Category Archives: travel

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, #1

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A large pink rose with water droplets on it against a green and white background

A fat rose outside my window

My First Week Back in Edinburgh

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman on holiday in Scotland must be in want of a cold.  That’s right, I managed to get a cold and have been suffering with it for over a week. So I don’t have an amazing portfolio of pictures to show you, the way I normally do when I go to Edinburgh to teach.  Of course that will change because I have to get better soon (please God, I must get better), and I will make some trips and take lots of photos, so don’t worry.

My class, while small, seems good.  There are twelve women and two men, and they seem nice.  I’m looking forward to talking with them more about the readings, and hopefully we can have robust discussions.  They were a little shy this week, but it seemed like they did the reading and are engaged with the class, and that is all I could ask for.

Image of ornate crown molding at the ceiling, with poppies and tulips in white

Look at this crown molding in my apartment!

Tuesday, I found out that the GT professor teaching after me is teaching a class on mindfulness, so I asked him if it would be ok if I sat in on the class, and he welcomed me in.  Mindfulness is something that has been—well—on my mind since I started taking the Happiness Studies class I’m in.  I’ve been meditating and trying to regulate my breathing and just being really present with what’s going on in my life. (Granted, lately I’ve just been “present” with my cold, but you know what I mean.)

An image of an old building with a spire in the background and palm trees in the foreground.

A building near the Uni of Edinburgh’s Pollack Hall dorms

Yesterday in Dr. Verhaeghen’s class, we did a mindful eating exercise, and he gave us each a piece of chocolate from the Edinburgh Chocolatarium (which I’m going to tour on Sunday) and asked us to really look at it, notice its textures and appearance and color, then we were to smell it and notice any particular scents beside chocolate, and only then could we taste it.  But we couldn’t chew it.  We had to let it melt on our tongue first, and only at the very, very end could we swallow it.  It was a sensuous experience, and delightful.  The candy I had was a toffee with caramel (my favorite), and I had the most remarkable realization:  that after eating the candy, I didn’t want to eat any more.  It was as if the experience of noticing the chocolate with all the senses had given me a satiety—as if another piece would have just been too much.  So that was novel.  Now, when I go to the Chocolatarium, I’m sure I’ll be eating more than one piece.  (I am ok with this.)

A free Palestine flag hanging in a window

Free Palestine! A Palestinian flag in a window across from mine

Since I haven’t really gone anywhere since I’ve been here, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly observing out my window, watching the birds.  I’ve seen a number of seagulls, and a ridiculous crow determined to eat something he found in the road, only to have to fly off when the buses roll by.  There was a myna at my window ledge, but I couldn’t get my camera out in time.  But he seemed quite interested in looking in at me while I looked at him.  I’ve seen yellow finches, and sparrows and fat Scottish wood pigeons.  The other morning, the tree directly outside was full of mourning doves cooing. I’m no birder, like Kathleen Jamie in Findings is, but I enjoy birds in nature. There are a surprising variety of birds in Edinburgh—you wouldn’t think so, since it’s a city, but there really are. It’s one of the things I like about being here.

I know this wasn’t a particularly thrilling post, but it’s the best I can do being sick.  I will have more soon.

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

A Wee Dram: Speyside Whisky Tour

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I decided to take a whisky distillery tour, not because I’m a whisky drinker—I’m not really—but because I thought I should see how the national drink of Scotland is made.  I’ve spent my entire stay living next to the Holyrood gin distillery—somedays, you could really smell the mash—but I wasn’t that interested in visiting.  But whisky intrigued me, so I signed up for Rabbie’s three-day tour of the Speyside area.  Unlike the peated flavor of the Islay (pronounced “eye-la”) whiskies of the north-north of Scotland and the Hebrides, Speyside whiskies are more mellow, possibly sweeter, and lack any smokiness.  This is a good thing, because peated whisky reminds me of Lapsang souchong tea, which I just hate.

We left Friday morning, and I was thrilled when the tour guide, Stuart, told me that the tour only had five people registered.  This made so much of a difference to my enjoyment.  Suddenly, we could get to know each other intimately and really share in our whisky experience with each other.  Since I was a nearly virgin whisky drinker (with the visit to Dalwhinnie a few weeks previous being my only experience with the drink), I was really open to trying everything.  And the other members of the tour seemed really interested to know what I thought, just as I was interested in their thoughts too.  I loved this tour for its camaraderie, and I thought Stuart was a wonderful guide.  He is a true whisky afficionado, and everything he had to say I soaked up like a sponge.

