stones anew.  Still, I took a few pictures, then wandered off to find a tree stump to sit on for a few moments.  We drove to our accommodation in Nairn; I stayed at the Glen Lyon B&B, which was charming and my room was teeny.  But the bed was soft and comfortable, and I went to sleep early.

A large rock with a pointy head, about as tall as a person.

Clava Cairns standing rock

Large, shiny coper stills at Cardhu distillery, Scotland

Cardhu Distillery stills

The last day of our tour, we stopped at Cardhu Distillery.  I had also visited there before, when I took Rabbie’s Speyside whisky tour, but it was nice to see the mash tuns and copper stills again.  This was especially nice because Cardhu was in their summer break, so the still room wasn’t hot as hell. I love the smell of malted barley and whisky—it smells of honey and earth.  You can almost eat the air.  And at the end of the tour we tried a flight of Cardhu whiskies and a whisky highball (with ginger and Johnny Walker).  The Cardhu workers were kind enough to deliver the whisky to me, instead of my having to go up a windy spiral staircase to get to their tasting room.  I wasn’t feeling very well, so it was nice that I could find a comfy seat and have them cater to me.  After drinking three drams and a highball, I was a bit tipsy.  So it was a good thing we still had to drive to one more place, Blair castle, the seat of the Duke of Atholl.

The 11th  Duke of Atholl, John Murray, lived with his wife in South Africa.  They weren’t exactly rich; in fact, they had been arguing over whether to buy a second-hand car or take a 2 week vacation, with his wife favoring the vacation. But anyway, he didn’t know he was the heir.  In fact, he was a second cousin once removed from the 10th Duke, and when the 10th Duke died with no issue, apparently the office of the deeds and titles called Murray and said something along the lines of “We have great news, you’re now the next in line to be the Duke.”  Murray thought it was a prank call and hung up.  The office called back and said, “Don’t hang up, but we want you to know you’re the new Duke.”  After a few choice expletives, he hung up on them again.  Desperate to communicate, they called back one more time, and this time the wife answered.  They instructed her not to hang up too, and then told her that her husband was now the Duke, and would have access to a castle and lands as far as the eye could see, he would have his own private army, and he would have £250,000,000.  And that’s when his wife called her husband over and said, “Listen to this guy, and DON’T HANG UP.”

The Duke of Atholl was charismatic and helpful to his community, and he gave much of his wealth away.  He became ill though, and spent the last few years in a care home in South Africa.  The 12th Duke of Atholl and the Murray’s other children weren’t too happy with the philanthropy… but that’s my little historical lesson about the Atholl dukedom.

A very large, perfectly white castle against a blue cloudy sky

Blair castle, home of the Duke of Atholl

As for the castle, Blair is a fairy tale white monstrosity, but also a beauty with turrets and little spires.  The grounds have a deer park as well as trails and flowers, including a 9-acre walled garden.  I went to look for the deer first, but they were all crowded at the other side of the paddock under some trees, and then after phoning Mom to check in, I went into the castle.  The very first room you go is deep, dark wood with hundreds of various weapons on the wall. Because it’s the entrance (and they don’t want people impeding entry), you’re not allowed to take pictures—you have to wait till you go upstairs on the bridge and take photos looking down.  But it is impressive to see all of the weapons the various Dukes collected. Next you’re led into a hall of antlers, and you make your way through over 30 rooms.  The bedrooms are sumptuous with their drapes and duvets, and there are so many paintings on the walls.  The dining hall was a converted Great Hall, and the elegant tableware looks as if it’s awaiting a banquet. I was very fond of the red drawing room, which not only held lovely antiques, but there were three women’s dress forms wearing the kinds of dresses women of the 18th century would wear; they were film reproductions. (Did I get the names of the films?  Of course not, but I think Keira Knightley wore one of them.)

I enjoyed the trip, but it began to feel a little long and repetitive, and I was barely acclimated to the time zone shift.  I can’t say I’m any more acclimated now—it is very hard to go to bed when the sun is still out.  There was so much to see that in a small way it kind of all runs together.  But I appreciated seeing new-to-me castles and gardens, and seeing a few new places in Scotland than I have before.

I know this was a long post.  Thanks so much if you’ve read this far!

Stay tuned… I’ll be writing about the Isle of Skye next!

Castle Fraser dining room

Castle Fraser dining room chandelier

Renaissance style dress

A large dining table in a soft green room

Blair castle dining room with wedding dress in the background

A fancy ceiling at Fyvie castle

Regency pelisse

Regency dress

Castle Fraser gentleman’s smoking room

Castle Fraser library

18th century dress

A thirsty baby moo

Another 18th century dress

Castle Fraser bedroom with crib

Castle Fraser morning room

Castle Fraser governess’ suite

Castle Fraser nursery

A square tower shed at the corner of the walled gardens at Crathes castle

A quiet little nook in the walled gardens at Crathes castle

A mostly black and white photo of a painting of a woman in a yellow dress. I think this is the Green Lady.

An image of the Green Lady but the camera was doing something funky with the colors

Entrance to the Thunderton House pub

Thunderton House

Our wonderful tour guide at Fyvie castle

An image of a dining room with red walls and several people looking around

The dining room at Fyvie (I think); my tour friend Ann is at the right of the photo.

Large bush topiaries at Crathes castle

More topiaries at Crathes castle

A close up of a red flower on a green background.

This might be a large poppy at Crathes castle.

A seagull

This obstreperous guy kept stealing the bread from the crows on the streets of St. Andrews

18th century men’s fighting tartan uniform

Atholl nursery

Blair castle?

 

P.S. My pictures got scrambled when I uploaded them, so I’m a little uncertain about the provenance of some of the photos.  I might be telling you the wrong castle sometimes.  That’s ok–it just means you have to come over to Scotland and find out for yourself!

P.S. #2  I actually have more photos from this trip, but I can’t seem to access them on the computer, just the camera.  (Wha??)  I’ll try posting them another time.  (Although they kind of are more of the same.)

Little House in the Highlands

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It’s the first week of May, which means the Spring semester is kaput.  I am always glad when I come to the end of the semester, even though it means saying goodbye to my students.  After 16 weeks, I am ready for a new challenge and ready to see new faces.

