Dispatch from Edinburgh #5–Around Town

Posted on July 14, 2026 by JC Reilly

Sometimes, you can smell the salt sea spray here in central-ish Edinburgh, a welcome respite from the car exhaust and cigarette smoke that can permeate the air as you walk along the streets. On fine, windy days, when the air is fresh, the salt might tang it, but there’s no guarantee. This past Friday, however, as I was walking home from the Omni movie theatre (where I saw the live-action Moana), I found a bench not far from my street (Annandale) where I could just breathe in the sea air for a little while, closing my eyes and imagining. Granted, the Port of Leith is only a mile north of here, and water surrounds Edinburgh to the north and the east, but it is unusual to smell the sea air inland. It made me long to be by the water, and I promised myself I’ll go to Portobello (“Porty”) beach before I leave.

All this by way of saying I’ve been sticking around town recently. I love to take my trips to the Highlands and islands, but the driving and the sightseeing and the being managed become waring after a while, and then I get home exhausted (and my foot hurts more than usual). Plus, I am the temporary co-director of the Scotland Summer Program, so I need to be in town in case there’s An Incident with a Student needing an adult to step in. (*Crosses my fingers, no student has An Incident*).

Two yellow tents and a white tent at the Leith Market

Leith Farmer’s Market

Edinburgh has so many sights to see and places to explore it’s easy to get overwhelmed. For me, I try to see one or two things on a weekend so I feel like I’m still enjoying the town even though most of my time is taken up by teaching, grading, and doing homework for Happiness Studies. Last week, I went to the Leith Farmer’s Market (as I mentioned I might), and took a bracing walk from the tram to the market. The space held maybe 20-25 stalls, including typical offerings such as fruit, bread, and fish, and other items like hot sauce, kombucha, prepared salads, and pastries. I chose two salads—one was quinoa, carrot, and potato; the other was pomegranate, sweet potato, and spinach. At the bread stall, I bought a pear tart/ frangipane (custard), and at the fruit stall, I found fresh Scottish strawberries and a personal-sized watermelon (delish!). At the cheese and meat stall, I bought a little pecorino cheese with orange (it sounded good at the time), although I was shocked to find out that this 3 oz cheese was £8. (There I go again, complaining about the cost! I’m such an old lady sometimes.) There was a stall dedicated to a graphic artist and his work, and I bought a small poster which I will frame and hang up when I get home, and I bought some copper and silver earrings in the shape of manta rays from Blue Kitty Creations. Of course, I don’t think of manta rays and Edinburgh having any special connection, but they were lovely, and I couldn’t pass them by.

A view north towards New Town but there's so much mist you can't see it

The mist over the city obscures New Town

This past Saturday, I woke up to a town wreathed in mist that hung around all day long, obscuring the sky, obscuring the streets: people and cars appearing suddenly in front of you when you least expected it. The spookiness thrilled me, actually, and I loved walking around Edinburgh in the smirr, as if the whole city were disguised. I took the bus to Southbridge, then walked down the east side of the Royal Mile to get to Holyrood Palace—a place I’ve been meaning to visit these past four years but have only now gotten to. There were a few interesting signs on the walk, including one advertising the Scottish Poetry Library at Crichton’s Close, which I may have to investigate at some point. And another one at St. John’s Pend which memorialized the knights of St. John, and “houses occupied by famous families and occasionally by Smollett.” (I vaguely remember reading The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle in my 18th Century lit class many, many years ago.) I also passed by the Scottish Parliament house, which apparently can be visited by the general public, but it was locked up tight on Saturday. Even MPs need a day off, I guess.

Holyrood Palace

Holyrood Palace is a working palace, which means that Prince Charles (and Queen Camilla) conduct Scottish business here and stay in the palace when they are in town. It is more comfortable and more recently built than Edinburgh Castle (although “recent” is a misnomer, being as the palace was built up in the 16^th Century but bits had been around earlier). Dinners, meetings with dignitaries, and other formal events are held here. Pope Leo even met King Charles here. I liked the palace very much, with its dark brocades and many tapestried rooms. The wooden floors creaked, and the paintings were interesting, especially in the Great Hall, where artist Jacob de Wet had painted almost 120 portraits of royalty, real and imagined (although the Hall only featured about 97) at the request of Charles II. de Wet painted one painting a week for two years. In order to shore up Charles’ right to the throne, and to emphasize his ancestry, each of the paintings bore Charles’ nose—even the few women on display. Once you know this fact, you can’t unsee the nose—it’s everywhere. (I can’t imagine painting a new portrait each week—I can barely imagine writing a poem once a week, let alone create a whole painting!)

