My Last Scottish Tour

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I wanted to get in one last tour before I flew back to Atlanta, and had been eyeing the trip to the Ayrshire Coast, featuring Burns country and a trip to Culzean (pronounced “Cul-ayne”) Castle.  But it left from Glasgow, and that extra step—going to Glasgow—is what had prevented me from going on the tour any earlier. Did I really want to get up at the crack of dawn and catch a train?  But I put on my big girl panties and took the express to Glasgow for one last adventure.

I had picked up a sandwich and a pain au chocolat at Sainsbury’s for breakfast and walked to the Buchanan Bus Station and found a seat.  The pigeons were interested, and I can’t help it, I threw bread to them—they’re experts at looking so hungry.  But then they frenzied all around me, stepping on my shoes, flying onto my legs, flying to the garbage bin right at elbow level, trying to cadge some food.  One pigeon even perched on my index finger (until I shook it off) and another flew at my head!  The other people in the waiting area were as amazed (and frightened) as I was. What is it about pigeons that they attract as well as repel?  They are kind of charming, but maybe it’s the old idea that they carry disease. (Gross–I just Googled the diseases pigeons carry.  Why did I do this?)  But I kept feeding them as I waited for the bus to arrive.

And when it arrived, who should be our driver, but good ol’ Stewart! I was so happy to see him yet again, and the feeling was mutual.  The tour was small—there were only seven of us: four people from Australia (two were sisters, though one lives in Berlin), a couple from Aberdeen, and me. We bonded pretty quickly, but then Stewart is good about making everyone feel welcome and comfortable. I knew that it would be a wonderful day.

Whitelee Wind Farm

Our first leg of the journey saw us at the Whitelee Wind Farm, on the Eaglesham Moor, about 9 miles outside of Glasgow.  It was an unexpected stop, but something about all the wind turbines, with their graceful lines, and blowing blades, was compelling to watch.  The wind farm has 215 such turbines, with the capacity of 540 megawatts of power, and it’s the largest on-land wind farm in the UK.  It was a chilly and somewhat drizzly morning, so we all went inside to the coffee shop, and sat and chatted for half an hour over a cup of hot chocolate, until it was time to head out.  I would have liked a little time to visit the wind science museum, but it was also nice just to visit with the other people on the tour.  Sometimes it’s ok to forego museums.

Culzean Castle–I love how this picture came out.

Our next stop was Culzean Castle, home of Clan Kennedy (and later President Eisenhower, who was gifted the top floor), and fortunately, the drizzle had stopped.  The sun even popped out a little, making the Firth of Clyde (which feeds into the Irish Sea and backs up to the castle) seem bluer.  There was a bit of a walk through the woods from where Stewart dropped us off but it was pleasant, and when I got to the castle itself, I took a few moments to look out on the Firth and admire the soft waves.  The castle, which dates from the late 1700s, had a proscribed path to follow for touring, which took us through dining rooms and bedrooms and sitting rooms and even a room decorated entirely with pistols and other weapons—like, thousands of them.  (Turns out it’s the armory.)  Of course, the rooms were finely-appointed, with rich red carpeting and bedspreads, and paintings everywhere, including what I’m sure is a Canaletto painting of Venice.  The castle also had a couple of bedrooms with cradles made to look like small boats.  The kitchen was a bright yellow, and led out to a tiny gift shop where (of course) I bought a guide to the castle.

Outside the castle, I walked through the gardens which were nice, but not overly impressive.  They had a great lawn though, and I could imagine someone setting up lawn tennis there.  People walked their dogs and one family seemed to be fighting and shouting at each other in Portuguese, I thought, never mind that I was sitting on a bench seat and couldn’t help but to listen in. I wondered what they could be arguing about.  It seemed like the father was impatient with his younger son, the same younger son that was being bullied by the elder son.  Their mother was shouting at her husband to quit shouting at the kids (I presumed).  But eventually, they slipped past the wall to the garden and I had peace again.  But I was getting hungry, so I made my way back to the main entrance, where there was a café.

My lunch was comprised of “creamy macaroni cheese” (they don’t say macaroni AND cheese in Scotland, I’ve noticed), chips (fries), and a little salad.  I don’t really understand why you’d serve a starch with a starch side, but the chips and entrée were tasty, and the salad was small but good.  Afterwards, I poked around the gift shop but didn’t see anything that spoke to me, and I met up with the Australian sisters and we chatted some more.  They were eating jellybeans.

Stewart and the others arrived, and we got back on the bus and did a little touring.  We drove past Trump Turnberry Golf Course and gave it a universal Boo! And then we drove on something called the Electric Brae (known locally as “Croy Bray”), a stretch of road that appears to be going uphill, but is actually going downhill. (A “brae” is a slope, declivity, or hillside, according to the dictionary.) Stewart got out some water and demonstrated:  he poured the water on the ground, and it looked as if it were traveling upwards on the ground, instead of downwards. I took a picture of the sign, but for ease of reading, this is what it says (punctuation mine):

“This runs the quarter mile from the bend overlooking Croy Railway Viaduct.  In the west (286 feet above ordinance datum) to the wooded Craigencroy Glen (303 feet AOD) to the east whilst there is this slope of 1 in 86 upwards from the bend to the glen, the configuration of the land on either side of the road provides an optical illusion making it look as if the slope is going the other way.  Therefore, a stationary car on the road with the brakes off will appear to move slowly uphill.  The term “Electric” dates from a time when it was incorrectly thought to be a phenomenon caused by electric or magnetic attraction within the brae.”

 

Dunure Castle

Then we made our way into the town of Dunure (which sort of rhymes with—ahem—manure), to poke around the ruins of Dunure Castle, which dates from the 13th century.  There’s not much left—a keep, some outer walls, and a beehive shaped dovecote (or “doocot”) which appears well-liked by pigeons and gulls.  I climbed the stairs to the top to look out on the sea, and passed a fenced-off part of the castle, where an empty whisky bottle lay in the dirt and rocks.

Burns Cottage with vegetable garden

Afterwards, we were off to auld Rabbie Burns’ cottage and museum. We passed by Brig o’ Doon (the bridge over the river Doon), making me think of Brigadoon, the 1954 movie with Gene Kelly and Van Johnson). We listened to “Tam o’ Shanter” on the way—I think I understood maybe 20% of what was said!  The cottage was a long, cream-colored building with a thatched roof.  It was quite dark inside, but all around the walls were words that Burns had used (or made up?) in his poetry.  One wall reads, “This cultivated the latent seeds of Poesy” from a letter (I presume) from Burns to Dr. John Moore, in 1787. Part of the cottage would have housed smallish animals—goats and chickens, maybe sheep—part was an area for a butter churn and other household tasks.  There was also a kitchen with a tiny baby bed constructed into a wall.  I wasn’t sure where the adults slept.

On the Poet’s Path, a bronze mouse

The Robert Burns’ Birthplace Museum was a twelve-ish-minute walk away on the “Poet’s Path,” so after looking at everything in the cottage, I headed there. A few statues stood along the way, representing images from his poems, including a large mouse from “To a Mouse,” and a bench with “The Twa Dogs” (Caesar and Luath).  The museum, when I got there, was also decorated on the outside with Scottish language words that Burns had used.  Inside, again, the room was dark, to preserve the pages of books, ephemera, and portraits of Burns and his family.  To my mind, the room was too dark, so that you had to struggle to read the information cards on the wall, but it was kind of nice to see how appreciated Burns is, not just in Scotland but internationally (on display were copies of his work in Polish and Russian and maybe Chinese).  It does my poet-heart good to see another poet so beloved… even if that other poet writes in an almost unintelligible language (to English ears, anyway).

When I was finished with the museum I stopped in the giftshop and bought a couple of things, including a copy of “Tam o’Shanter,” thinking if I could see the words I could maybe figure out what is being said, a dictionary of Scottish words, and (of course) a museum guidebook.  Then I went to the café and drank a mint lemonade and ate a raisin shortbread (very tough).  And by then the museum was closing, and it was time to ride back to Glasgow.

Stewart very kindly dropped me off at the Queen Street station, and I promised that I would see him again next year (assuming I go back to Scotland to teach).  Then I caught my train and headed back to Edinburgh.  A delightful tour overall.

More photos

A graceful lady, Susanna, Countess of Eglington in the Culzean Castle Round Drawing Room

Twa Dogs 1–Caesar

Twa Dogs 2–Luath

The Meeting of Burns and Captain francis Gros, by Robert Scott Lauder (1789)

Twa Dogs bench

Culzean Castle Entrance and Armory

Painting of Culzean Castle, but no identification card

Scottish words in the Burns cottage

The Birth of Burns, by James Fillans (1836)

The Haggis Feast, by Alexander Fraser (ca. 1840)

Dunure castle from the inside, looking down on the kitchen?

Dunure Castle

Dunure Castle, closer up

Dunure Castle and walls

Culzean Castle up-close

The Electric Brae explanation stone

Culzean Castle LIbrary/reading room

Culzean Castle dressing room

Culzean Castle parlor

Culzean Castle pipe organ?

Culzean Castle Long Drawing room

Culzean Castle nursery

Culzean Castle kitchen

A Canaletto of Venice (I think) in the Blue Drawing Room

A purple flower in the garden at Culzean Castle

Culzean Castle grounds

Culzean Castle chandelier in the round drawing room

Culzean Castle walls

Culzean Castle day room

Culzean Castle grounds–I can’t remember if this is the gardener’s shed or the smoke house. It sort of seems like it would be a smoke house.