I will be teaching again in Scotland this summer and we are reading four books of memoir and nonfiction:  Helen Ochyra’s Scotland Beyond the Bagpipes, Madeleine Bunting’s Love of Country, Deborah Orr’s Motherwell, a Girlhood, and Jackie Kay’s Red Dust Road, which is a perennial favorite of mine.  I debated about teaching Kathleen Jamie’s Findings again, which is really wonderful book; and I’ve taught it all past times I’ve been to Scotland, and I think the students like it. But I thought 5 books would be too much for 7 weeks, and I wanted to have them read some new stuff—which is to say, I wanted to read new stuff too!  So we will see how the readings go, and who knows, I might slip a Jamie essay in at some point.

Scotland has become like a second home for me—I feel so much myself there.  I wish that I could write a book of Scotland poems, but it surprisingly doesn’t inspire poetry in me (or it hasn’t yet).  Is it because I mostly stay in the city, and I don’t find cities that poetic?  Maybe. But Edinburgh is so intriguing, what with the Old Town and the New Town, and all the people constantly in transit—you see them walking along the streets, towing their suitcases—as well as the locals, who appear weary, loaded down with grocery bags and bookbags and bouquets of flowers or bike wheels.  There are lots of things to catch the eye, for certain.  But I think I might feel more like writing poetry if I could have blocks of time in nature to write.  Instead of painting in plein air, I could poem in plein air—and that might be the inspiration I need.  I need to find a space in the greenery and see what happens.  I need to find some Heilan coos!  (Just not be downwind of them!) Mostly I just need time, and of course there will be a lot going on this summer.  (But there’s always a lot going on.)

Sometimes I daydream about finding a cottage somewhere in the Highlands that could be my home away from home, maybe a croft that would be big enough for me to be able to hunker down for a month or so at a time, so I could write and be.  I think I would love that—in the mornings I could go on a ramble, and then I could come home and write and eat lunch and take a little snooze in the afternoon and write some more.  That is the dream.  Unfortunately that is not financially feasible. (I also looked into finding a little cottage in Young Harris, GA, but alas, that didn’t work out either—apparently two-room log cabins are not a thing.)

I wonder what the allure of having a little writing house is? I wonder if it’s the idea that you’re not in your everyday milieu, and that somehow being alone in a cottage means that good writing would come because you’ve eschewed the outside world.  Or is that just a myth?  I mean, don’t you take your baggage with you no matter where you go? And if you’re struggling to write at your “real” home, doesn’t that suggest that you’d struggle anywhere? And yet, I’d like to be blessed with the opportunity to find out that reality for myself!

My financial manager asked me what did I envision for myself—that if money were no object, what would I want?  And I thought about it and then declared my desire for a little writing cottage.  And she said, “Oh, I’m hearing early retirement!”  Sadly, I don’t believe early retirement is on my schedule either.  This makes me think about a person on our faculty who is retiring after this semester.  She has been on the faculty since 1981—she’s given 45 years to this school.  And while I would not want to do the same (45 years in the same place???), I kind of worry that that’s my future.  I feel like I’ll work until I’m dead.

And that would be fine—if I were doing actual book writing and not the penny-ante shit that makes up the bulk of my life.  Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond grateful to have a job.  But I do think it’s the dream of every writer to hole up and focus only on writing.  Of course, most writers have day jobs these days, and that’s nothing new.  Think Wallace Stevens selling insurance of Wm. Carlos Wms. being a doctor.  We can’t all be Steven Kings or Barbara Kingsolvers, who actually make a living at writing.

Of course, I also wonder if I really have the temperament to be a dedicated writer who deserves a writing cottage.  I think of poets like Ted Kooser, who gets up at 4 a.m. every morning, writes for 4 hours, then eats breakfast, and he’s already put in half a day.  (And then, like Stevens, he worked in insurance in his younger life.)  I am comatose at 4 a.m. Hell, I’m barely awake when I roll out of bed at 6. My point is if I had the writing cottage, could I genuinely say that I would have the writing stamina to maintain a consistent practice?  I wonder.

I’ve tried writing every day—it’s what I tell my students to do—but I’m not very good at it.  I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll say it again, but the only way to build a writing practice is to write every day—and not wait for “the muse” to strike haphazardly, but to actively go out and court that bitch and make her show up for you.

I do think she might be more willing to show up, though, if I had a cute little cottage somewhere in the Highlands.  I could offer her some tea and cakes, and she could keep me company as I knocked out poetry book after poetry book….

Missing Dad

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It’s the end of the year which means it’s time to ruminate.  I was thinking about—well, a number of things—but especially what it’s like to lose a parent—especially one for whom your past together was complicated.  Now that Dad has been gone a whole month, I’m beginning to feel sad about it.  When he first passed, I think I was so relieved for him, that he was that off those machines and out of pain and not in a drug-induced haze anymore, that I didn’t really feel the loss personally.  But now it being the first Christmas without him, I’m super melancholy.

There are traditions you have at Christmas time, even when you’re not close.  Dad always sent us Swarovski crystal stars, for instance, and usually a sentimental Christmas card.  We’d talk on the phone and he’d tell me what his wife made for dinner or he’d tell me how they went out to see some dumb movie he disliked.  And he’d give me the report on all the animals.  The conversations were pretty similar every year, but you grow to count on such things.

I was feeling it when I was home for my annual visit to Shreveport earlier in December.  Usually he and I would get together a few times for lunch and maybe a movie.  They were never long visits, but they were nice.  We’d discuss politics and the anti-Trump videos he watched, or we’d talk about books we read.  Sometimes he’d ask how my writing was going. I suppose I had noticed last December that he was moving more slowly than he had used to, and he’d talk about some of his ailments, but he never seemed like he shared a litany of “old man troubles.”  He was, simply, my Dad and I accepted him and loved him for whom he became in his later years.

That’s not to discount all of the absolute misery in our lives that he and his wife contributed to.  Now they are both dead, I can be honest and admit that my sister and I were victims of their child abuse, all the way through high school.  I don’t want to go into it—it doesn’t serve a purpose—but I share this detail about my life because while I can appreciate who he ended up as—someone with whom I was friendly and cared for—it doesn’t erase the bitterness of my childhood and teen years.  It doesn’t make up for the probably tens of thousands of dollars I’ve spent on therapy and medications for depression and anxiety ever since.  It doesn’t make up for the loss of the absolute sun in my life that my Dad was for me when I was very young. They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, and I have no interest in laying bare my grievances, but I keep remembering I’m conflicted—even as I feel sad and miss him—and that’s really ok. I can’t put on rose-colored glasses and forget how his neglect and his condoning her abuse made life hell.