Friday was a beautiful day to drive through the Cairngorms (east Highlands), because it was ridiculously clear and windy.  Unlike the other visits I made to the Highlands to the west, full of mistiness and magic, the Cairngorms sat proudly to either side of us with nary a cloud rimming the top of the mountains to ruin the view.  (Don’t get me wrong, there were clouds, just not clinging to the mountain tops.)  The sun brought out the green of the Cairngorms and enlivened the purple of the newly-emerging heather, and the sheep we saw were like little clouds in the grass.  And everywhere we looked was a photo opportunity, so it was nice of Stuart to stop the bus for a little while so we could get some pictures.

Lindores’ aqua vitae, and 1494.

Our first whisky stop was the Lindores Abbey Distillery (lowland single malt), which had been around since the medieval times, though there was a 500-year gap between when the place was a thriving abbey making “aqua vitae” and whisky for kings and now.  It recently (say, the last 10 or so years) reopened, and our guide at the distillery took us through the process of making whisky in great detail.  By the end of the day, we understood the three ingredients of whisky (barley, water, and yeast), how whisky is collected in a curly copper still, how it is separated into the head, heart, and tail (different alcohol contents, with the heart being the perfect percentage, and the head and tail having to go back and be reprocessed), how it is stored in oak bourbon or sherry casks, and how long it has to age before it can be called whisky (three years and a day).  After our walk through the distillery, we tried some aqua vitae liqueur, which was a drink with many herbs and spicy flavors, although the main flavor I tasted was rosemary and juniper (though rosemary wasn’t in the mix, according to our guide; I didn’t care for it because it seemed medicinal), and their 1494 brand of whisky, which I really liked because it was smooth and didn’t burn your throat.  I wanted to buy some to bring home, except I didn’t know how I’d get it on the plane.  (And I had hopes I could buy from their website, but they don’t sell it in the U.S.)

Kindrochit Castle ruins

Braemar truffles

Our next stop was in Braemar, a lovely little hamlet, for lunch.  I didn’t find much to eat, but I did stop in the Braemar Chocolate Shop and bought a six-pack of gorgeous truffle “jewels.”  I accidentally threw out the list of candies I bought, but of the ones I remember, there were a mint truffle, a lemon truffle, a passionfruit truffle, and a weird blue cheese and chocolate flavor truffle that was really quite different. (The others might have been a strawberry and mixed berry.)  I didn’t wind up eating the candy until much later in the day, so it kind of wound up being my dinner when I got to the bed-and-breakfast.  😊  Also in Braemar were the ruins of Kindrochit Castle (from around 1390), which were mostly just low walls people could climb on at this point.  And there were children running and climbing all over it.

You can bottle your own… for 150 pounds!

Our next distillery stop was Royal Lochnagar Distillery, near the River Dee, which bordered Balmoral Castle, a Scottish royal home since Albert and Queen Victoria bought it in 1852.  I didn’t get to see Balmoral Castle because it was deep in the woods, and I was a little sorry about that, but the distillery was interesting.  We learned much the same as we had learned at Lindores Abbey, but it was nice to see another version of the same process, and to see the large bell stills.  Additionally, we spent a goodly amount of time in the cask room, smelling whisky through the bung holes (that sounds dirty, doesn’t it?) so we could determine what kind of cask the whisky was ageing in.  And we also got to see a cask of Diamond Jubilee whisky, and the tour guide had us guess how much a bottle of it cost. Pam (the other woman on our tour) guessed $3,000; I guessed $10,000.  But the true answer was $100,000 per bottle, and I think there were only 60 bottles made.  The money was raised for charity, so I guess that justifies the cost.  But still…that’s a ton of money for a blended (yuck) whisky.

At our tasting, we tried four different bottles:  Royal Lochnagar 12 year, the Exclusive Bottling, the Selected Reserve, and the 17 year.  Of course, I liked the 17 year best—and it figures that I would like the most expensive bottle, doesn’t it?  It had quite a burn and it definitely put hair on your chest, but I liked it because it felt full-bodied.  It helped that I added a few drops of water, which everyone said opens up the oils and make the whisky more florid.  We were having such a good time talking about our tasting with each other that we had to be reminded to leave since the distillery was closing.

Brooklynn Guest Hosue

Then we drove to Grantown-on-Spey, where we were all staying for the night.  My bed-and-breakfast was the Brooklynn Guest House, although the other group members were staying at hotels.  My room offered a fancy bathroom and a comfortable double bed, a nice change from the single bed that I slept in in Inverness.  I could have gone walking into town to find some dinner, but I was tired, and after all I had my Braeburn chocolates to eat, and a Hercule Poirot novel to read (Murder on the Links).