Culzean Castle State Bedroom

Culzean Castle State Bedroom fireplace

Robert Burns’ cottage kitchen

Robert Burns cottage dining room

Auld Rabbie Burns statue

Robert Burns’ cottage wall

Robert Burns cottage household activities room

Entrance to all grounds of Culzean Castle

The Ruined Arch to the viaduct to Culzean Castle

Ayreshire Coast/ Irish Sea

The Christening dresses of the Burns’ family in the “bedroom”

Outside of the Burns cottage

Some bawdy fun advice for men

Silver Rain Was Falling Down Upon the Dirty Ground of London Town*

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Virginia Woolf said, “The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted.  What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?” I will tell you what I met:  a new friend.  What I mean is, I felt like I fit in right away. London may have been a city for 2000 years, but to me it was all brand new, and seeing it for the first time is like when you’re 16, and you see a handsome boy and know that you are intrigued.

London intrigued me as soon as I stepped off the train from Edinburgh into King’s Cross St. Pancras Station, where a woman was singing opera to the backdrop of a piano right there in the terminal.

I caught the Tube to Victoria Station.  It was hot, the air stale as bad breath, and so many bodies packed on the subway train I wondered how they could all fit.  A person tripped over my bag and then apologized to me with a very curt, British “Sorry!” and then ignored me as I mumbled “No worries!” I had about six stops to go, and enjoyed the voice-over announcements telling me to “mind the gap.”  A couple of stops after I got on, a middle-aged American couple boarded, the woman looking rather pained and nervous, and her husband a bit aggrieved.  She kept saying, “I don’t think this is the right train,” and he kept replying, “Maybe you’re right.”

So one ugly American to another, I said, “Where are you going?”

“We want to go to Victoria Station.”

“Oh, but you’re fine then.  This train goes to Victoria Station.”

“Are you sure?”

Reader, I wasn’t sure initially which is why I missed the first train that got to the track as I did, but there was a very convenient listing of the stops on the wall tile after the train departed, so I knew that the second train I boarded was going in the right direction.

“Oh, yes, quite sure.”

“Thank you so much. Everything is so confusing here.”

When we arrived at Victoria Station, everyone piled off the train and made their way out into the late afternoon.  Google’s map directions bewildered me a little bit, but I wandered the way it suggested, and I managed to get to my AirBnB, a single room in an apartment about 10 minutes away.  The room was nothing special, but the bed was so much better than where I was staying in Edinburgh, so I was perfectly comfortable.  I thought about going out for dinner, but the truth was, the first class coach on the train down from Scotland fed us a chalkwater trout supper with broccolini and couscous (free!), plus an apple tart, so I wasn’t overly hungry.  But I was tired after teaching and travel, so I settled down into my room and read for a few hours.

The next day, I had great plans to wake up early to go exploring, but instead I slept in. (Traveling always takes it out of me.)

I made my way to the Victoria Coach Station to catch a 1:00 bus tour around the city which would culminate in a cream tea service at Harrod’s.  I arrived at the station, and waited patiently to be called to my bus, but even though the sign said “Afternoon Tea Tour” the people managing the tour called it a “Vintage Tour” so I never got on and they left without me!  I had asked twice at the gate if this was the tea tour and was told, “No, you must be thinking of another company.”  But I insisted it was a Premier Tour (she was wearing a Premier Tours outfit) and she just blew me off—even though I saw an old-fashioned double-decker bus out in the lot.  What was I supposed to do?  I called the tour company and complained.

The lady on the other side of the phone was very British, efficient and helpful.  She put me on hold and I waited.  Eventually she told me that if I made my way to Buckingham Palace by 1:45, I could pick up the tour there.  It was 1:25.

Big Ben from inside a taxi

I raced to Buckingham Palace, after walking three blocks the wrong way.  I saw the same bus parked at the curb, and some people I had seen at the bus station so I knew I was in the right place—but I was also annoyed that I had received bad information from the woman at the gate and had missed a good bit of the tour.  Still, once there, I happily climbed up to the top so I could see the sights a little better, even though it was drizzly.  (Of course I was wearing my “mac.”)

A lion at Trafalgar Square

London did not disappoint, despite the rain.  I saw places that I’d only seen in films, but places I had always wanted to see in real life.  There was Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly Circus, and the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.  There was the Thames and London Bridge and the Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.  We got off our bus at the Tower of London, and by then I was soaked through because the rain had grown serious, but I did not mind.  I was in London!

Our Thames river boat

The next part of the tour included a boat ride on the Thames for about 30 minutes, where we went under many of the cities bridges, including the Tower Bridge, the London Bridge, the Westminster Bridge, and the Millenium Bridge.  I enjoyed the boat ride a lot and the guide was very knowledgeable about various sights and offered suggestions of places to eat, and places to avoid because of pickpockets.  We all disembarked at the London Eye where several people were going, while a few of the rest of us waited again for the tour bus to pick us up to take us to Harrods.

Harrods table service

Harrods Tea Room

Meanwhile, I kept glancing at my watch because the tour was only supposed to go to 4, and it was already 4:35, and I was worried that the cream tea at Harrods would make it difficult to get back to the room to change for the theater which I had plans for later that evening. Traffic was awful, with the rain, and had been so earlier, which is why we were running so late.  When we finally got to Harrods Tea Room, it was 5:20, and all I could think was “Curtain’s at 7:30!  Curtain’s at 7:30!”  But I knew that I had to adjust my plans, and enjoyed a beautiful afternoon tea of 2 scones (one fruit, one plain), and raspberry and cherry jam, and homemade butter (which may supposed to have been clotted cream but it had turned to butter), and tea with milk and sugar, and a glass of Prosecco.  I enjoyed every sip and bite in elegant surroundings, with heavy damask drapes and beautiful, heavy utensils and bright, shiny tea service.  The piano player played songs by Wham and Queen as I tucked into my tea.  And even though I was worried about being late to the theater, I decided to just savor my meal and not worry so much.

Wyndham’s Theatre featuring Oklahoma!

It was a little after 6 when I left the tea room and made my way back out to the street.  I would have loved to have looked around Harrods, and would have had the time had our tour not run so late, but I did get to pass through the jewelry department and was enchanted with all the ice.  And fortunately, there were taxis right outside.  I had to wait behind an entourage of  six beautiful Middle Eastern women, who looked as though they had bought out the store, but I caught a taxi to the Wyndham’s Theatre in the West End and we poked through traffic, finally arriving at 10 to 7.

Wyndham’s Theatre stage

It was Oklahoma! like I’d never seen it. The reviews called it “sexy.” The theater itself was cozy and small, and the stage was a simple set up of chairs and tables and Curly began to sing “Oh! What a Beautiful Mornin’” on his own guitar.  He sang beautifully, even if his guitar playing was only so-so,  Of course, when I had bought the tickets back in April, I thought I was going to see Arthur Darvill play Curly—I had loved him on Legends of Tomorrow, and he was the only good thing about stinking Amy Pond on Doctor Who, so I was a little disappointed that the character had been recast, but the actor who played him, Sam Palladio, was great.  And Laurey was great.  But it was a weird staging, especially with the “Dream Ballet” which included a filmed section of the dancer’s face, I suppose imagining Laurey’s life if she were to be with Jud, and  the scene in the smokehouse, pitch black, and then a filmed section of Jud’s face, as “Pore Jud is Daid” is sung.  And then at the end, when Curly kills Jud, it’s not by stabbing but by gun, and I mean the stunt blood went everywhere, all over Curly’s suit and Laurey’s wedding dress.  It was a little gratuitous.  But overall, the songs were wonderful and I really had a good time. I had a really good seat too—row J, seat 14, right in the middle (but also, on the aisle, because there’s a break in the seating).

I caught a cab home (like the earlier cab to the theater, this one was pricey), and fell asleep almost right away.  I wanted to be refreshed for my plans for the next morning—the British Museum.

I trekked back over to Victoria Station, after getting an iced latte from Café Nero, taking a different walk from the one I had done previously, and caught the 18 bus to Museum Street.  A lady got on the bus after me and asked me if this was the bus to the museum, and I said yes.  (I must look approachable, since other people in London were asking me for directions!)  When we got off the bus, she got out Google maps and we walked together to the entrance to the museum—where the queue was huge but fast moving, especially because we both already had our tickets.  When I got inside, it was overwhelming.  And I was starving, not having had anything to eat since the cream tea the afternoon before.  I went to the British Museum’s pizzeria and got a pizza with mushrooms, artichoke hearts, and onions.  The bread was very good—chewy but well-baked.  The sauce and cheese disappointed me a bit but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

The British Museum

When I was done, I walked through Ancient Greece and then Ancient Egypt, which is what I really wanted to see, because I love me some mummies, but the building became so crowded I started to get claustrophobic.  I found an upper gallery with new acquisitions and gazed at a map of Venice from 1500 for a while, then I wandered around and looked at the collection and then called Mom for half an hour.  By then I had calmed down a bit, and made my way through some of the China exhibit, and then I went to the gift shop and outside into the windy, sprinkly London air.  I could have looked at more art, but I really felt oppressed by all the bodies visiting the exhibits, so I figure if I go back to London some day, I will go see different rooms.  I took the 18 bus back to the station, and went to the room for a refreshing nap.