But humans are complex, aren’t they? And I can focus on his misdeeds and continue to be miserable, or I can forgive him for his failings as a father, and just be glad for the good years, for me up to age 10 and the 2010s onward. That’s probably the healthy way to approach it. And for all I know, I may not have been a picnic for some of those years (but I wasn’t the adult in that situation).

Anyway, so many people have expressed their condolences, and I am grateful for them. He lived kind of an amazing life—he was so talented in art, electronics, medicine, gardening, music—and he was brilliant, and well-beloved as a doctor.  So people’s sympathy is warranted (and appreciated) because a life like his should be remembered, even celebrated. (My sister wrote a beautiful eulogy for him that had to have moved everyone who heard it.)

When people ask me how I’m doing, I say I’m ok, and I mean it. I’m sad, as I mentioned, but I’m not beset with grief to the point that I’m incapacitated. I believe if he’s not in heaven yet, he’s heaven-bound. God says what we forgive on Earth is forgiven in Heaven, and I can say with a true, full heart, I forgive him. People don’t deserve forgiveness, but when we give it, we make loose the chains on our own hearts, and it allows us to be lighter and happier. And that’s what I really want—to be peaceful and unburdened from pains from the past.

I have a few mementos from him—photos and such—and they fill me with warmth when I look at him in his heyday.  Here’s a photo of him from 1968 with his hair done up in flowers most likely by his sisters.  He looks so cute, doesn’t he?

Dispatch from Edinburgh #5–Afternoon Tea

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The Georgian restaurant at Harrods

In the U.K., Afternoon Tea (don’t call it High Tea!) has been elevated to an art form.  It is not merely drinking a pot of tea and eating some cakes—but rather enjoying an experience of delicacies accompanied by tea and served on beautiful china with bright, shimmering silverwear. Loose tea wades in a silver teapot, just waiting to be poured through a silver sieve into a cup. A bowl of sugar cubes (white and brown) is overflowing, and on the side are tiny silver tongs with which to retrieve and drop sugar into the teacup. Then comes a tier of plates laden with sweets and sandwiches and scones just waiting for clotted cream and jam.  One leaves Afternoon Tea stuffed to the gills, but happy and satisfied, and feeling a little like a lady of the ton in a Regency novel.

This summer, I partook of Afternoon Tea three times for lunch—once at The Georgian restaurant at Harrods in London (it took me forever to find the place in the department store–that store is labyrinthine!), sparkling with crystal and soft light, once at The Willow Tea Rooms with a view of Edinburgh Castle, and once at Prestonfield House, also in Edinburgh.

Harrods was the most elaborate of the three, with an individually-assigned waiter who took care of my every need.  His name was Dennis, and he was born in Australia but raised in Italy. With every delivery of treats (all vegan), Dennis explained what each item was and encouraged me to try everything.  The tea he suggested was Harrods own special blend—a black tea combination of Sri Lankan, Assam, and Darjeeling with hints of spice like star anise. Combined with milk and sugar, the tea was smooth and bright and I drank two huge pots of it.

I took a bite out of the grape-and-carrot sandwich before I remembered to take a photo. Oopsie!

The first course was the finger sandwiches, which included a Grape and Carrot sandwich, a Cucumber sandwich, a Button Mushroom Savory Praline sandwich, and a Cheese and Caramelized Onion Tart. My favorite will always be the Cucumber and cream cheese, but the nutty, earthy taste of the Button Mushroom sandwich was very good as well. Dennis offered me a second plate of sandwiches (minus the tart; I could have gotten another for £5 but I didn’t want it that bad), which I heartily enjoyed.  Following that came the plain and fruit (sultanas or currents, not sure which) scones, with Madagascan Vanilla Oat Chantilly (vegan clotted cream) and a selection of four jams—apricot, strawberry, blackberry, and cherry, each in little ramekins with a silver spoon.  I worked my way through the jams, a different flavor for each bite, though the strawberry was particularly fine.  Apparently I did not eat enough of the blackberry, because Dennis seemed disappointed that there was so much of the jam left.

Desserts and scones

Next came four sweet treats:  a Chocolate Calisson, which was a chocolate cake with chocolate cream mousse, and a yuzu center, which is a kind of hot pepper; an English Strawberry and Elderflower Tart; a Matcha Sphere, which had matcha mousse and cake, with a bit of strawberry sauce and real gold leaf; and an Apricot and Thyme baba (a kind of soaked cake) with white chocolate.  Of course, things are brought out very slowly, so that presentation is front and center—at Harrods, one is overwhelmed with service and luxury, and given time to appreciate each bite.  When I left Harrods, I was quite full and delighted.  I only wished I had had someone with me to enjoy the meal with.

Willow Tea Rooms

I tried the Willow Tea Rooms across from the Castle on the recommendation of my students who went there to satisfy one of their “cultural experience” assignments for me. All four of the young ladies gushed over the presentation and the food, and I thought I would give it a try too.  It was about a quarter of the price of Harrods, but the tablecloths were a pristine white, and service was nice enough.  The large room accommodated many tables, but mine was tucked in a corner, across from a lady eating a bowl of soup and a cheese scone, and reading something heavy and Russian, maybe Anna Karenina. The design of the chairs was Art Deco, with black backs much taller than the person sitting in the chairs, and the logo printed on the napkins was like an Art Deco window with a rose on it and dark black lines mimicking the chairbacks.

I chose the classic Afternoon Tea, which came with four dainty sandwiches—Egg Mayo (otherwise known as Egg Salad), Scottish Salmon and cream cheese (I don’t think I’ll ever like cold salmon), Cucumber and cream cheese (again, my favorite), and Ham and butter (I did not eat the ham).  These arrived on a tier with a fruit scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream, and a nice slice of carrot cake with a vanilla buttercream frosting. I was not particularly adventurous with the tea—I just enjoyed a pot of peppermint, which was lighter on a hot day than a typical black tea would have been. The carrot cake was really the star of the show—while not as good as the kind I make, it had a lovely, spicy taste replete with carrots, and the sponge was soft but firm.

A sleepy Heilan coo!