Glen Moray flight

Saturday, I enjoyed a breakfast of fancy topped yogurt, full of granola and fruit, and eggs and toast and Scottish breakfast tea, and Stuart and the group picked me up for another day of touring.  This time, we just had a tasting at Glen Moray, in Elgin, with a Rabbie’s tour exclusive flight: the 10 year Fired Oak, the 12 year, and the Peated Classic.  I also bought a delicious shortbread to pair with the whisky, and the sweetness of the shortbread made the whisky taste better if you ask me.  Glen Moray is what you call a “supermarket whisky,” which means it’s good quality, but not as expensive as other brands—the kind you’d find for sale at a grocery store.  I liked the three whiskies offered, even the peated one, although I didn’t care for that as much as the 12 year, which had a bit of a honey flavor to it.  (Or that could have been the shortbread.)  I bought a couple of whisky glasses in their gift shop; they were only £3 each.  (They had some beautiful crystal whisky glasses, but they were £25 each, and I was afraid they might not make the trip home.  Also, hello, expensive!!!)

Craigellachie (Crag-uh-lacky) Bridge

So after drinking whisky at 10 (!) a.m., Stuart drove us to Craigellachie Bridge (built in 1814 and restored in 1964), a lovely bridge that spans the River Spey.  I walked the bridge and got some photos and then joined Parag and his brother for a walk to go to the river’s edge.  They went on to get closer to the river, because Parag was all about making his TikTok videos, while I talked with Pam and her husband and found out that they live in Huntsville, AL, and she teaches nursing at the university.  (Her husband works in the defense industry.)  Then we all ambled back to the bus and drove to the Speyside Cooperage, which is where distilleries send barrels to be put together, refitted, or repaired.  The Speyside Cooperage is one of only two cooperages in Scotland, and there’s nothing but barrels as far as the eye can see.  Afterwards, we stopped at the Glenfiddich Distillery, more just to see it than anything, since it’s the biggest and most-recognized whisky brand, and then the Glen Allachie Distillery.  At neither place did we try any whisky, but it was good to stop and nose around the gift shops; the Glenfiddich gift shop was particularly high-end and fancy.  (They had shoehorns—which I actually am in need of—made of real horn… for £54 each!)

Our tour guide Stuart in front of the MT.

This Heilan Coo needs his bangs trimmed.

We had lunch at the Mash Tun bar and pub, and while I didn’t love my cranberry jelly and brie sandwich all that much, again it was nice to sit and dish with my fellow travelers in a “spirited” discussion. Plus I got to walk by the Spey and watch a fisherman not have much luck. After lunch, we headed to the Cardhu Distillery (“The Speyside Home of Johnny Walker”) in Archiestown, for another distillery tour, though first there was an informative video about the origins of  the distillery and the fact that it was founded by a woman, Helen Cumming, in 1824.  This time they were cooking so it was crazy hot in the distillation room.  But our guide was very nice and knowledgeable, and also let us smell some bung holes to determine what kind of casks

Look at that face!

The Cardhu flight choices

the whisky was being held in.  Our tasting included the Cardhu Gold Reserve, Amber Rock, and just plain Single Malt.  I thought the Cardhu whiskies were alright; I wasn’t bowled over, but the other folks seemed to like them.  I found I added a bit of water to each one, and that helped.  Cardhu whisky makes up a big part of Johnnie Walker blended whiskies, and even if I didn’t have a snobby bias against blended whiskies, I think I would not be interested in Johnnie Walker because I just didn’t love the Cardhu (even though Stuart likes it).  I do, however, love that a woman started the company (and the video does a great job of showing how influential Helen Cumming and her daughter-in-law were as they began their empire).  The other thing I liked about Cardhu were the “Hielan’ Coos” that lived in an adjacent paddock.  And you could buy oat cakes to give to them.  (I would have done this, but the flies were so bad out by the cows that I didn’t want to stay nearby after I took pictures.)

Sunday morning after breakfast, I opened the door to go out and wait for the bus to get me, and who should run in but a handsome black cat.  He ran into the dining room, and I was nervous that I had just let a strange cat in, but the server said that Louis belonged to the B-and-B.  I got to pet him, and would have snapped a photo except that the server shook his bag of crunchies, and Louis high-tailed it back into the kitchen to get his breakfast.  I said goodbye to the Brooklynn, and got picked up.  Our first stop was Dalwhinnie.