Inside the Barbican Theatre

Of course, I didn’t plan to nap as long as I did; I had intended on getting some dinner somewhere before I went to the Barbican Theatre to see A Strange Loop, but I overslept. Meanwhile, there were outages on the Tube; the Circle Line had seen some questionable behavior on the tracks (apparently, someone got down on the tracks for some reason?), and was running on a delay.  But “delay” is a polite word for “clusterfuck” because it got later and later and later, and no Circle line train ever appeared.  At 6:50, I left the Tube and went outside to find a cab, because it was clear that the train just wasn’t running, and I didn’t want to be late for curtain.  Fortunately, A Strange Loop started at 8.

£40 poorer, I arrived at the spectacular Barbican Centre.  I had seats up in one of the balconies, but ushers were trying to fill the orchestra seats, so I was given a “producer’s complimentary upgrade” to an orchestra seat.  Then I waited for the show to begin. Meanwhile they were playing terrific music on the overhead speakers, but Shazam couldn’t figure out any of the songs.  (Ugh.) I thought some of the songs might have been Liz Phair, but I wasn’t sure.  Anyway,  we were waiting and waiting and finally they announced there were technical difficulties, and the show would start late.  Like 8:30 late.  The show began with real energy and humor but in the end, it was not for me.  I found the singing wonderful, but what they were singing about was awful, hateful, depressing stuff, and the main character (who I also think was the writer?) was so degraded and humiliated as a plot device that the show was just painful to watch.  I kept waiting for intermission, because I was going to duck out and save myself, but there wasn’t any.  Also, I appeared to be the only person in the audience who hated the show—because everyone else gave it a standing O.  I wanted something light and happy and that was not was A Strange Loop was about.

When the show was over and I could make my escape, I looked for a taxi but unlike the night before, there weren’t any around.  I started walking, following the other theater-goers, feeling cold with the wind and a little sorry for myself, but remembering I had seen a Barbican Tube station, and hoping that if I went that way I could figure out how to get back to the apartment.  Fortunately, a taxi whipped by and stopped, and I was thrilled.

The driver, Johnnie, was curious about what I had seen, where I was from, and where I was going.  I told him about living in Atlanta and he butted in and said, “Pardon me, but I heard Atlanta was a shithole.”  I just laughed out loud because I did not expect such a comment.  I tried to enumerate some of Atlanta’s better qualities, but that’s hard to do when you live in a city you basically hate. (Sorry Atlantans!)  Anyway, the drive back was full of such pronouncements.  “Asshole tourists!” he cried when a bunch of drunks practically stepped out in front of him.  “Stupid maniac drivers!” he yelled when a bus dared get too close  “Get the fuck out of my way!” he yelled at a bicyclist. Then— “Ever been to San Francisco?”  “Yes,” I said.  He never stopped talking, and while I didn’t mind the “conversation,” I might have enjoyed the trip back a little more if I could just focus on the beautiful skyline, with the pinky-purple light of the London Eye at the center of it.

Harry Potter Store

The next morning I headed back to Edinburgh, but not before stopping for a falafel sandwich for breakfast and visiting the Harry Potter Store at Platform 9 ¾ which was right there in King’s Cross Station.  (Somehow I’d missed it when I was there before.)  There was a queue to get in, and the store, all things considered, was pretty small,  but there was some really cool stuff there.  If I had wanted to blow a lot of money, I could have, gearing myself up in Ravenclaw regalia.  But I satisfied myself with the one thing I wanted:  a Marauder’s Map scarf, which I can’t wait to wear when it’s scarf-weather again.  And then I got on my train (sadly, not a first class coach this time), and rode back to Edinburgh, with a golden retriever named Chilla in the seat across the aisle.

10/10 would definitely go again.

More Photos

Chilla the Doggo

Westminster Abbey

A very rained-on selfie

View of the Thames

Trafalgar Square

The Courts of Justice

Temple Inside the British Museum

A random Greek lady

“Bohemian Rhapsody” on the piano is…interessting.

An Egyptian ram

On the Tower Bridge

Mosaic wall in the British Museum

Going under London Bridge

London Bridge Hospital undergoing renovations

King Ramesses II

Large Chinese incense burner

View of the Globe Theatre from inside the boat

Big Ben

Inside the British Museum

Cat mummies at the British Museum

More cat mummies

British Museum courtyard

A Chinese decorated wall

Colossal Scarab

Another view of the Colossal Scarab

Funerary statuettes

Greek redware urns

British Museum dome

Egyptian cat figurine side view

Egyptian cat figurine front view

Egyptian statue

Egyptian statue

Across from the Tower of London

A cool clock I saw hanging off one of London’s buildings

Across from Wyndham’s Theatre

The Tower of London

The Tower of London

An accidental selfie

The Tower Bridge

The London Eye

The Tower Bridge

Queen Hathor

London’s Egg Building, aka “The Gherkin”

Amitabha Buddha

Khorsabad, the Palace of Sargon

Palm-leaf column of King Ramesses II

Cornelis Bloemaert, Owl on a Perch (1625)

Mabel Dwight, Queer Fish (1936)

*Note:

The title of this blog post is a lyric from Paul McCartney & Wings’ song “London Town.”

The Isles of Mull, Iona, and Staffa

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A long day lay ahead of me on the weekend I decided to go see the Islands of Mull and Iona.  For one thing, the tour left from Glasgow, so I had to take an impossibly early train, which meant I’d have to leave even earlier to walk the mile to the train station.  And when I got there, the ticket machine couldn’t locate my e-ticket, and the ticket counter was dark and closed.  So I wound up having to pay for another ticket, which really ticked me off.  But in for a penny, in for a pound (£27 to be exact).  I needed to make the 6:07 train so that I could get into Glasgow on time; the bus was leaving at 8:30.  Despite the drama with the tickets, the train ride itself was uneventful, and I arrived in Glasgow at 7:30.  I walked (in the rain) to Buchanan Bus Station, and waited for my tour bus to arrive.

When the bus showed up, and I saw the driver was Stewart, I was delighted.  Stewart, you may recall, was the driver for my Speyside Whisky tour I took last year, the one where there were only 5 of us on the tour.  There were a few more people on this tour (ten), but Stewart remembered me and seemed as happy to see me as I was to see him.  I was suitably complimentary about his tour guiding to the other people on the bus, and I think that eased everyone’s anxiety.  We knew we were in for a good time.

Loch Lomond in the rain

Because the Hebrides are islands off the coast of the Highlands, the first day of driving was mostly stopping to visit Highlands-related sights.  But I did like the way Glasgow looked as we drove through it (industrial, shiny, and large) to get to Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park, our first (rainy) stop.  It was really just a bathroom/coffee break, but Loch Lomond gleamed in the rain.  I sheltered under a ledge at the coffee shop, and discovered a nest of five baby birds, maybe magpies, though I’m no birder.  They seemed hungry, and a parental bird flew to the eaves on the other side of the coffee shop, but these little babies were left alone, tweeting their displeasure.

Birbs!!!

Stewart and I chatted about whiskies and places I’d visited since I’d gotten back to Scotland while we waited for the other passengers to get their caffeine. He was interested to hear when I had arrived, and whether I was teaching Scottish literature again (which I am).  And he asked if I’d be coming back next year.  “I hope so,” I told him, imagining for a moment the Scottish books I would teach.  But then the moment was over, and we all hustled back on the bus.

We stopped a number of places, including Glencoe and the Three Sisters, which never get old to me.  Especially in the rain, the Highlands reek of Scotlandness.  Glencoe was suitably misty and broody, and The Three Sisters disappeared into the low-hanging clouds. I felt that wild call again, that primal spirit of place that Scotland holds for me, though I don’t know why.  If any place (besides Louisiana or Venice) should capture me, you’d think it would be Ireland—being as I’m Irish, and yet, I don’t have a compelling desire to go there again.  (I mean, I wouldn’t say no, if someone invited me to go with them—I’m not a lunatic!) Maybe the difference depends on my staying in Scotland as long as I have been—my affinity for the place has grown.

Achnambeithach

At the bottom of the glen, we stopped in Achnambeithach, a National Trust for Scotland heritage place.  It’s really just a white cottage at the base of the ben (that’s Scottish for mountain!), and I’m not sure why it’s a heritage spot, but the views are spectacular. Now that I think about it, maybe it’s not the cottage that’s the historical site, maybe it’s the bridge…hmm.  Anyway, you can look back up into the whole glen and be inundated with beauty.  The rain had let up a little bit, and blue sky peeped through some of the heavy clouds, making the dull, rain-soaked green of the mountains flash veridian. The light gleamed off the loch, and the stream that fed it bubbled.

Returning to the road, we ate lunch at the Glencoe Visitor Center (I tried cock-a-lackie soup, which was not my favorite, not the least of which because it was a chicken soup, and I don’t eat chicken), then drove through more mountains until we got to our first ferry stop of the trip, the Lochaline Ferry Terminal which would bring us to Mull. The trip over the Sound of Mull to Fishnish took maybe 20 minutes, and Stewart encouraged us to get out of the bus if we wanted to, although it was raining and between rain and sea spray, I’d just as soon stay inside, cozy and dry.  But others got out and apparently gawped at the many jellyfish in the water, which they were only too excited to talk about.  For myself, I was eager to be going to an island less touristy than Skye had been two weeks before, and couldn’t wait to see what Mull would offer.