View of Prestonfield House from the gardens

The final Afternoon Tea room I discovered by accident. One of my Facebook peeps mentioned they were in Edinburgh and had taken pictures of the tier of treats, and I was immediately drawn to it and the background of the room.  She told me about Prestonfield House, and I made my reservation for the last Friday before I left. I arrived about half an hour early, so I wandered the beautiful grounds on the lee side of Arthur’s Seat (the extinct volcano in the east side of Edinburgh), while I waited. The current Prestonfield House dates from the 1600s, but apparently way back in the 14th century it was an abbey. On the grounds live Heilan Coos, a peacock in a tree, and a rather scraggly black cat whom the major domo told me was “a bit of a hellion.”  The cat seemed perfectly nice to me, but as I was calling to it, the House’s flower arranger also called to it, and the cat, demonstrating utter disdain for me, zipped over to the flower arranger.  I don’t think that qualifies as hellion status, but it certainly betrays a bit of poor decision making, as I would have been happy to love on him.

As for the Afternoon Tea, how could it be anything but lovely? The room where I was led bore heavy, red and ochre damask wallpaper and velvet curtains, and paintings on the wall of previous owners of the house, plus two big bouquets of purple hydrangeas in the center of the room. Every table sparkled with multiple forks and knives, and more glasses than one person would actually need to drink with.

Prestonfield House prides itself on its exceptional service, and its service was, indeed, out of this world.  Not only did they seat me at a wonderful table (though, to be fair, all of them looked nice) with comfy bench seating, one of the servers actually put my napkin on my lap as she took my tea order.  I had thought about getting the Evening Chai, but then I noticed something called Black Fig Sencha, with aromas of forest fruits and fig. It was a green tea, or perhaps a white tea, which smelled like Christmas. Its delicate flavor was a little on the weak side for my taste, but it was plenty good with sugar in it.

A cool spach

The “water bearer” came out next and poured a glass of sparkling water into my water glass, and left the bottle.  So I had both water and tea to drink.  Then a third server brought out an espresso cup full of gazpacho for an amuse bouche, and believe me, my bouche was suitably amused to be drinking a cold tomato salsa. I sipped it slowly—it was very good—but had to smile when this Goth Girl at another table got hers.  She took one sip, wore a look on her face that was half horror and half disgust, and she put her espresso cup down with a thump. I did not see her girlfriend’s expression, and wondered if it had been the same.

Prestonfield tower o’ treats

After a while, the tower of treats came out.  First was a plate of savory crackers, one with English pea, mint, and marigold (interesting, but not my favorite); one with cream cheese and tomato on a little oat cake; and the third a whipped applewood cheese on cranberry toast with a bit of apricot (the cheese part was whipped but didn’t taste very cheddary).  All were tiny, no bigger than half a thumb, but they were pleasant to eat.  On the bottom tier were four sandwiches:  Avocado and Tomato; Corned Jackfruit and Pineapple Chutney (I didn’t really taste the pineapple but the jackfruit was interesting); Egg with Caesar Mayonnaise; and a Roasted Red Pepper and Hummus on half-a-roll.

Prestonfield desserts

But wait, there’s more!  A fruit scone and a butter scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream awaited me.  Both were dusted with turbinado sugar, and the clotted cream was almost the consistency of butter. But by then I was starting to feel full, having drunk a wine bottle full of sparkling water, plus two silver pots of tea, plus eating the sandwiches and savories.  How, I wondered, could I possibly eat anything else?

Too much chocolate for me; it rather overpowered the rose.

I was afraid that asking for a to-go box would be déclassé, but when I asked for a box, the server didn’t bat an eye.  I did try two of the desserts—a raspberry and dark chocolate rose cake (which was almost too chocolatey), and an apricot and pistachio macaron.  That left a coconut, pineapple, and ginger mousse sphere and a strawberry tart with black pepper (!).  But I packed up the scones and the clotted cream and the jam, and the two desserts I couldn’t finish.

Once I was done eating, the manager came by to tell me the history of Prestonfield House and he also remarked on the box of sweets I was taking home.  I told him I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, but everything was divine.  He looked as pleased with this remark as if he had created the feast himself.  And everyone else I passed as I made my way to the front of the hotel was charming and pleasant, and made me feel like I was someone famous and important, the way they fell over themselves to wish me well.

Of the three Afternoon Teas, I think I liked Prestonfield House the best. It was elegant and cozy.  Harrods was perhaps a little finer on the food, but I just felt more comfortable at Prestonfield House. For one thing, I wasn’t ragged and sweating like I had been when I was walking in London and suffering a bum foot. Instead, I had taken an Uber to Prestonfield House, and I was perfectly put together (though still with a bum foot). The Willow Tea Rooms was nice, but not in the same class as Harrods or Prestonfield House—it was more of your “everyday” Afternoon Tea, whereas the other two promise special occasions. I think Prestonfield House felt like I could belong there, where The Georgian at Harrods seemed more like a place you would go to be seen.

The only thing that would have made all three of these Afternoon Teas better would have been if you were there with me.  Maybe next time!

Entrance into Prestonfield House

A brown Heilan Coo placidly getting rained on

Teapot at Prestonfield House

Strawberry-pepper tart

Prestonfield sandwiches, with the Pineapple Jackfruit one on the right.

Another view of the Rhubarb Room

So many glasses!

Pineapple-coconut-ginger mousse ball

Pistachio macaron

The Peacock in a tree!

Harrods matcha ball

Harrods Apricot-Thyme tart

Harrods Chandelier

Harrods chocolate mousse cake

A view of Edinburgh Castle from Willow Tea Rooms, with an ugly lamp post with a seagull on it directly in front

Savory crackers at Prestonfield House

 

Dispatch from Edinburgh #4–Islay and the Whisky Coast

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Three years ago, I went on a Speyside whisky tour—it was the first time I had ever tasted whisky, and I was a total n00b about it.  But after the tour, I realized that I liked whisky and could see drinking it on occasion—especially on a cold, dreary night that would remind me of Scotland.  I realized too that I didn’t like peated whisky, because the smoky flavor reminded me too much of lapsang souchon tea which to my mind, is an abomination in the tea world.  So I knew going on a tour to Islay (pronounced EYE-lah) and the whisky coast would be problematic—because all of the distilleries over there produce peated whiskies.  I was prepared not to like anything. But that’s not what happened, fortunately.