Dalwhinnie flight choices

While I had been here before and tried their flight of three whiskies, again, because I was with our group, I had a much better time.  The whiskies were paired with chocolates, as before, which brought a pleasant sweetness to the four drams:  the 15 year, the Winter’s Gold, the Distiller’s Edition, and the Distillery Exclusive Bottling.  I was still partial to the 15 year, but the Distillery Exclusive Bottling was also very nice (and only available for purchase at the distillery proper).  Additionally, because now I had more knowledge about whisky in general, I could appreciate them a little better then the first time I had tried them two weeks before.  The other group members were quite in love with the Winter’s Gold, but to me, that version had an unpleasant earthiness to it.  Not a peaty taste, but a heaviness that I guess might be nice in the middle of winter when you’re freezing your bezonkus off.  Still I didn’t care for it.

Edradour Distillery wasn’t open to the public.

The Mash Tun bar inside Blair Athol.

We stopped in Pitlochry first to look at Edradour Distillery, “Scotland’s Little Gem,” which has been closed since Covid, but the grounds were lovely.  Then we drove back into town for lunch (the third time I had been there), and I went to McKay’s fish and chip house and drank a Lemon Fanta and enjoyed chocolate orange ice cream for dessert.  Pitlochry is apparently a bit of a retirement community; it has a busy high street with lots of tourists, but the town itself is sleepy and charming.  Before we left town, we stopped at the Blair Athol Distillery, which had a Mash Tun bar (I guess it’s a chain) inside, with the bar itself resembling a big mash container.  We all tried the “flavour flight,” which was composed of four whiskies, the Cragganmore Distillers (sweet), the Singleton 12 year (fruity), the Blair Athol 12 year (spicy), and the Caol Ila 12 (smokey).  I liked the Blair Athol the best, but the others were fine… maybe not the Caol Ila which was really peaty, but it wasn’t bad, just not to my taste.

The Blair Athol Distillery is overgrown with ivy

Blair Athol Distillery was our last stop before coming back to Edinburgh.  The ride home was pretty quiet—all of us whiskied out for sure—and I mostly chose to reflect on what a good time I had, even though I wasn’t expecting anything in particular.  Not being a practiced whisky drinker, with a special developed palate, I just tried everything with an open mind, learning what I could.  I can definitely see now how people collect whiskies—Stuart told us about his collection, for instance—because they are like wine in that each one is different and even among the same distillers, the whiskies are different depending on how long they’ve aged, and in what.  But unlike wine, you can open a whisky, and it won’t go bad in a few days—you can just have it until it’s gone. I asked Stuart how he decides which dram to drink on any given day, and he said it absolutely has to do with his mood (and how cold or hot it is).  That makes sense; but from what he told us, he has a number of bottles (maybe 30-50, I can’t quite recall), so that’s quite an arsenal to choose from.  I’m still wondering how he decides what to pick when he has all those choices.

As for myself, I will start my collection small, because I don’t imagine that I’ll be drinking too many drams any time soon:  I’ve gotten Glenmorangie, Grangestone, and if Total Wine ever gets it, I’ll get a Dalwhinnie 15 year, and be happy with those.  And I look forward to trying a flight of whiskies with C. and demonstrating all my new knowledge.

Of all the tours I took, this one was my favorite.  While I didn’t see as many beautiful places to take pictures of, I got something better:  the opportunity to hang with five other people all very present in the moment and all enjoying many wee drams of whisky.  It was definitely worth every penny I spent on the trip.

More pics!

The Cairngorms

The Cairngorms

The Cairngorms in panoramic view

My bedroom at the Brooklynn b-n-b

Parag, Parag’s brother whose name begins with a T, Pam’s Husband Jeff?, and Stuart in front of the Craigellachie Bridge

View of the Spey from the bridge

View from the bridge

Glenfiddich (Glen-fid-ick) Distillery

Speyside Cooperage barrels

Glenfiddich ducks

Glenfiddich’s founders

Daisies in front of the Brooklynn Guest House

Cardhu bell stills

A cemetery by the Spey

A wonderful dog on the High Street in Pitlochry

Hayfield above Pitlochry

Dalwhinnie flight paired with chocolates

A footbridge above the Spey

An unlucky fisherman in the Spey

Entrance to Blair Athol Distillery

Cardhu wall sign

Brooklynn Guest House sign

Glen Allachie (Al-uh-kee)

The trees outside of Blair Athol Distillery were black from the barley smoking process (I think)

The Glenfiddich sign with our bus in the reflection

Glenfiddich’s family sign

Roman Britain

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Hadrian’s Wall

I decided to take a day trip down to see Hadrian’s Wall in the north of England.  It was strange:  as soon as we crossed over from the Borders, the land grew flatter (but still with periodic hills) and more farmy.  I was going to say “less interesting” but considering I’d never seen England before, that seems a rather ballsy or condescending thing to say.  Everything is interesting once—or it should be, the first time you see it. The emptiness of the land appealed to me.  Aside from the sheep and the occasional stone wall, the north of England is wide and green, but there’s not much in the way of habitation.