Off the Great Hall is Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley’s bed. It’s walled off in glass so that it can’t be touched. Perhaps the fabrics are too delicate. But the bed was enormous. Strangely, the bed is considered Darnley’s although if I understood the audio tour correctly, the bed dates from 100 years later. Meanwhile, the upstairs rooms belonged to Mary Queen of Scots, and you have to climb this tiny, steep spiral staircase to access them. The dimmest lighting fills the larger of her rooms, with few sconces and spotlights on specific items, especially the jewels. Darnley’s locket interested me the most—it’s in the shape of a heart with enamel cutouts, including a figure of a man (presumably Darnley) with a flower coming from his private parts to symbolize his son. There were also other jewels, including a parure that Mary gave her favorite lady-in-waiting, who apparently lived with her in exile in Queen Elizabeth’s castle for most of the 19 years Mary was imprisoned. Mary’s rooms highlight the tour of Holyrood, and apparently there is a bloodstain on the floor where Darnley killed Mary’s Italian secretary, David Rizzio in 1566, but I didn’t see it. I’m glad I didn’t see it. (By the way, I have no pictures of inside the palace because photographs aren’t allowed.)

A far view of the Royal Yacht Britannia at dock

HMY Britannia

Another local sight of interest is the Royal Yacht Britannia. This was the monarchy’s yacht, commissioned in 1954, a couple of years after Queen Elizabeth II became the Queen. It first sailed to Malta from Portsmouth allowing Prince Charles (then age 6) and Princess Anne (then age 4) to meet back up with their parents after their parents’ long tour of the Commonwealth. And what is interesting to me is that for all its luxury, the ship seems small. Perhaps “intimate” would be a better word—although how intimate can it be with all its staterooms and a dining room, dripping in silver, that can seat over 20 people?

The royal sitting room with soft couches with a loud flower print on them

The drawing room

I like how comfortable the rooms are, with soft couches and chairs that invite a person (not a paying visitor, obvs.) to sit and take a moment to enjoy the space. There are drawing rooms, and living rooms, and several nooks throughout the ship designed to take tea or breakfast or simply to sit at as well, and areas where the family could privately congregate, away from visitors. As for bedrooms, I was surprised how small the beds are—they are only size double because they couldn’t bring any larger mattresses on board (something to do with the doors, I’d guess). And both the Queen and Prince Philip had their own staterooms and dressing rooms. It seems a little strange to me, but I suppose each member of the royal family always enjoys their own room and space. It is the privilege of the wealthy not to have to share. (Unlike the crew who crammed into their bunks by the dozen.)

The engine room

What was also kind of cool is that we could look down below and see the engines and machinery used to run the ship. The noise must have been phenomenal—and the heat!—when the ship was moving. I can imagine it was terrible to be down there. Also down below were a sick bay (the surgery) and hospital beds, in case anyone should come down ill. And on the sides of the ship, were a luxury speedboat and a sailboat. Overall, a floating palace, 412 feet from stem to stern.

The foredeck

The Royal Yacht Britannia has five decks, and a lovely open space on the prow to sit and take the sun. I can imagine that in summer the Queen and Philip lay out on chaises on the wood deck, her in a huge brimmed hat with sunglasses like a movie star and him wearing a button-down shirt and shorts. Perhaps their children played with a bouncy ball and tried very hard not to toss it overboard. I was thinking this as I found a seat and enjoyed the sea air (which wasn’t as salty as I would have liked) and people-watched for a while. But eventually, I exited the ship and went into the Royal Deck Tearoom (which is on the tour) for a cream tea and a sparkling water. (A cream tea comes with a fruit (sultana) scone, a plain scone, butter, and clotted cream and jam, as well as tea and milk.) I sat in the very center of the room, jealous of the people to my right who got to look straight out onto the water. The tearoom was fancy, and the silverware sparkled. And my scones were good, though , though they took a little while to come out. (They were being baked.)

Next weekend, I’ll be taking a boat tour of the Firth of Forth (basically the Forth is a giant estuary) near the bridges, and I will see about heading to Portobello beach for a little sun. (Of course, visiting the beach is weather-permitting, but I already bought my boat ticket, so I’ll go on that trip no matter the weather.) You can be sure I’ll be writing about those excursions too, so keep a lookout for another post.