We started our tour by driving west and a bit north, through the Trossachs and past Loch Lomond.  We stopped in Callender, which is little more than a high street but is known to be the “Gateway to the Highlands” since it is just south of the dividing line between the Lowlands and the Highlands. I bought an airy loaf of cheddar jalapeño bread at Mohr, a local bakery, for a snack, but then we were off again.  The West Highlands are are not nearly as dramatic as the eastern Highlands, but they are still quite beautiful, and while I had traveled the roads through them before, I was still glad to be able to see them again.

View from Oban harbor

Norries fish and chips…mmm

We stopped for lunch in Oban (“Gateway to the Isles”), which is a little sea resort town I’ve been to before, back when I went to the Isle of Mull (I think).  Anyway, I went to Nories for fish and chips and then walked along the streets to visit the Oban Chocolate Company, which I remembered from the last time I was in Oban—it was packed with people getting coffees and hot chocolates and candy bars.  I picked out a few truffles including a dark passionfruit crème, a chili “chuffle,” a ginger ganache cup, a whisky truffle, and a toffee orange truffle, which I saved for later. Then I walked to the harbor and took some pictures. There were people playing with their dogs on the beach, but it was rather cold to my mind and I wondered what is it about dogs that they love to go into water—especially freezing water!

Kilmartin grave stone

The bus picked us back up and then we continued on to Kilmartin Glen to look at some standing stones and to take a rather long walk to see some cairns.  Somehow I don’t have any pictures of this; I’m not sure why—it’s not like me.  Maybe something happened with the camera.  But they were fine, as far as standing stones go—they were sort of in the middle of a field so I had to be careful of sheep pellets.  But I enjoyed the walk, even though my foot was hurting.  Still I was glad to get back on the bus.  Later we stopped at a little church in Kilmartin with gravestones from the 1300s-1500s, whose carvings were faint now, but still cool.  And then we headed down to Kennacraig so we could board the ferry.  It was a long ferry ride (and damp, so damp)—maybe two hours—but as always I remained outside to take in the air, hoping to see some whales or dolphins.  (I saw neither.)

When we arrived in Bowmore, I was ready to get to our residence—it turned out to be a kind of cottage attached to the Bowmore distillery (est. 1779) called the Old Bakery.  Everyone else (I didn’t get their names)—the Norwegians, the Brazillian, the the New Yorkers, the very friendly Japanese couple, and the father and son from Maine—gathered in the dining room to chat after dinner, but I was ready to get into bed, even though it was pretty early.  Still, I went over to the Co-Op to get some cheese and crackers for dinner (since I hadn’t made any dinner reservations), and a two-liter of Coke Zero to make sure I got my caffeine over the next few days. Then I settled in for the night, enjoying my black-out curtains (which I don’t have at my place in Edinburgh), and I slept well, even though I was in a tiny twin bed.

A Bowmore dram, bourbon cask

After breakfast the next day, we all walked over to the Bowmore distillery for our tour. I knew what to expect, because I’d been to distilleries before obviously, but it was interesting because we actually got to see the barley on the malting floor (where the barley begins to germinate).  That was new to me. The tour guide encouraged us to touch it, and he didn’t seem to mind walking on the barley (which I did not do—because, hello, shoes aren’t clean!).  He took us to see the wash backs, the mash tun, and the stills, and then to a room where the casks were stored where we enjoyed a taste of whiskies.  We tried the 2012 Bourbon Cask whisky first, with a 53.5% alcohol content, and it was dark amber and pretty peaty.  Next we tried the 2010 Oloroso Sherry Cask, with a 54.6% alcohol content.  Then we went into the bar where they gave us another whisky (although I didn’t see the bottle), as well as pairing chocolate, and a tiny dram of Bowmore 18 year to take with us.

Kilchoman spirit

Draff cart

Our next distillery was Kilchoman, which has only been in operation for 20 years because the proprietor just apparently decided he was going to start a distillery.  We got to see the same kind of operation, but it was cool that the proprietor himself gave us the tour, and we had whisky tastings at various stops throughout.  We even had a nosing glass on a lanyard to drink from, which was very convenient.  One of the things we got to try was “spirit”—that is, un-aged liquor right from the still. And it was delicious—super sweet, basically it was alcoholic sugar water (63.5%). It’s the aging that makes it whisky.  But it was definitely interesting to drink.  And one of the things we learned there is that nothing goes to waste.  After the barley is used for the whisky, it’s still usable; it still has proteins and nutrition, so there’s a conveyor belt which moves the barley into a large cart, and then the barley, called “draff,” is sold as animal feed.  I don’t believe they charge a lot for the draff—in a way, it’s a chance for the distillery to give back to the farmers who live on Islay and who help raise the barley.

The Johnny Walker dude

After Kilchoman, we went to Caol Ila (pronounced Cull-EE-lah), on the east coast of Islay, owned by Johnny Walker (like Cardhu in Moray, Scotland, is a Johnny Walker distillery) which was just a whisky stop (I just got a Diet Coke because after five or six drams, I was pretty pickled already). The driver, Robbie, was very kind and because I was walking with my cane, he said he’d meet us down below in the disabled parking area to get us after our visit to the distillery.  Everyone except the Brazillian met up there.  Apparently, he hadn’t heard that we were going to meet there.  We saw him walking on the long path upward, so Robbie said we’ll just get him at the top of the path.  But in the interim, the Brazillian thought, I’ll go down and meet them.  So we were up at the top waiting for him, and he was down at the bottom waiting for us.  So we drove back down to the bottom but the Brazilian walked back up to the top.  It was some Keystone Cops hilarity happening. We must have done this dance a couple more times, and I said to the tour group, we’d lost him to the Angel’s Share, which made everyone laugh.  (The Angel’s Share is how much whisky evaporates each year that a whisky is in the cask.) Finally, Robbie walked down by himself and got the Brazilian.  It was pretty funny, this back-and-forthing—although I suppose it loses something in the translation.

Then we went to Bunnahabhain (pronounced Bunna-HAY-ven) for a whisky tasting—these were unpeated whiskies (2022 Abhain Araig, 2012 Olorosso Bott, and something that looks like Toiteach a Dila; it’s handwritten, not very clearly, although the 46.3% notation was clear), and they were very nice.  I took a taste, but I didn’t drink them up because I would have collapsed on the floor. I wanted to buy a bottle for C, but then I remembered two things:  1) he wanted a peated whisky and 2) how the hell would I get a bottle home?  Anyway, I didn’t buy one—and they were crazy expensive anyway—like £79 for a tiny bottle.