Hadrian’s Wall with a Roman lookout on the hill

A constant wind blew, the sun was a little over-warm, and hardly any clouds laced the sky. As I carefully picked my way through the grass and path (to avoid the preponderance of cow patties and pellets of sheep dung), I made my way to the wall and was once again amazed to think that anything from 1900 years ago could still last.  (And yes, I know there are older ruins throughout the world, but I wasn’t focusing on them.)

In my class, we had been reading Kathleen Jamie’s book of essays, Findings, in which she writes, among her discussions of nature and human coexistence, about how what humans make durable now are throw-away items like plastic bottles (she also focuses on a discarded doll head). Plastic doesn’t go away; we invest our durability in garbage, basically.  The wall, on the other hand, was made to outlast invasions and to protect the people, and yet it works with the land in its purpose.

The fact that parts of the wall still exist demonstrates how humans can adapt to the natural world without spoiling it.  Of course, much of the wall is gone—the stones used for other walls or huts or claimed by the earth again—but when you see the wall, you feel connected to the past but also to the land.  The wall moves with the landscape—at least, the remnants do, and its durability is something that at once seems both amazing and invisible.  It’s easy to see the wall as just another stone wall in the fields, used to pen sheep into certain territories; it takes on significance when you know what it is, and know its history.

Afterwards, not far away, we visited Vindolanda, the remnants of a Roman fort.  The tour guide told us he’s nuts about the fort and the museum where items such as pottery, jewelry, leather shoes, bones, coins, and weapons have been catalogued.  Seeing it from a distance is quite remarkable because it looks almost like a giant stone maze—except the stones are maybe knee-to-waist high—so you could totally find your way out of the maze with no problem. 😊

The mausolea

I wandered a little bit through the stones, and they impressed me because each area had a specific purpose such as the butcher’s shop, the temple to Jupiter, the bath house, and barracks, but I confess I spent the majority of the time there eating lunch, looking at the museum (especially the jewelry—I’m nothing if not predictable), and visiting with other women on the tour as we all journeyed up from a hellacious hill and needed to rest and recoup. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in the stones, it’s that they were kind of just…there.

Rebuilt Hadrian’s fort and wall

What was more intriguing was that restorers had rebuilt a section of Hadrian’s wall and the fort in wood and turf as well as stone.  The guidebook suggests that the Romans made parts of the wall in wood because they were hurriedly trying to keep out marauding tribes.  And so this recreation is kind of an experiment—to see just how long it would survive.  The guidebook also mentions that the turf wall has sunk a bit because of marauders too—this time, rabbits.  Which kind of makes me laugh.

Jedburgh Abbey

The other major site of interest we visited was Jedburgh Abbey (in Scotland), which—of course—was also under reconstruction so you couldn’t wander in it, but as with Melrose Abbey the day before, admission only cost half price.  I liked the Abbey, but there was no wandering around the entire church so you could only see it from the one side.  But I found a quiet garden bench and enjoyed a little snack there in the corner, feeling contemplative and peaceful, and wishing a little bit that a poem would come to me.

Enjoy the photos—although there’s not much to see but broad English vistas.

The Vindolanda cafe

Hadrian’s Wall, kind of overgown

The English sky. These clouds look like flying saucers to me.

Somewhere in the Scottish Borders

Moffett ram statue…it does’t have ears.

Moffett High Street

Roman lookout on some hills. At the bottom you can see a couple of people for scale.

More Scottish Borders

My Vindolanda Lemon Fanta

English Hills above Vindolanda

English Hills behind Vindolanda to the east (?)

Fort Wall at Vindolanda

Fort wall

Rebuilt stone fort for Hadrian’s Wall at Vindolanda

Hadrian’s Wall

Hadrian’s Wall

Hadrian’s Wall with cows

Hadrian’s wall in the right foreground with a Roman lookout on the hills behind

English sheep

Looking at Scotland from England

More Hadrian’s wall

Looking at England from Scotland

English border stone

Scottish border stone

Jedburgh Abbey

Jedburgh Abbey

Jedburgh Abbey garden

Jedburgh Abbey

A Scottish wind farm. Scotland is 100% carbon neutral and produces enough renewable energy that they can power the country three times over.