These tasted amazing!

A wedge of pecorino cheese "with orange."

Note to self: cheese and orange do not mix.

My pear frangipane

Leith Farmer’s Market

My new earrings

A small watermelon with bright green rind

Everyone needs their own personal watermelon.

The inner courtyard at Holyrood, with a bright green lawn.

The inner courtyard at the Palace

A large arch allowing entrance to the Holyrood Abbey ruins

Entrance to Holyrood Abbey ruins

A statue of a man holding a fiddle in the Holyrood gardens

The Holyrood Fiddler

The Abbey ruins

Outside the Abbey are some flying buttresses, but they are hard to see in this photo, so you're really not missing much

Outside the Abbey ruins, some flying buttresses

Entrance to the outer courtyard of Holyrood

Abbey ruins

Inside the Abbey

Entrance to the Abbey

A view of Holyrood Palace from outside the gates

A view outside the gates of Holyrood

Sign in front of the Scottish Parliament that says Queesnberry House, Parlamaid na h'Albe Taigh Queensberry. (That second part is in Gaelic.)

Outside buildings to Holyrood Palace, including an entrance into the shop

Outside of Holyrood

A sign for Crichton's Close and the Scottish Poetry Library

I’m going to go here at some point.

A view of the Scottish Parliament from outside the tall gates

Scottish Parliament outside the gates

A sign mentioning St. John's Pend and Tobias Smollett

The sign that mentions Smollett

A proud seagull sits on top of a chimney against a blue sky

Look at this guy. He thinks he owns the world.

A large copper pigeon statue (maybe a foot and a half high). It's copper has turned green with patina.

A rando pigeon sculpture I found on Leith Street

A fancy speedboat

The ship is so long, you can’t get a full picture of it.

A small room with a desk that I believe belongs to the ship's doctor. (But I could be wrong.)

I think this is the ship’s doctor’s desk.

A green patient exam bed stands in the ship's surgery

The surgery

What’s on tap at the Prince’s personal bar?

A bed for a sick patient in the ship's sickbay

Sick bed in the sickbay

A thin tiny room with twelve bunks for crew (6 on each side)

Imagine being a crewmember and having to sleep in those tiny bunks!

A small silver model of the HMS Thunderer (1872)

The Prince’s office

The Queen’s office

The dining table

A breakfast nook

A silver statue of a ship, but it's behind glass so there's a lot of glare.

A small statue of a silver ship behind glass (so there’s a glare).

A room with several overstuffed chairs, a coffee table, and a fireplace.

The Queen’s cozy sitting room

Closeup of the side of the ship

A couple sit at a table overlooking the water in the tearoom

They’re sitting where I’d like to sit!

The foredeck

A cozy couch and rocking chairs with blue print design on the entrance into the ship

A cozy couch beside big windows

A boring hallway between staterooms on the ship. A man with a backpack is walking away from the camera.

The hallway between staterooms

Prince Philip’s stateroom

In the foreground a bed with another ugly print bedspread; in the background 3 windows and a fancy vanity.

The Queen’s Stateroom

The foredeck

A small dining room with a captain's uniform behind glass hanging up behind it

The private dining room for the Captain of the ship

A scale model of the Britannia

Dispatch from Edinburgh #2–Return to Mull & Iona

Posted on July 2, 2026 by JC Reilly

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

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

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

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

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

Loch Tulla

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

Rannoch Moor

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

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

Loch Linnhe

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

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

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

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

Southern view of Duart castle on a grassy lawn

Duart castle (south view)

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

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

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

Silver service at Duart Castle

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

Brooch

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

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

Iona Abbey

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

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

Iona Abbey Cloisters

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

Stained glass window of St. Columba

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

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

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

Iona Nunnery

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

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

“Are you someone important?”

“Me?”

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

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

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

“I doubt it.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

CalMac Ferry to Oban

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

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

Pennygown graveyard

Old ruins of Pennygown church

A picture of Pennygown graveyard through tall grasses

Pennygown graveyard, Mull

Duart Castle

Inner courtyard of Duart Castle

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

Sound of Mull (from the Duart battlements)

The Sea Room

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

View of the Great Hall from the entrance

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

Piano at the entrance of the Great Hall

Portraits of Lady MacLean and Col. Fitzroy MacLean

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

Daggers in the weapons case at Duart Castle

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

Great Hall looking north toward the entrance

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

Hotel gardens on Iona

St. Oran’s Chapel at Iona Abbey

View of the Sound of Mull

MacLean’s Cross

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

Another view of the Cloisters at Iona Abbey

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

Cloisters statue

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

Inside the Iona Abbey church

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

Detail of the Cloisters

The Iona Abbey great stone arch over the altar space.