Seriously, they look like boobs. (Jura island)

Across from the distillery was the isolated island of Jura (only 300 inhabitants), which, in my mind looked like a couple of boobs (what can I say, maybe I’m a 12-year old boy) instead of mountains. It was a lovely day, especially compared to the day before which was so wet and dreich.  I found myself after the tasting just looking out on the water and the beach and enjoying the fresh sea air.

Kildalton High Cross

The next day, we hit up three more distilleries. But before we did that, we stopped at the Kildalton High Cross, which was carved in the 700’s, and according to the sign is “one of the finest and most complete early Christian crosses in Scotland.” It’s a tall Celtic cross, maybe twice as tall as a person, and it’s next to the roofless ruins of a church.  It’s beautiful, and the carvings are in great shape, not worn smooth at all.  There was a little donation box asking for money so I dropped in a pound, and a sign saying to leave the gate shut to keep out the sheep.  But obviously someone had left it open recently, due to all the fresh sheep pellets in the grass.

After that little diversion, we were off to Ardbeg distillery, on the south coast of Islay. Our tour guide was this snarky Gen-Z-er who was very knowledgeable about the whisky process, and her name was Jura, after the island. Taking guests on tours was her summer job, she told me, as she was attending a university on the mainland (I think).  The whisky was good, but I thought Kilchoman was better.  There was a walk to some old ruins, but my foot was killing me, so I just sat in the peaty grass for a while and took a little walk towards the cliffs.  Next door was Lagavulin distillery, and we stopped in for a bar visit.  I was parched, and got both a sparkling water and a pink fancy passionfruit whisky cocktail that was delicious but maybe not worth £8.  The Norwegian men got a flight to share—it was like a top tier flight because it wound up being over £120, and they didn’t blink an eye.  Granted they got some snacks too and cocktails for their wives, but still it was an impressive amount of money to drop for five drams of whisky.

Laphroaig sea sign–it’s big so ships delivering barley can see it in the mist.

The last stop was Laphroaig (pronounced La-FROYG); the New Yorkers were looking especially forward to going there, as it’s the husband’s favorite whisky brand.  Laphroaig began in 1815 when the sons of a farmer decided to make whisky on the Campbell estate.  What was interesting was that one of the brothers emigrated to Australia, and the other brother drowned in a vat of burnt ale. (I’m not sure how you burn ale, but that’s what the sign said.) His son inherited the distillery at age 11, but since he was underage, the manager of the Lagavulin distillery ran it.  But when the son had grown, he ran it until his death.  Thus was the early history of Laphroaig. But another cool fact about the whisky was that during American Prohibition, the Feds were persuaded that Laphroaig was medicinal, so people could totally buy it and drink it.

The Laphroaig flagship whisky–the one to try!

After our tour, the guide let us choose 3 among 7 different whiskies to try.  My choices included the 10 year Cask Strength, the 10 year Sherry Oak Finish, and the quintessential 10 year aged in ex-bourbon barrels, the Laphroaig flagship whisky. The regular 10 year was pretty good; I didn’t care for the Sherry finish, which is surprising, since I usually appreciate the sweetness of sherry cask whiskies.

Islay is lovely, like all of Scotland, but there’s not much here besides sheep and distilleries. I was glad I went, and glad I could try so many different drams, but I think I was a little disappointed overall.  I really had hoped that somehow, Stewart, the tour guide on the Speyside trail a couple of years ago, could have been our guide this time—that would have been magic.  He really enjoyed whisky, and I didn’t get the feeling that Robbie cared one way or the other.  I also felt like for Robbie, this was just a tour, whereas for Stewart, whisky was a passion, and making people love whisky was also a passion. But you can’t pick your tour guides, and it was nice to see a new part of Scotland. And it was nice to find out that peated whiskies are good too; I guess they are an acquired taste. Which I acquired.

The Kilmartin church

Kilmartin church

Kildalton church–I really like the composition here.

Kilmartin church

Kildalton church

Old gravestones at Kilmartin church

Lagavulin distillery

More old graves at Kilmartin

More graves at Kilmartin. I don’t know why I took so many pics of them.

These really old graves from the 1300s were in a protected shed.

Kildalton church

Laphroaig cask strength–it was pretty strong.

On the ferry

Caol Ila whiskies. I stayed away because I would have been drunk off my ass.

Kildalton High Cross… with people for scale.

Kildalton Cross with the Norwegians

The malting floor at Laphroaig

This pic reminds me of the end of Indiana Jones, where the Ark gets put in with thousands of other boxes. There were 100s of barrels here.

Me on the CalMac ferry

Oban harbor

Oban harbor

I feel like my Dad would like this pic of the Oban harbor. That dark sky meant some serious rain.

Oban harbor

Oban harbor

Oban harbor ramp

Old castle ruins near Lagavulin distillery

Hotel on the Oban harbor high street

Laphroaig peat oven–it was surprisingly small.

Bowmore mill–the mills across Islay were all made by the same manufacturer, and so hardy that they’ve lasted over 150 years.  They never break down, and the company went out of business because they never had to repair the mills!

Bowmore wash back (where the barley water ferments)

Get these mountains a bra, for heaven’s sake.

On the way home we stopped at the “Rest and Be Well” glen.

In Inverary, on the way home, I had lunch at the George Hotel. It was mediocre.

The 3 flags flying over Laphroaig–yes, Japan has a big interest in the distillery.

The different grain sizes once they go through the mill

Bowmore guide next to a peat pile

Bowmore mash tun (where the malt gets mashed)

Kilchoman stills

Dispatch from Edinburgh #3–CATS!!!!

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The only cat cafe in Scotland (I think)

One of the real privations of spending the summer in Edinburgh is the lack of cats.  I desperately miss my cats back home, but I just miss cats in general.  Since Edinburgh is a city with lots of traffic, people (fortunately) don’t seem to let their cats out of doors (maybe in the suburbs, but not in the city).  Though I did see a white cat with orange spots at the house across the street, but only a flash of it, as it disappeared into the garden and I haven’t seen it since.  The only other cat I’ve seen is Turret, in the Highlands, at the distillery.  Aside from those two, Edinburgh is a dry county when it comes to cats.