Seals that look like rocks to me

And Mull delivered!  First, we saw some seals—I’d say they were sunning themselves, but actually there was no sun to be found, so they were merely lazing on a little islet.  We stopped to take pictures, but the distance made the seals somewhat indistinguishable from the rocks.  We stopped again at the site of three old wrecks, apparently hired by some wealthy gent in the early 1900s to sail around the world but they never left Mull, just sat there in the water and decayed for 100 years. We stopped to look at some Heilan coos, and a scenic overlook at Lochan na Guailne Duibhe. Then we drove up to Tobermory, where we would all be staying for the night.

 

Tobermory

The wrecks

Tobermory is a lovely fishing village, where fresh fish is on the menu at all the local restaurants.  The buildings are each painted different colors, like Portree on Skye, and I was staying at the very end of the harbor, in a little red cottage apartment that was ghastly expensive. (Because Rabbies claimed they couldn’t find me a place to stay—even though I booked the tour two months in advance—I had to find my own accommodation, and this was what was available.)  It was clean, with a comfortable bed and wonderful black-out curtains.  The downside of Otter Apartment (besides the fee) was the doorlock situation—which is to say, I couldn’t figure out how to lock the door when I left the building.  But fortunately, no one felt inclined to enter the apartment while I was out.

I would have liked to have eaten at the Mishnish Restaurant (the yellow building in the photo above), first opened in 1869 and a Mull institution, but silly me, I hadn’t made reservations.  (I am not used to making reservations at restaurants, but that seems to be a thing you do here in Scotland.)  So after being turned away by a concierge with a pitying look, I got a few items at the local Co-op grocery instead, and made a passable dinner of mint-yogurt potato salad, Doritos, and a Coke Zero.  Then I crawled into bed, read a little, and went to sleep.

Old stone bridge

Stewart picked me up a little before 9 the next morning, the last person on the bus before another day of touring.  We drove along the single-lane roads of Mull, thousands of foxglove plants purpling the hillsides—so lovely, and so deadly, making a photo stop at an old stone bridge dating from the 1800s. All the burns and waterfalls collected in a river that ran beneath the bridge.  When we arrived in Fionnphort we took another Ferry to the Isle of Iona, but this time Stewart stayed behind with the bus, because only inhabitants of Iona can have vehicles on the island.

A nunnery window

Nunnery walls

I ate lunch at the Argyll Hotel, whose dining room was decorated in pleasant seascape blue and gray—another nondescript cheese and chutney sandwich and a bowl of soup.  But because I ate lunch instead of hot-footing it over to Iona Abbey (a poor choice, considering the quality of lunch), I didn’t get a chance to look at it, and I’m sorry about that, because it appeared lovely from the ferry, and it is a Christian pilgrimage site. Iona is where St. Columba established a monastery in the 6th Century, when he came over from Ireland, and it’s the place from where Christianity spread in Scotland. Since I missed the Abbey, I went to the ruins of the Nunnery, took photos, and then called Mom to catch up with her.  (She was fine.)

The big activity for the day was taking another ferry to the Isle of Staffa—really just a boatride in an old, dusty tub that took an hour.  The Atlantic swells impressed me, tall as they were, but I was seated inside, so I didn’t feel them as much as others who were sitting at the back of the boat did.  One guy mentioned to me that he loved the rolling so much, and the next time I looked at him, he was fast asleep. The ride was loud—the engines booming—but we saw some seals before we arrived at the Isle of Staffa, and it was beautiful.

Cliffside, Isle of Staffa

The rocks form natural steps (not that you’d take these steps, because you’d take your life into your hands) and long columns, almost as if someone chiseled the side of the island to look this way. The island name of Staffa is from the Norse meaning “pillar” which makes sense. What I didn’t know was that in order to see the puffins, which apparently settle here in the summer, I’d have to climb up this itty bitty, windy but very scary tall stairway to get to the top of the island, and all I could think was I’d get halfway up there and have a panic attack because I do not do heights well at all.  So I stayed at the little boat launch and read or watched the tidal pools.  The air was seafresh and salty and I saw some jellyfish congregating in the tidal pools.  The wind was terrific, though (another reason I was scared to scale the wall), and so I pulled up my raincoat around me to keep the wind at bay.  The other option was to go to Fingal’s Cave (which everyone said was amazing) but that also required walking on a very narrow step path right above the water, and I just imagined I would slip.  (I had on my sneakers, but honestly, I am just clumsy, and I didn’t want to risk a fall.)

Fingal’s Cave

Our boat arrived after another hour, and I climbed onto a seat toward the back this time, where the Atlantic swells were huge. The ship bounced so much that sometimes it felt like I were on a rollercoaster, and the other passengers “whoooed” with every swell. But it was fun, and I saw several puffins flying in the air, so I didn’t feel too deprived about missing them on Staffa.  They flew so quickly they just looked like stripes of orange and black.

By then it was late in the day, when we got back to Mull, and we drove up to Tobermory, but not until after we’d stopped again at the stone bridge, where a herd of Heilan coos were congregating in and by the river.  With the sunlight hitting the water just so, the cows looked as if they had been painted there.  But the smell was realistic enough: the path that took us to the cows was awash in cow paddies, so I was extremely careful where I stepped.

The nice weather of the day gave way to more rain, so when I got back to my apartment, I zipped out to a food truck for fish and chips, and slinked back, a little damper, with dinner.

The last day of the trip began early enough, and we had to make our way to yet another ferry, this one from Craignure to Oban, another rainy passage.  Because the ferry had been overbooked the day before and was still backed up, Stewart couldn’t get our bus on the 11:00 ferry—he was shunted to th 2:00—but we went as passengers of the ferry.  It was a huge ship, ginormous.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a ship that big, with multiple decks, several coffee shops and a diner.  I thought about getting something from the diner, but I didn’t really see anything I wanted (and I did not fancy another drab cheese and chutney sandwich), so I wandered the decks and got an iced latte in one of the coffee shops in the stern of the ship.  Let’s be honest, this latte was basically a large glass of milk and a shot of espresso.  And it was delicious.  That’s the kind of latte I like—mostly milk!  Once I added sugar to it, I was hard-pressed not to suck it down in two sips. (I’m mostly kidding.) After I’d finished, I decided to head out on deck (even though it was raining) and watch the water.  I had hoped to see whales or dolphins, but I suspect they didn’t want to come out in the rain 😊.  I enjoyed the air, wet as it was, and stayed outside till I grew cold.

Oban, with McCaig’s Tower (the Colosseum-looking structure) in the background

Oban, where we docked, was great.  Yeah, it was raining like hell, but I really enjoyed what I saw of it.  I walked the high street for quite a distance, and stopped into Oban distillery to see if I could take a distillery tour but the answer was no. (They only take 16 on a tour, and I was #17.) I ate at Nories Fish and Chips for lunch (established in the 1960s), and then wandered down toward the water where I found the Oban Chocolate Company.  Its reasonable prices encouraged me to buy a small bag of truffles, and a bag of white and milk chocolate cats.  I wandered some more and watched the harbor for a bit (hoping for dolphins, but alas), and got some icecream, then made my way to the other side of the harbor where I knew Stewart would pick us up.  There was still an hour to go, but the rain was relentless, so I holed up in Costa Coffee, and waited out the rain.

When Stewart arrived, I said, “I went to Oban distillery, but they wouldn’t let me on the tour.”

Stewart said, “That’s no’ right. D’you go to the tastin’ bar and have a flight?”

“I would have,” I said, “if I’d known about it.”

He shook his head, as disappointed as I was.

(I’ve yet to try a dram of Oban whisky, but then I haven’t really stopped in any bars.)

Kilchurn Castle on Loch Awe

Pretty much after that, all that was left of my Mull and Iona tour was a stop at Inveraray (where I called Mom again), a stop at Kilchurn Castle ruins, and then the ride back into Glasgow, although we made a picture stop in Glen Croe, near Loch Lomond.  At the base of the glen is an old military road, but we were on the “new” road at the side of the bens, where large metal nets ridge the mountains to catch boulders and falling objects.

As I was getting off the bus, Stewart told me that he hoped he’d see me next year, with my husband, on the Islay whisky tour, and I hope I can arrange that, because Stewart is a great tour guide, and even though I don’t like peated whiskies (which Islay is famous for), I’d be thrilled to get reintroduced to them with Stewart’s guidance.  I’ll have to see if I can contact Rabbies next year to find out when he leads the tour, assuming that a) I teach in Scotland again, and b) I can arrange it. Even if I don’t think I’d enjoy the whisky, I’d enjoy seeing Stewart again.  And if C could come with me, that would be even better. (Get your passport, C!!!)

More photos:

View from Nories Fish and Chips

Loch Fyne in Inveraray

Loch Fyne

Loch Fyne

The Vital Spark in Loch Fyne, Inveraray–I love the composition on this one.

Kilchurn Castle with lowhanging clouds

Sheep on Loch Awe

Loch Awe

A hotel on Loch Awe, to the left of the Kilchurn Castle ruins as you look at them

This looks like I took the picture in grayscale, but really, it was just how dark and dreich the day was.

Oban

The Inveraray Inn (could you guess?)

Oban

Oban

Oban

Oban

Oban

My fish & chips at Nories

Oban

Oban

The ferry to Oban

Me getting very wet on the ferry to Oban

A lighthouse on the ferry to Oban

Isle of Mull, when the sun came out for a bit

Funny clouds in Mull

Mull

View from the Stone bridge on Mull

View from the Stone Bridge

Heilan coos

View of the Stone bridge from cow-distance

A sudden squall over Mull

Heilan coos in the river

Coos!

Coo

Coos

The beach near the Lochline ferry stop

The beach near the Lochline ferry stop

Isle of Staffa

Staffa

This flight of stairs doesn’t look that tall, but the picture is deceptive.

Tidal pool at Staffa

Ospreys (?) on Staffa

A better glimpse of the staircase on Staffa

I have no idea where I took this. It’s pretty though, innit?

Tobermory

A little cottage by the ferry

Glencoe

The wrecks

Tobermory–my Dad said he was going to try to paint this in watercolors

Tobermory

Tobermory

Fife and St. Andrews

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Fishing village in Fife

The trip up the northeast coast of Scotland was a new experience for me.  I’ve seen the west and the Highlands quite a bit, but the east hasn’t been on my itinerary.  That is, until I took a tour into the fishing village at Anstruther Harbour and then walked around the ruins of St. Andrews.

 

The sea wall

The fishing village was lovely, although I didn’t get a chance to wander it much because I wanted to walk the sea wall.  It reminded me so much of the way sea walls have figured in British television shows (like my favorite Vera) or any of a few Austen adaptations—their timelessness appeals me, as if I could be walking through the centuries as I walk the wall, the coast and waters unchanged.

The lighthouse at Anstruther Harbour

As I made my way back from the point across from the lighthouse, I passed a man with a very squat bulldog who tramped through a large puddle in the cobblestones and I laughed because the dog seemed so surprised and happy by the happenstance.  I said to the man, “A fine braw dog you have there!”

He said, “That’s no’ a Sco’ish accent. Where are yeh from?”

“Well, my family home is in Louisiana,” I answered, figuring to tell him I live in Atlanta would sound needlessly generic and uninteresting.

“Louisiana!  The States!” He claps his hands in delight, and the bulldog barks. “ I’ve no’ been there, but I hear Louisiana’s quite bonny.”

“Oh, yes,” I enthuse, “very bonny.”

“I shuid like to go there some day.”

“You would love New Orleans,” I told him, because that’s the only city anyone cares about in Louisiana. (Or possibly, the only city that anybody knows about.) “Everyone does.”

“Well, guid day to you, lass.”

“And you.”

He walked in the opposite direction with his dog, and I headed back to the village, stopping once in a while to see if I can see any fish in the harbor, the water being a beautiful clear emerald color even at the mouth of the harbor that leads out into the sea.  (Spoiler alert:  I saw no fish.)

St. Andrews and St. Rule Tower

Back on the bus, we drove a while longer to the town of St. Andrews which was celebrating graduation day.  Everyone was wearing regalia (if they were graduates) or big smiles (if they were parents).  The professors were wearing regalia too, which reminded me a little of my own Ph.D. regalia, mouldering in my chest of drawers back home (in Shreveport).  I never got to wear it because when I graduated with my Ph.D., I blew off graduation and hooding so that Kirsten and I could go to the British Virgin Islands because she had won a trip there on the radio. A fair trade, I have to be honest.  But I digress.

I wanted to go somewhere good to eat for lunch, having mostly eaten banal sandwiches in all the places I’ve visited, but with so many graduates and their families around, it was hard to find a place that wasn’t jam-packed.  Close to the ruins, though, there was a little café that I stopped in—I got the only table available.  My cheese and chutney sandwich was pretty nondescript, but the butternut squash soup was more or less tasty, though it clearly had too much chicken bullion in it. I also drank a bottle of fizzy, and enjoyed a “lemon ice tea” which I think was from a mix.  So when I say I enjoyed it, I mean quite the opposite.  It was weird-tasting.

After lunch, I continued my walk to St. Andrews Cathedral which, like so many of the medieval buildings in Scotland, is undergoing perpetual construction, so parts were walled off.  What a grand cathedral it must have been in the 13th and 14th centuries, with its sweeping arches and its many-stoned kirkyard!  The welcome sign says “Join the pilgrimage to the largest and most important church in medieval Scotland,” and this is true, since it was the seat of the medieval Catholic Church.  It fell into disrepair during the Reformation, and was burnt down a couple of times.  What is interesting about this too, is that when parts of the wall fell down, they were used for building purposes elsewhere in Fife.  Unfortunately, the church was abandoned until the 1800s, and by then it was crumbling mess.  But since then, the ruins have been granted protection and are cared for, available for everyone to enjoy (for free!).

After I poked around the ruins for a while (and bought a guidebook, of course—I’ve accumulated quite a number of these National Trust for Scotland books at this point), I found a nice spot to sit with the sea in the background. The sun was beating down, though the sky was blue as topaz.  An elderly couple were sitting on a bench nearby, ruminating on their grandson’s extremely busy graduation itinerary, and complaining it was too hot to walk.  (It was warm, for sure, but a breeze blew.) I thought about going for a walk out to a promontory overlooking the sea, but I couldn’t remember when we were supposed to be back at the bus rendezvous, so I got up and walked back to where I thought I had been dropped off.

But the thing is, I couldn’t remember where that was. This is very unlike me; I usually take careful account of my location especially when the possibility I could be left behind exists.  I thought the rendezvous was by the World Golf Museum (which was situated across from an open public golf course where it only costs £1 (!) to play), but it looked different from what I remembered.  To be honest, I got kind of panicky and worried that I was going to miss the bus, thinking I was in the wrong place altogether, and omg, what would I do if I were left alone in Fife? How would I get back? So I dug out a phone number for the Rabbie’s tour people and called them.  The lady assured me I was waiting in the right place, which took a huge burden off my mind.  And when the bus showed up, I got a chance to chat with the driver and we commiserated over the weather of the previous summer, and exclaimed how un-Scottishly-nice the weather was being for the trip today.

Inner wall of the King’s and Queen’s quarters, Falkland Palace

The last stop of the day was Falkland Palace, which was lovely and inexpensive (only £6 to enter), but unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to  take pictures inside—and there were watching eyes.  Falkland Palace was the “deer cottage,” where James V and his wife Marie de Guise (mother of Mary Queen of Scots) honeymooned during the construction of the palace, and was the place where James and his fellow courtiers would go hunting in the fall, especially once construction was completed.  What I liked about the palace was that it was relatively small, with a few rooms tastefully reproduced as they might have looked in earlier centuries.  What I was less keen on was the circular stairways with small, shallow steps that my foot didn’t even quite fit on.  At the end of the palace walk-through, we ended up in Falkland’s lovely gardens, which were peaceful, floral, and full of bees.  A nice way to end the day.

I liked this trip overall because it was low-key.  Some of the trips I’ve taken have been go-go-go, but this was more leisurely (my panic attack not withstanding), and I enjoyed it.

More photos:

St. Andrews

Anstruther Harbour boats

St. Rule Tower

Fishing village view

Outside St. Andrews’ walls…I really like the composition on this one.

Fishing village at Fife

Falkland Palace outer wall

Arches at St. Andrews

Roses in the garden of Falkland palace

The Isle of Skye

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Back in Scotland for another summer of teaching, I find I’ve settled in easily enough—I have a good sense of direction and I’m still on bus route 14 (though I’m further away from campus than I was last year), and every day I look out on the beauty that is Arthur’s Seat, a rock formation from an expired volcano.  I can’t complain too much, although my apartment is a bit of a disappointment, but I’m making do.

The Kelpies

A few weekends ago, I went on a tour of the Isle of Skye, which is the largest of the inner Hebrides islands.  What I didn’t know—and maybe, if I had bothered to look at a map I would have—is that Skye is basically part of the Highlands, but if possible, even more empty and scenic.  It took us all day to get there, and we made stops at Falkirk to see The Kelpies (I still love them!), then moved on to Loch Lubnaig, Glencoe, The Three Sisters (places I’d seen last year), a little chocolate shop in Glenshiel (I didn’t find anything I wanted to buy—mainly because I was too cheap), and a little bridge near the Red Cuillin and Black Cuillin (Munro mountains on the Isle of Skye).

The Three Sisters

Loch Lubnaig

A panoramic view of the Cuillins

The Cuillins

Seeing the Highlands in the bright sunshine—as opposed to the mystique of clouds and mist—offers a surprisingly different insight into the view—you see all of the mountains, even to the very tops, and the sunlight brings out the details and relief of the mountain faces.  It’s a curious experience—because for instance, last year when I saw the Three Sisters, I saw them wreathed in mist and there was something gently oppressive about them.  In the sunlight they glow—the green so rich and thick upon them contrasting to the true azure of the sky.  It’s breathtaking.  It was warm, though the wind does blow fiercely through the glen.

Getting to the Isle of Skye (“Skye” means mist), you pass a few castles, including Eilean Donan (“the most beautiful castle in Scotland,” according to their guidebook), and go over a huge white bridge that was designed for the Royal Yacht Britannia to sail underneath.  Apparently, it only went underneath once, in 1995, and has since been retired as a tourist attraction in northeast Edinburgh. And once you’re actually on the island itself, you find the roads tend to be two-way, single lane roads, which is a bit hairy when your tour bus keeps pulling off at the “passing places” to let other cars go by, and there are huge drop-offs on either side of the roadways.  Our first stop on the island was to this bridge where we could stretch our legs and look at the Cuillins.

Black Cuillin

Red Cuillin

These mountains are Red or Black, depending on the kind of ash and lava the volcanos spewed millions of years ago. I liked the Red Cuillin because it looks really red (well, kind of rust red), but the Black Cuillin is dark and pointy and seems mysterious.  Both of these mountains are Munros, which means they’re Scottish mountains greater than 3,000 feet high.  (There are 282 such Munros in Scotland, and they get their name from the famous Scottish mountaineer, Sir Hugh Munro, who catalogued and climbed them. People who climb these Munros and “collect” them are called Munro-baggers.)  These Cuillins probably have an official name (Ben Something or Other), but I don’t know it, and a sign just referred to the Red Cuillin as Red Cuillin, and the Black Cuillin as The Cuillin.

We finally stopped for the night and I stayed at the Pier Hotel (a B&B) in the harbor, then got Fish and Chips at a chippy close-by.  I didn’t want to stink up my room with my dinner, so I sat out on a stone overlooking the harbor, feeding the gulls and a very annoying crow some chips, which they snagged in their beaks and flew off as if I were going to try to take them back.  I could have walked around the town of Portree but really I just wanted to get in bed and read.  So that’s what I did.

Dunvegan Castle

The next day we did a lot of driving around Skye on these tiny roads that jot across the glens and Highlands.  Some of us, including me, went to Dunvegan castle and gardens, whiles others went on a “difficult” hike.  Dunvegan is the clan seat of Clan MacLeod.  It dates from the 13th century but has been renovated and updated in the intervening years.  What we could walk through was limited—a bedroom, a parlor, a dining room, a library—but we weren’t allowed to take pictures of the inside.  There were lovely paintings on the wall of the various MacLeod families, as well as a painting of Samuel Johnson, the poet and playwright, who visited the castle at some point in his life.  The halls were crowded so I didn’t get as close to some things as I would have liked (for instance, the dinner ware and silver service), but what I saw of it was beautiful and tasteful.  Belowstairs, there were servants areas, like a sewing room, and a room where a video was running, telling about the history of the place, especially the Fairy Flag, which is this scrap of fabric said to be imbued with fairy magic.

The Fairy Flag, a prized possession of Clan MacLeod, with its lore centering on its being a gift to an infant clan chief, performed two miracles:  it saved the clan from starvation, making all the sick and thin cattle healthy and fat, and it helped during a military battle.  Apparently, the Fairy Flag has another miracle to perform, but Clan MacLeod has not needed to use it.  So instead it hangs proudly in place in the castle, though it’s not much to look at—a tattered thing of yellowed silk—that nevertheless is historic and interesting to see.

I wandered the gardens only a little—it was hot out and the midgies (irritating bugs, something like mosquitoes) were hungry.  But there were rhododendrons and irises aplenty and shaded walks throughout.  Mostly I wanted to look at the seals, but the seal boat wasn’t running.

Later, we took a ride down to the Fairy Glen, but I couldn’t seem to take very good pictures there, almost as if the glen did not want to be photographed.  The Fair Folk must have been protecting their lair.  I did get some close encounters with sheep, and the land itself gently rolled, the bushes and trees curling in on themselves, but the little mounds where the fairies lived only came out blurry, so I tossed those pictures.  It was a nice walk through the glen, and I found a big rock to sit on for a bit.

View from Cuith-Raing

View from Cuith Raing

Then it was on to Cuith-Raing, up in the mountains, where you could look down on a town on the Isle of Skye from a great distance and the landscape is rocky and green, with fantastic views wherever you looked.  Of course, it was really high up, so I stayed well-away from the edges.  And I called Mom because I was getting good reception. I just wished she had WhatsApp so I could have shown her the view.  Afterward, we stopped at a beach at An Corran, famous for its 19 dinosaur fossils, and then we drove along to see the Old Man of Storr, a rock formation that can be seen for miles, on the Trotternish peninsula.  There is a walk to go up to it, but apparently it’s two hours long, and it was not on our itinerary.

Eilean Donan Castle

The last day was mostly dedicated tothe drive back to Edinburgh, but we did stop at Eilean Donan Castle, and you could cross to the island for £3, or you could go in for another £10 or so, so I just walked the grounds.  It was rainy and cold and gray—perfect weather in my opinion for poking around castle grounds and for imagining what it was like in its heyday. I suppose, that’s the kind of thing I—and everyone else—do whenever visiting Scottish castles—try to imagine what these behemoths were like when they first became inhabited.  And to wonder at the people who still own them and live there still. After a break for lunch in Loch Ness, and a stop to see some heilan coos at Taste of Perthshire, we made our way home.

Harbor at Portree, Isle of Skye

Harbor at Portree

I liked the Isle of Skye but it’s fairly touristy and crowded—lots of shops which were closed by the time we got back to our respective hotels. The second night I stayed in Portree, I went to a different chippy shop for dinner (because I hadn’t made reservations anywhere and so there was no going to any of the fancy restaurants), and they were on a 40 minute wait (which I waited). But the town itself is pretty, with its brightly painted buildings surrounding the harbor, and lots of birds and boats wherever you look. I had always wanted to go to the Hebrides, and feel like the Isle of Skye is a good introduction to them.

Other photos

Baby Heilan coo

The canal that leads into Loch Ness

Heilin coo

A lobster creel in Portree Harbor… I love the way the picture came out

A little bridge with Loch Ness in the background

Some friendly sheep

The Fairy Glen

Eilean Donan

Flowers at Dunvegan

Eilean Donan Castle

A house at Red Cuillin

Fairy Glen

Sheep at Fairy Glen

Return to Rockvale Writers Colony

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An antique brown wood secretary desk with a brown chair, lamp, and a window behind it.

My desk

I am at Rockvale Writers Colony again, working (as ever) on Medea on the Bayou.  I am in the Giles Hill room, which has a four poster bed with curtains, tasteful furnishings including a wonderful antique writing desk, and a huge bathroom and wardrobe. It has been a lovely quiet week, and I’ve gotten both writing and revising done.  Maybe not nearly as much as I would have liked (it always takes a little while to adjust to being in a “room of my own”) but I am pleased with my progress overall.  What I really need right now is a beta reader (or two!)—someone who can give me real, structural-level and poem-level critique.  I’m not sure what the book needs right now.  I have some thoughts about how to make it more Louisiana-ish, but it’s unclear what the book needs to actually be good.

Look, I know I have a confidence issue, but this isn’t that.  My concerns have more to do with how individual poems work as poems.  Sometimes it feels like they are really just prose in disguise.  And that’s problematic for a number of reasons:

  1. This is meant to be a novel-in-verse. Emphasis on verse.  I don’t want to write prose.
  2. Prose is fine as a thing, but the world doesn’t need a novelized version of Medea. (But to be honest, I’m not sure the world needs a book of poems about a play that was already written in verse.)
  3. If I’m not writing poetry, what the hell have I spent the last 3 years doing? (I guess it’s possible that I’ve written another hybrid piece… and we know how well loved those are (not).
A chubby marmalade cat balances on a fence.

Oliver sits on the horse fence.

Anyway, you can see my dilemma.  For the most part, these poems haven’t seen the light of day (though I’ve sent many out, and even published a dozen of them) so I don’t know if they are working.  By the fact that so many of them have been rejected, one could say “they’re probably not working, JC.”  Or maybe they just don’t work as stand-alone poems.  Which is altogether another problem.  I want them to work as stand-alone poems, but sometimes you need exposition, and exposition isn’t very poetic.

The thing I tell my students about writing adaptations is that you have to honor the original source, but in the end the adaptation is a new piece of writing and it’s only about itself  I’m trying to do that; I honor Appolonius of Rhodes and Euripides by recreating scenes from The Argonautika and Medea, but I’m also adding new characters and new scenes and new information so that readers get a fuller image of Medea as a person. And I’m also trying to maintain a strong narrative voice.  How well I’m succeeding, I can’t be for sure.  But I’m trying.

An image of a lean and handsome black cat.

Pip the shy but sweet black cat.

One of the ladies I’ve met here at the colony (Jen Knox, check out her new book, We Arrive Uninvited, available as a signed copy here) read What Magick May Not Alter, which I had left a copy of the last time I was here.  She said she liked it (yay!) especially because of its strong narrative voice.  And I think that’s true about WMMNA—it does have a strong voice and it’s good with character development—but then it should be, because I invented everything.

Here with Medea, I’m not sure I’m delivering on the promise of creating something new and I’m not sure about the narrative voice.  She’s already a known quantity as a character—am I revealing something fresh about her by writing about the early part of her marriage (as well as the plot of the play), or am I just…wasting readers’ time?  I ask myself:  why should anyone read my Medea when Euripides’ play is so perfect?  My go-to answer—“Because I wrote it”—is not what you’d call a particularly compelling response.  Do I think that someday professors teaching a classics and adaptations class will teach my book (this is assuming it finds a publisher)?  Not particularly.  But it would be really cool if they did, right?  Who’s the audience?  People who like poetry and people who like Medea for sure…but is there a broader audience for it?  What if there isn’t?

A tortie cat (black and orange) standing on a wooden deck.

Lucy making a bee-line for my legs to wrap herself around.

I’m not sure what’s brought on this little crisis of faith.  I think it’s because I’m seeing the whole collection (it’s about 96% done) together finally and I’m worried that if it doesn’t work as a collection (or if it’s prose-in-disguise), then I will have wasted my precious writing time writing something that isn’t worth a damn.  Well, ok, it’s worth at least a single damn, but you know what I mean.

I am afraid I might have another albatross around my neck.  Last year, I didn’t sell one copy of WMMNA—not one single, solitary copy.  (In fact, Madville took a net loss of two copies, which were apparently returned.)  I don’t want Medea to be in the same situation. I want her to find an audience.  I want people to know her as someone besides a child-killer. I think my book shows her in a rich full way…I think.  (But what if it doesn’t?)

Anyway, that’s where I am with this project.  I say I’m 96% done because I have a few plot holes that need to be addressed, but I think the collection—whatever it is—is really coming along. (There’s still revising to do, which drops my percentage down to 46% done, but I’m working on that too.)

In other news, tomorrow is Mother’s Day (probably not Medea’s favorite holiday), so make sure that you tell your Moms how much you love them.  They do so much for us—mine is perfect—and they love us just as we are.  Even when what we are is a confidence-lacking, attention seeking, desperate-to-be-adored-by-the-masses writer of poetry.

P.S.  The cats are Rockvale’s super-sweet barn cats.  (Doesn’t it figure that’s what I’d take photos of?)

A large orange marmalade cat with piercing green eyes.

Oliver

A sleek black cat sits in the middle of the grass.

Pip the Panfur in the grass

The Poetic Stylings of Chat-GPT

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A newspaper drawing of a wild cat

Le Chat Sauvage, from NYPL Digital Collections

Goofing around with Chat-GPT (the chat sauvage?), I asked it to “Write a poem in the writing style of JC Reilly.” First, it didn’t know who I was (ugh), but when I gave it a link to one of my poems, this is what it came up with:

In this moment, I am but a flicker
A mere flame in the grander scheme
My life, a mere fragment in the picture
Of the endless and infinite dream

I am a creature of light and shadow
Walking the tightrope between day and night
With each step, I sow a seed to grow
Towards a future that’s ever so bright

I take comfort in the impermanence
Of all things that exist and persist
For I am but a brief remembrance
In the memory of what will persist

The sun rises and sets, the tide ebbs and flows
A rhythm of life that moves ever on
I embrace this dance, as the story goes
For in each moment, I am reborn

So let me be a spark in the darkness
A beacon of hope in a world of doubt
Let my light shine forth, with no less
Than the radiance that life is about

For in the end, all we can do
Is to live, to love, to dream, to be
And let our light shine, ever true
As a reminder of what it means to be free.

I think it goes without saying that I would never write such drivel. I might write some crap poems, but at least they are original crap. Among the things that bother me about this “poem” include the fact that it uses “persist” as a rhyme for…”persist.” Like, please try harder, Chat- GPT.  Also, the clear amount of cliches included strikes me as incredible.  You’d think a computer would have a lot more language to draw on, which could lessen the cliches.  That said, I do like the slant rhyme of “ever on” with “reborn.” I wouldn’t think to make that choice, and I kind of like it.  But the rest of the poem hurts my soul.

I also asked it to write a poem in the style of Ilya Kaminsky and honestly even if I had never read Deaf Republic or Dancing in Odessa, I can be sure it’s nothing like his writing.  Still, it’s a much better poem than what Chat-GPT wrote for me (and by “better” I mean “being incrementally not as bad”):

A poem in the style of Ilya Kaminsky:

The night sky is a canvas of stars
Each one a beacon, a guidepost
In this world of darkness and uncertainty
A reminder that there is light in the darkness

But what of those who cannot see the stars?
Whose eyes are shrouded by the fog of war
Or the darkness of the soul?
Do they too have a guidepost to follow?

Perhaps it is the sound of a loved one’s voice
Or the touch of a hand, warm and reassuring
Or the memory of a time when all was right
And hope burned bright, like a flame in the darkness

For even in the darkest of nights
There is a glimmer of hope, a spark of light
That can ignite a fire, a passion
And lead us out of the darkness, into the dawn

So let us hold onto that flame, that spark
And carry it with us, wherever we may go
For though the night may be long and cold
There is always the promise of a new day.

The second stanza is pretty decent (minus “the darkness of the soul”). Still, some achingly bad abstractions (“darkness and uncertainty”) and worse cliches (“the touch of a hand, warm and reassuring;” “lead us out of the darkness, into the dawn” “glimmer of hope”) doom this piece to the trash bin.

I’m not too worried that poetry is dead now that Chat GPT can write poems, because all it can write is really bad poems.  And I think most teachers are savvy enough to spot crap poetry when it’s presented to them.  Honestly I also think students wouldn’t want to turn poems like these in because they inherently know they’re bad as well.  If I were teaching poetry, and a student turned in some work like this, I wouldn’t get mad.  I’d just get really NITPICKY about their revision work, and they’d have to write a new poem because I’d mark all the places where the poem fails. (Which is about 95% of places.)

Here’s one more:

This one is supposed to be à la Billy Collins:

The world is full of mysteries, he said
As he looked out the window, lost in thought
Like the way a tree knows when to shed
Its leaves, or how a bird knows when to take flight

And there are secrets lurking in every corner
Like the way a cat curls up in a sunbeam
Or the way a flower turns to face the sun
Or the way the moon appears in the sky

And then there are the things we take for granted
The everyday wonders that we barely notice
Like the way a pen glides across paper
Or the sound of a kettle as it comes to a boil

But there are also the things we cannot explain
Like why some things are meant to be
Or why we find ourselves in certain places
Or why we feel a certain way at a certain time

And yet, even with all these mysteries
The world still manages to spin on its axis
And we still find moments of joy and wonder
As we journey through this ever-changing world.

This one at least has a few good images (“like the way a pen glides across paper/ or the sound of a kettle as it comes to boil”).  But it’s also not funny, and I think of humor as being a hallmark of Billy Collins.  Still, over all, the poem is kind of lifeless, and that last stanza is so leaden it may as well be made of concrete.

I think “lifeless” is the operating word here.  These are poems by something that clearly has no life of its own, and can only replicate what it thinks a poem is.  But it must have really bad models to produce examples such as these. This seems hard for me to believe when there are hundreds—maybe thousands—of years of poetry available online.

What is also surprising to me is that it doesn’t actually borrow lines from the poets—lines that must be floating around the internet.  That at least I could understand—a little plagiarism.  Maybe I’m even a little nostalgic for plagiarism—there is a certain art to doing it that is completely bereft in what Chat-GPT does.  Plagiarism at least requires the plagiarist to look things up to copy; Chat-GPT just makes it all up.

But I can’t be too hard on Chat-GPT.  It gave me this great recipe…which looks pretty legit:

Carrot cake is a delicious dessert that many people enjoy. Here’s a recipe for a classic carrot cake:

Ingredients:

      • 2 cups all-purpose flour
      • 2 teaspoons baking soda
      • 1 teaspoon baking powder
      • 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
      • 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
      • 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
      • 1/2 teaspoon salt
      • 4 large eggs
      • 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
      • 1 cup vegetable oil
      • 2 cups grated carrots
      • 1 cup chopped pecans
      • 1/2 cup raisins (optional)
      • Cream cheese frosting (recipe below)

Directions:

      1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease and flour two 9-inch cake pans.
      2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and salt.
      3. In a large bowl, beat the eggs and sugar together until thick and pale yellow, about 2-3 minutes. Gradually add in the oil and mix until well combined.
      4. Add the dry ingredients to the wet mixture and stir until just combined. Stir in the grated carrots, pecans, and raisins (if using).
      5. Pour the batter into the prepared pans and smooth the tops with a spatula.
      6. Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.
      7. Allow the cakes to cool completely in the pans before removing and frosting with cream cheese frosting.

Cream cheese frosting:

      • 8 oz cream cheese, softened
      • 1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened
      • 2 cups powdered sugar
      • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
      1. In a medium bowl, beat the cream cheese and butter together until light and fluffy.
      2. Gradually add in the powdered sugar and vanilla, and beat until smooth and creamy.
      3. Use immediately to frost the carrot cake.

Enjoy your delicious homemade carrot cake!

Memoir, Poetry, and Why Can’t I Do Both?

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Pastel image of a black woman wearing a blue dress and writing in a notebook.

from the NYPL Digital Collections

Yesterday I met up with a lovely colleague, Ida, to chitchat and catch up, and we spent a good amount of time discussing my writing.  I am in the middle of two projects right now, and one of them includes poems about my family or based on my family.  Ida and I had that age-old question about memoir and life writing:  what’s true, what’s what you remember, and do you dare to speak your truth?  I don’t think it’s any secret that the relationship I’ve had with my father has been fraught for most of my life, particularly late childhood and the teen years, and there are poems I want to write about certain times in my life with him, but I’m not sure I should/could.

Part of my concern about writing memoir in general (not just in relation to my father) is that I don’t feel like my life is particularly interesting (ergo, who would want to read about it?). Yes, I’ve dealt with trauma and abuse, but where most memoirists could find lots of fodder to write about on those subjects, I find that I have a very intellectualized perspective—which is not surprising, because as I’ve said other times in this blog, I live too much in my head—that resists doing the lyrical work that memoir is good at.  I also just don’t remember the feelings I had, beyond fear and anger, and even they have been dulled with time.  How can I reflect on memories I don’t really have anymore, except as brief snapshots from my life?  How can I delve into the specific details of a life which even to me are fuzzy at this point?  Where does that leave me?  Writing really banal poems, I guess.

(Hmm:  an aside. It just occurs to me that a few times I have written poems that didn’t work as poems, and I took out the line breaks and submitted them as flash memoir and they not only worked, they got published.  Hmm.  Need to think about that a bit more. I want to write poems, because poetry is where I live, but I wonder if my voice is too prosy for that—at least when it comes to writing about family.)

Back to Ida.  I was listening to her talk about her own creative writing, which focuses on Hawaii’s historic relationship with its Japanese settlers, and her own father’s participation in that system.  And I thought, she really gets how poetry collections can be about so much more than their individual lyrics—that they can tell a story that has panoramic scope.  And maybe it’s because she’s looking at a particular historic period as well as her relationship with family that the project comes across as so interesting to me.  Whereas my own life seems so whitebread and humdrum and disjointed that I can’t imagine anyone would find value in reading about it.  Hell, I’m pretty sure not even I would want to read about it.  (I’m only half-kidding.)

And yet, the desire to write poems about my life remains there, as a way to make sense of these experiences—and maybe not to lose them any further than I have.  I should have kept up with my journaling—then at least I’d have material to draw from.  But there was such darkness in my life in the terrible depression of my graduate school years that I just quit, because it was too painful to document. And then I had gotten out of the habit, even when times were better. The upshot? I’ve relinquished my past—which is a terrible thing, when you want to write about it, or need to write about it, or think you should.  And everyone knows a good journaler makes for a better writer.  But anyway.

Ida encouraged me to write a real article (like for a scholarly journal) about my process, and I can’t think of anything more gloomy and dull.  (And scary.) And to be fair, I wouldn’t know where to start.  It’s been so long since I had to do any writing that uses critical research, I’m not even sure I know how to do it—I think I’ve completely forgotten how to flex those critical muscles.  (I barely remember how to write poems, let’s be honest.). She says she would help me, but I hate to be a burden on someone who has her own important writing to do. But we’ll see.  Especially now that my job is in transition, it might make sense to try to write something real and get it published.  It could maybe help me down the line.

In other news, I’ve sent out a bunch of submissions lately… I hope I get lucky. I would love for you to read some of my new work (including this poem, How the Heart Works, which appeared recently in Third Wednesday.)

Thanks for reading this latest post, my lovies.  I hope your own writing is going well!

Love and Other Ironies

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It’s February, and our attention turns naturally towards hearts and flowers.  At least, mine does.  Complain all you want about Valentine’s Day being a “Hallmark holiday,” but I have always been a fan—even when I didn’t have someone to dote upon or celebrate with.  This gets me to thinking about something I noticed when I sent off a submission today:  I write about love.  A lot.  (For instance, four of the six poems I sent out focus on love in a variety of ways. That poor first reader, when they open that submission.)

I find this surprising, because I wouldn’t consider myself a particularly achy heart stardusty lovey-dovey type person (although, I suppose I was once upon a time…late teens, early 20s, like everyone else).  And when I think of great love poems (“How do I love thee…” etc.), I for sure don’t think of my own work.  Yet I constantly write about the heart, and love, and the way these things interact with my very odd brain—it’s never truly “hearts and flowers”—there’s usually something rather off.

Here’s an example from my first book, La Petite Mort (arguably my favorite love poem that I’ve written):

Dystopic Love Poem
 

If I were to hand you my heart,
once you scraped away the fatty tissue,
arterial plaque, and congealing blood,
you’d find it’s really just a valentine
more Discovery Channel than Hallmark,
a bit ill-used, still serviceable,
and as full of love as it gets.  After
you got past the horror, you’d find
it has its uses:  keep it as a talisman
in your pocket, display it in a jelly jar
by the window—or add shallots and butter,
a hint of merlot.  Bon appetit.

 

It’s definitely heart-felt, but it’s also kind of gross.  Which, admittedly, is part of its charm. But also there’s a lot of irony there—and I think that’s what’s twisted my love poems.  They can never just be romantic—they have to be ironic.  And I wonder if that means that deep down, I’m just… damaged.  Or maybe it means my poetic voice won’t let me write something that’s too twee and sweet because I am, let’s face it, neither.

Here’s a more recent poem, still really drafty, this one about the end of love:

Paper Heart
 
On Valentine’s I cut a paper heart
and wrote the words I meant to share.
(In another year we’ll fall apart.)
 
Say what you will:  it was a start
on making amends. Don’t you care?
On Valentine’s I cut a paper heart
 
that I cut and cut and cut apart
until it fell like confetti in the air.
(In another year we’ll fall apart.)
 
So many strange days; I can chart
them all, caught as I was in your snare.
On Valentine’s I cut a paper heart:
 
a shabby thing, no piece of art,
it makes the abhorrent seem fair.
(In another year, we’ll fall apart.)
 
Where have we gone wrong, what part
of us shriveled, shed love so rare?
On Valentine’s I cut a paper heart.
Another year passed. We fell apart.

 

See what I mean?  Here the irony is in yo’ face:  (“what part/ of us shriveled, shed love so rare”)—that’s just… bald.  No subtlety, I guess, and that in itself is ironic (because poems should be subtle), especially if you know me (and my dear five readers, I know you do!).  My point is I can’t write love poems or out-of-love poems that don’t fundamentally out themselves as an exercise in “poetic praxis” (e.g. “Look at me, look at me, I’m a POEM!”)  This is not to say I wouldn’t like to write a real love poem (and by real, I mean “good”)—I would someday, but it might just not be in my nature/wheelhouse/skillset. I might just be doomed.

But as I was saying, love does figure prominently in my writing.  If I want to get psychological about things, I might say the reason I write about love is because I don’t really feel loved.  (I am not saying this for sympathy! Intellectually, I know I am loved.)  But writing about love is a way for me to try to connect with those feelings that I…er…don’t feel.  Maybe if I write about it enough, I can crack my ironic little heart wide open and begin to actually feel it.  (But I don’t know—years of therapy about this very issue has not cured it—I continue to live too much in my head and not in my heart.)

As I think about it…it’s kind of ironic to consider oneself very good at loving others (family and friends and all kind of creatures, especially kitties), but to feel a void when that love is returned. I don’t know…is that some kind of next level shit?  Probably.

Well, putting aside my very screwed up brain, let me say this:  I love you for reading my posts.  I love you for supporting me and cheering me on.  I love you for you.  I am hearts and flowers in love with (most of) the world.  And maybe that’s why I write love poems, flawed as they are.  Maybe that’s why we all write love poems now and then, to express the expansive love that resides in all of our collective hearts.

And on that note, I’ll leave you with this little haiku:

It’s Valentine’s Day
candy hearts speak sugar truths
Luv u 4 Ever

A Different Approach to My Writing Process

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from the NYPL Digital Collections

After the revelry of December, January always shows up with austerity.  People make promises to get more healthy or to take hold of their budgets or to institute any number of changes to one’s life to ostensibly be “better.”  But habits in personal improvement take time to form, and what seems like a good idea on January 1st by January 20th seems like a pipe dream.  This year, I made no resolutions of austerity.  This year, I’m embracing abundance in creativity and experience.

It’s a different approach.  We are used to starting new years with denying ourselves what we want, but I feel last year was austere enough, especially when it came to creativity.  As you know, I had a huge bout of writer’s block and depression which made writing so difficult.  I can’t say that I’m over it—just because the calendar turns over doesn’t mean we turn over too—but I’m trying to be open to creativity and new experiences in a way that maybe I wasn’t so before.

What does that actually mean?  It means cultivating my poor stagnating heart, plucking off the dead leaves and twigs to allow new growth to happen.  It means letting go of negative self-talk (or trying to), and setting some realistic goals about writing.  It means living with wonder and courting coincidence and making time to be a creative person.  It means going back to making Friday a day designed solely for writing and reading, and foregoing meetings and interruptions as much as possible. And it means to relearn myself as a creative being—something I’ve not been in a long time.

That all sounds like a lot, doesn’t it?  It does to me too.  And I know it requires giving myself permission to be creative.  I think last year I let the fear of “forgetting how to write poems” become so much a part of me that I did, actually, forget how to write them. How can that be? you ask.  Well, to be a writer, you have to be willing to fail.  A lot.  And I think I let that fear rob me of any joy I could take in poetry.  So anytime I sat down to write a poem, all I could think of is how bad what I would write would be, so I just stopped writing.

I also plan to read more poetry this year—I sloughed off last year—and to try new forms. Most of the poetry I read last year was Atlanta Review submissions, and that’s not the same thing as reading whole, curated collections with literary arcs and motifs.  It’s good practice to be exposed to new poetry but a lot of the submissions are raw and not fully developed yet, whereas whole books of poetry are more thematically driven, vibrant, and polished. They speak as a collection.

I think I sort of forgot that.  Hence, more poetry reading in store for me.

Maybe this smacks too much of “resolution”—and we know what happens to most of those—but I think in my case I’m just going to try and see what happens when my approach to writing is different. I’ll let you know how it’s going. 😊