The Arch above the altar space

Statue of St. Columba beneath an arch at Iona Abbey

An altar statue at Iona Abbey church

Sepulchre of St. Columba

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

The altar at Iona Abbey

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

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

A stone burial crypt of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll

Duke and Duchess of Argyll’s crypt at Iona Abbey

Another view of the ruins of the Iona Nunnery

Iona Nunnery wall

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

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

Ruins of the Iona nunnery

A sunny mountain view from the Craignure ferry depot

A tall, white lighthouse on the Sound of Mull

Lighthouse on the ferry ride from Craignure to Oban

A statue lying down near the altar at the Iona Abbey

A statue near the altar at the Iona Abbey

A large standing stone from the Kilmartin cairns

A standing stone at the Nether Largie standing stones

Sheepies running free

A flock of sheep behind standing stones at Kilmartin cairns

Nether Largie standing stones

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

Fishing trawler at Inverary, on Loch Fyne

Loch Fyne

Another lying-down statue at the altar at Iona Abbey

Another statue at the altar of Iona Abbey

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

A sunny day in the churchyard at Kilmarten

Churchyard at Kilmartin

A tall, thin stone church next to some grave stones

Kilmartin Church (for sale)

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

Another Nether Largie standing stone

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

Another view of the altar

Me, freezing my face off on the ferry to Oban

Dispatch from Edinburgh 2026 #1–Lots of Castles

Posted on June 24, 2026 by JC Reilly

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

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

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

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

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

Falkland Palace

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

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

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

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

An image of Dunnottar Castle, overlooking the North Sea

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

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

Castle Fraser

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

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

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

Crathes castle

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

A tree at Crathes castle in the walled gardens

Large abstract topiaries at Castle Crathes

Crathes castle topiary

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fyvie castle pipe organ

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clava Cairns

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

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

Clava Cairns standing rock

Large, shiny coper stills at Cardhu distillery, Scotland

Cardhu Distillery stills

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

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

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

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

Blair castle, home of the Duke of Atholl

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

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

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

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

Castle Fraser dining room

Castle Fraser dining room chandelier

Renaissance style dress

A large dining table in a soft green room

Blair castle dining room with wedding dress in the background

A fancy ceiling at Fyvie castle

Regency pelisse

Regency dress

Castle Fraser gentleman’s smoking room

Castle Fraser library

18th century dress

A thirsty baby moo

Another 18th century dress

Castle Fraser bedroom with crib

Castle Fraser morning room

Castle Fraser governess’ suite

Castle Fraser nursery

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

A quiet little nook in the walled gardens at Crathes castle

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

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

Thunderton House

Our wonderful tour guide at Fyvie castle

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

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

More topiaries at Crathes castle

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

This might be a large poppy at Crathes castle.

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

18th century men’s fighting tartan uniform

Atholl nursery

Blair castle?

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

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

Little House in the Highlands

Posted on May 8, 2026 by JC Reilly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dispatch from Edinburgh #5–Afternoon Tea

Posted on August 5, 2025 by JC Reilly

The Georgian restaurant at Harrods

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

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

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

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

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

Desserts and scones

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

Willow Tea Rooms

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

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

A sleepy Heilan coo!

View of Prestonfield House from the gardens

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

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

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

A cool spach

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

Prestonfield tower o’ treats

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

Prestonfield desserts

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entrance into Prestonfield House

A brown Heilan Coo placidly getting rained on

Teapot at Prestonfield House

Strawberry-pepper tart

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

Another view of the Rhubarb Room

So many glasses!

Pineapple-coconut-ginger mousse ball

Pistachio macaron

The Peacock in a tree!

Harrods matcha ball

Harrods Apricot-Thyme tart

Harrods Chandelier

Harrods chocolate mousse cake

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

Savory crackers at Prestonfield House

Dispatch from Edinburgh #4–Islay and the Whisky Coast

Posted on July 14, 2025 by JC Reilly

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

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

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!!!!

Posted on June 28, 2025 by JC Reilly

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.