Or so I thought.  Last week, my ears pricked up at the faculty dinner when someone mentioned something about a cat café.  So I looked up online and sure enough, Edinburgh has a cat café called Maison de Moggy, and I was determined to go.

For £12 you can go to Maison de Moggy and pet and play with cats for a full hour.  You can also get a snack, and I chose a strawberry lemonade and a slice of carrot cake—but I was there to pet some cats. And pet them I did.

Fleur the Oriental Shorthair and Sebastian (?) the Norwegian Forest Cat

All of the cats were young—I don’t think any were older than a year.  They cavorted and chased after feather wands and jumped on tables and sat on chairs.  A few of them were sleepy and snoozed where they dropped, and no amount of petting could rouse them.  (I did not pet snoozing cats—that’s rude.)

At the table next to mine, a couple had ordered fancy hot chocolates with whipped cream and sprinkles, but they were off playing with some cats when their drinks were delivered. A grey Oriental Shorthair named Fleur saw it as her moment to get on the table and lick some whipped cream. Unfortunately for Fleur, the “cat nanny” who had dropped off the drinks saw what she was about and scooched her off the table. But not for long!  When the couple sat down to drink their hot chocolate, Fleur reappeared and did her best to look deprived and starved, but the couple wasn’t fooled.  So the cat just sat there, hoping, and looking very pathetic.  But also, sleek and beautiful, as all Oriental Shorthairs are.

Maude, Fleur’s sister

There were four pairs of sibling cats—the two Oriental Shorthairs, with Maude the chocolate cat being Fleur’s sister, two Ragdolls, two Norwegian Forest Cats, and two British Short Hairs.  The brown tabby Norwegian (whose name I didn’t get but I think might be Sebastian) let me dangle a feather wand at him, and he caught his little “birdie” a few times.  I almost got to pet his brother Nico, but this little 10 year old child just wouldn’t let me—she just had to get all the cats to herself.  (She kind of chased after them which was bad, flicking her feather wand at them, even when they couldn’t care less.)  I also got to play with one of the Ragdolls (until that little girl chased after the cat into the other room).

I mostly spent time with Fleur because she seemed to appreciate my calm, and my unwillingness to throw the feather wand feather in her face.  She let me pet her, which was nice.  She was very sweet and rather vocal.

Sebastian (?) playing with the cat wand

Gilbert the British Shorthair

I can’t say that my cat needs have been completely assuaged, but I feel less cat-missing and cat-lonely than I was before I went.  Maison de Moggy is in the Grassmarket part of Edinburgh, and it’s a little hidden, so if you go, make sure you pass the Women’s Hostel—it’s kind of—err—cattycorner to the Maison. Meow!

Sleepy kitty whose name begins with D

The other Ragdoll cat who was thinking about jumping onto my table

Bartholo–MEW!

A view of Edinburgh Castle from the Grassmarket

The famous Greyfriars Bobby statue (not a cat, obvs.) on the descent into the Grassmarket.

Dispatch from Edinburgh #2–Wet and Wild

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Saturday the 14th was a soggy mess.  All of Edinburgh had as many puddles as umbrellas and lots of damp, sour faces.  But not mine.  I thrive in the rain. I had lined up the Scottish Highlands Sail, Bike, or Trail Experience (all new for 2025), which would take me to see Loch Katrine, a place I have not been before. What?  A place in the Highlands I have not yet seen?  Could this be true? It was!

Surprisingly, I had the tour to myself.  There were two other folks registered, but they canceled—probably because of the weather.  That suited me just fine, because it gave me the chance to pick any seat on the bus I wanted, window or aisle.  Also it was nice not to have to wait on stragglers who come to the bus late from outings.  And also, I think it spoiled me a little, which was nice.

The Forth Rail Bridge in the rain

The tour began with a close-up of the red Forth Bridge that I had only seen from a distance before.  The misty, dreich weather only enhanced its beauty, making it easy to imagine that I’d gone back in time and was seeing the bridge for the first time. There used to be a ferry from this point in South Queensferry over to Fife, to allow the pilgrims in St. Margaret’s time to travel (early 11th century; in fact, St. Margaret was the one who made the ferry free).  But now there’s only this rail bridge, an icon of the late 19th century, considered one of Scotland’s greatest man-made wonders.  Of course there are other bridges nearby, the 1964 bridge and the 2017 suspension bridge, but it’s the 1890 Forth bridge that has the allure and history, and is a World Heritage site.

The beauty of having a tour to oneself is that the tour guide can dispense with some of the cheesy patter and really only tell you things you want to know.  I think it helped that I mentioned I’ve been on about a dozen Rabbie’s tours over the years and could practically tell all the Scottish jokes and history right along with the tour guide.  He appreciated this comment, because he told me more tailored stories and we could talk about the sights with more depth.  For instance, we talked about the making of the Kelpies and why they were situated on the little river where they stay (because that area was known for its iron works), and they were based on the Clydesdale horses that pulled the wagons that held the iron. He told me about the legend of the Kelpies too, but I already knew it.  (In case you don’t know the Kelpies legend, they were demon horses that came out of the sea, so beautiful that anyone on the beach would feel compelled to touch or ride the horse.  But, beware! As soon as one touched the horse, one would be stuck fast, and the horse would return to the water, dragging the hapless victim to his or her death.)

Gentle Heilan Coo!

We drove along the motor way, with yellow weather warnings periodically showing up on the signs alerting us to heavy rain (as if we couldn’t tell), but then we turned off onto two-lane roads and started our climb toward the mountains.  Because there was only me, he made a surprise extra stop at a woolen mill where some Heilan Coos waited patiently in the rain for photos and food.  For a £1 you could purchase a bag of carrots, raw potato, and other goodies for the cows, and they would take the food right from your hand with a wet sweep of their huge black tongues.  I am sure they are used to standing in the rain, bedraggled and sad-looking, but I felt a little bad for the cows.  They liked the veggies though and I was delighted to give them to the cows.

Misty Loch Katrine

Our next stop was Loch Katrine, a huge reservoir that serves Glasgow for its water needs. The loch was deep in the Highlands somewhere, up a twisty, windy road that was so narrow the tour guide asked me not to speak to him so he could concentrate on the drive.  I was glad that I wasn’t the one driving—some of the turns were hairpin, and almost 90 degrees at points. Maybe on a day it wasn’t raining like hell, the road would be less treacherous, but it felt pretty scary and I thought he took the drive too quickly.  But we arrived more or less in one piece, though I was a bit frazzled.

The Sir Walter Scott… if you look close you can see the rain

Had it not been raining, I might have done some walking along the trails that led away from the boat launch.  There was a walk that went past some yurts that I was interested in looking at, but I really just wanted to get out of the rain.  I got lunch in the little café—to-mah-to pepper soup and an egg salad sandwich on wheat, which was more lettuce than anything else. The boat ride wasn’t until one, so after lunch I called Mom on the area’s sketchy wifi to catch up with her. (She was fine.)  The boat ride was on the Sir Walter Scott, a steam engine boat celebrating its 125th anniversary.  There were 41 passengers for our boat ride, but I was amazed to hear that back in the day, even up to the 1950s, the ship carried up to 500 people.  I can’t imagine how 500 people could fit on the ship—we were cozy at 41.  The Captain made a joke that people are “wider” now and so it would be a lot harder to fit 500 on the deck. What he didn’t say was where the 500 people would be going.

Another misty view of Loch Katrine

The rain pelted down and the deck was damp and cold but the ride itself was pleasant—the mountains were hiding in low clouds, and the loch splashed and wavered as the boat steamed its way through it. The Captain was full of cheery chat, among which included the fact that no sheep graze in the mountains surrounding the loch because diseased sheep made runoff into the loch, and poisoned the water…not so good for Glasgow.

Turret the Cat

Towser the Mouser

Eventually the rain subsided somewhat as we turned around to get to the boat launch. I returned to the coach and we made our way to the last stop, Glenturret, apparently the oldest Scottish distillery, in Perthshire.  They don’t have an assured date, but they settled on 1763 based on archival research and a land deed.  Glenturret was unique because they have distillery cats, Glen (shy; I didn’t see him) and Turret (quite gregarious and affectionate).  A monument to Towser, the Guiness Book of World’s Record winning mouser, stands right as you are walking up a rise to go into the distillery.  Towser caught almost 29,000 mice in her lifetime.  Glenturret doesn’t have the mice problem it used to with the barley, so the cats are mainly decorative at this point, but I liked that they were there.

The smooth 7 Year

As for the whisky, I tried a dram of their Triple Wood whisky and their 7 year lightly peated whisky, which I liked very much, better than the Triple Wood, which I found a little harsh on the palate, even with its buttery notes.  The distillery tour guide told me that they are phasing out the peated whiskies because they were never but 10% of their business. I think part of that is the recognition that peat is a basically unrenewable resource—but sustainability aside, probably phasing out the peated whiskies mostly has to do with the fact that it doesn’t make money for Glenturret.  Another interesting thing about Glenturret is that it is half-owned by the Swiss company who also owns Lalique art glass.  I had noticed all the fancy glass bottles and the Lalique markers, and wondered.  The bottles are beautiful for sure. I would have liked to have checked out the Lalique Boutique but I didn’t have time.  Still, seeing the Lalique bottles for the special whiskies was impressive.  (So was the cost!)  Even though it wasn’t an arduous tour, I was tired by the time we came back to Edinburgh.  I think all the tramping in the rain did me in.

The Cacao Jungle Room at the Chocolatarium

The next day I went to the Edinburgh Chocolatarium, a little hidden hole-in-the-wall chocolate shop off the Royal Mile.  For £29, we could hear the history of cacao and chocolate making, taste several “flights” of chocolate from exotic places like Belize, San Tome, Colombia, and Ecuador, and make our own chocolate bar (mine was milk chocolate with candied ginger and candied orange rind). We drank a hot liquid chocolate made with oat milk that was so thick you could have spread it on a biscuit, as well as tried an Aztec chocolate drink that was made of cacao nibs (basically a macerated cacao bean), honey, water, and hot pepper.  It was as bad as you can imagine. Very gritty, and not very chocolatey.  And for this, they sacrificed 40 people a year to honor the gods who gave chocolate to the world—and 40 because there are an average of 40 beans inside a cacao pod, and 40 pods on a cacao tree.

Our Chocolatarium tour guide making the heinous Aztec drink

After we drank the weird Aztec drink, we could try as many bits of chocolate as we wanted.  I had a flight of four—lemon poppyseed white chocolate, Vienna coffee chocolate, Cornish sea salt and lime, and Carrot Cake infused chocolate, and by then I was chocolated out.  A girl of maybe 11 or 12 tried over 20.  She never sat down.  (We were supposed to retrieve the chocolate from the jars, then bring four at a time to our seats.)  Not her though.  She just ate them straight out of the jars. She was a serious connoisseur—but I was surprised her mom didn’t tell her to quit grazing and settle down and let other people try some samples.  At the end, we picked up our chocolates and were led back into the store.  I would have been tempted to buy a bar of the lemon poppyseed, but the £6.50 pricetag stayed my hand.

Lunch at the World’s End Pub

Then I somewhat enjoyed lunch at the World’s End Pub, which has been in business since the 1700s, when the wall to Edinburgh ended right beside the pub.  I had made a reservation reluctantly (because really, a reservation for a pub?), but I was glad I did, as they only have about 6 or 7 tables to dine at, and a steady clientele.  I tried their fish and chips, and while it looked very nice on the plate (accompanied by green peas, not at all mushy), it was surprisingly dry and tasteless.  The tartar sauce interested me because it wasn’t like tartar sauce at all—it was creamy like yogurt with something crunchy in it.  Maybe onions.  I am glad I actually went to the World’s End, since it is a tourist trap, but I wouldn’t go again.  The pursuit for Scotland’s best fish and chips continues.

At the end of the weekend I was bushed.  Still not over my cold, I rather wore myself out trying to squeeze all the goodness I could out of the days.  But it was a fun weekend.  I wish you had been there.

Yurts on Loch Katrine

View from South Queensferry

Chocolate flight

One of the toppings I thought about putting into my chocolate bar

A tube of liquid chocolate for the mold

A wee sweet birdie

A view of Holyrood…do you see the plane?

Loch Katrine

No one fell overboard, thank goodness

A pretty flower in the rain

He looks sad, this sweet coo

The wee bird again

The Glenturret mash tun

Boat launch

My candy bar cooling in the mold

Loch Katrine

The two Aussies in the front of the picture talked to me all through lunch at the pub

On the deck of the Sir Walter Scott

A second chocolate flight

Orange rind and ginger for my candy bar

Another sweet coo