Scotland 3.0

Posted on May 18, 2025 by JC Reilly

Now that it’s past my birthday—in other words, half-way through May—I’m feeling the nervous energy of going back to Scotland this summer. There’s so much to do to get ready—laundry, packing, teaching prep, laundry (did I mention that already?) and so much on my mind. As much as I enjoy being in Scotland, which truly feels like a second home, there are adjustments to be made—in temperament, in expectations, even in time management—and it’s hard leaving my life in Georgia. I’ll miss C, I’ll desperately miss my cats, and I’ll miss my very American creature comforts (like pizza and a king bed). And while the compensations are many, it’s hard being absent from my everyday life for two months. I can hear some of you say, “Oh poor JC, how hard it is for you to live in a beautiful country full of culture and mystic mountains and men with sexy accents, you poor dear.” Well, I did say there are compensations, after all.

This time I’m teaching only memoirs/ nonfiction. In the past, I’ve taught memoir, fiction, and poetry (to greater or lesser success) but I’ve revised what I want students to do for a big project this time around. I want them to write their own travelogue, specifically about Scotland. They will be reading Jackie Kay’s Red Dust Road, Kathleen Jamie’s Findings, Robert McWilliams The Kiss of Sweet Scottish Rain: a Walk from Cape Wrath to the Solway Firth, and for a dash of fun, Sam Heughan’s and Graham McTavish’s Clanlands: Whisky, Warfare, and a Scottish Adventure Like No Other. The authors are two actors in the Outlander show, and while it’s not AMAZING literature, it’s definitely charming and gives a different perspective on Scottish life.

Hopefully my students will look past the fact there’s a lot of reading (though it’s not hard) and just allow themselves to get sucked into the stories that are being presented. I also thought only having them have to read 4 books instead of 6 or 7 as I have done previously might allow them to go deeper into the material. We’ll see. (I am afraid they—and I!—might get bored droning on about the books for 5-6 days at a stretch, but hopefully we can co-create knowledge that we’re all interested in.)

I have been reading other books for insight. I read (most of) Sally Huband’s Sea Bean: a Beachcomber’s Search for a Magical Charm: a Memoir, which is about a woman who searches the beaches of the Shetland islands for useful detritus, specifically sea beans, which are seeds of large plants that have drifted across the ocean. Finding one is, apparently, quite a prize, especially if you can get it to grow. I’ve just gotten to the part where she starts discussing how much plastic washes up on shore, which breaks my heart to think about those relatively pristine islands being befouled by floating garbage/ plastic. But I chose not to have the students read this book because it wasn’t—if you’ll forgive me—Scottish or memoirish enough. And it’s also very slow. But I’ve certainly enjoyed learning about the Shetlands, and I hope to finish the book soon.

Another book I’ve been working my way through is Lochs & Legends: A Scotsman’s Guide to the Heart of Scotland, by Andy the Highlander (Andrew McAlindon, with Lily Hurd) which is kind of an armchair history of Scoland. It’s light but informative. Finally, I picked up Scotland: The Story of a Nation by Magnus Magnusson, but let’s be honest, it’s thick and I’ve only been using it as a doorstop. I need to actually crack open the spine and read some of it. (But it’s thicccc with four C’s!) I do like to give a mini lecture on Scottish history at the start of the class, and I got this book to help me do that. I swear I’ll start reading it ASAP. Maybe tomorrow, in other words. (Haha.) I do have other notes on Scotland prepared, but I did think this book would add some richness to my knowledge—of course, I should have been reading it all along. Mea culpa.

Truly, I am looking forward to my third summer in Scotland, and I hope to do a few new-to-me activities, like go to the Writers’ Museum, visit St. Giles’ Cathedral (and this time actually going in instead of hemming and hawing about spending £5 for the entrance fee), maybe take a Ghost Tour, and finally, finally, finally take one of the double-decker tour buses around the city. (I keep saying I’m going to do that, then I never do.) I also thought about going to Surgeon’s Hall, especially because Kathleen Jamie writes an essay about it in Findings, but honestly, I’m too afraid of being squicked out. (I do have a low tolerance for yuck… even if it would be intellectually interesting and teach me a lot about the history of medicine.)

Anyway, I promise you lots of pictures and lots of reporting on my visit… one more thing I have to add to my never-ending list of things to do in the coming weeks! (Oh dear!)

My Last Scottish Tour

Posted on August 4, 2023 by JC Reilly

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 13^th 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

The Isles of Mull, Iona, and Staffa

Posted on July 11, 2023 by JC Reilly

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 6^th 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: