London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part Seven: “Edinburgh”
Buy the cheese! This may seem obvious to anyone who has been to Edinburgh before, but I was a first timer and never saw such advice in any travel books. Rick Steves probably finds other cities to buy his cheese. I’ve never been a great coinsurer of cheese. I either know; I like it, or I don’t. Guess I’m like that with wine too. The price, the name or even the variety means nothing to me. What I do know is that I’ve now smuggled cheese from two continents back to the US. My cheese smuggling only happens when I’m not traveling with my wife. First it was a round of goat cheese (like I said I don’t know cheese – but it was good!) found in a very backwoods cheese shop in the mountains outside Riobamba. As the Customs/DEA dogs sniffed their way through the baggage at Miami International Airport I was certain I’d, at the very least, provide lunch for them, but they stuck to their mission and I avoided eye contact. Chicago was a breeze after that. No dogs, no worries. These days the authorities seem happy that nobody is smuggling C-4 into the country… ‘course it was probably made here in the first place. Anyway, the cheese is good, and if you go to I J Mellis Cheesemonger you will find they are very helpful about letting you sample until you find the one you like.
Third Hint: It wasn’t something that we didn’t expect and experienced. It was something that we did expect and didn’t see.
While I’m on food I should say we never had a bad meal in Scotland. Even though we were only in Edinburgh for two days, I quickly became convinced that this is a city of great food. Just as I’d like to bicycle through the Highlands, I’d like to eat my way through Edinburgh.
I adore my sisters three boys. They are friendly, smart and hard working. A couple years ago Dehan, the youngest, was a groomsman in his friends wedding. When he showed us pictures we knew they had lots of fun with this wedding. The brides family strongly identify with their Scottish roots, and the wedding, while held in Canada, was more traditional Scot than the majority of weddings in Scotland; men in full tartan regalia (if of traceable Scottish heritage of course) and damsels in classical wedding gowns, bagpipers, drummers and such things as sword dances. That’s the first time I ever saw a member of my own family in a kilt of clan colors. Okay, it was the first time I ever saw anybody in my family wearing a kilt. Fortunately, he looked great, tall and handsome, doing the Farquharson Clan proud.
The formal wedding garb would have been over-dressed in Edinburgh; however we did see men wearing kilts throughout Scotland, most of them in this city. There are kilt shops scattered around and one quickly learns that “hand sewn” is the ticket to quality and authenticity. It is obvious that kilts for men are popular with some men in Scotland, but my guess is that if kilts are going to make a comeback (assuming there was anything to come back from) in the US it’s going to be up to companies like Utilikilts. But for traditional look and style, without the made in Scotland price tag, check out Burnetts & Srtuth.
Assuming you read Part II of this series you are aware we spent a far bit of our London time admiring the automobiles. An amusing side note to that story happened while walking down Edinburgh’s Princes Street.
There are many great things to be said about both Edinburgh and London. However it’s kind of like comparing your cousins. Lets say one comes from Southern California; she’s bright, cheerful, loves to play at the beach and has a flair for fashion. She’s terrific and you really like her as a cousin. So how do you compare her to your other cousin who’s from Montana? She’s terrific too. Healthy and happy and full of life. Only she’s happiest in blue jeans, hanging out with her horse friends and she get excited about church socials.
Obviously, there is nothing wrong with either, you love them both, and it’s their differences that makes you enjoy each in a different way. That’s the way it is between London and Edinburgh.
A yellow Lamborghini Gallardo does not look out of place in London. In Edinburgh it is a study in contrast, and becomes a study in humor when you realize it is the same car we had seen drive by our café in London. How do we know it was the same one? Well, during our hour and a half long eat, across from Gloucester Road Station, that particular Lambo drove by at least a dozen times. Maybe all yellow Gallardos look alike, but we noted that driving that car was a slight, young man (early twenties) of Arabic decent, alone in the car talking on his cell phone – each time he went by – very noticeable. Sure enough, as we peered into the window of the flashy, high performance sports car gracing the local landscape, we quickly spotted the same chap. Yes, still alone and still with a cell phone plastered to his ear.
Hen parties: Not sure, but I think I could have gone through my entire life and never written about hen parties. However, since this was a new concept to me (I knew my education was lacking) I will chime in.
Friday, upon arriving in Edinburgh, we bought tickets for the tour bus. It ended up being our favorite way to survey and transport around towns. You meet lots of friendly people from all over the world and see and hear a great deal in a short time. It became obvious that this was also the preferred mode of transportation for young females getting ready to marry off a friend. They were easy to spot. First, instead of speaking German and carrying huge purses, they spoke difficult English (not clucking), carried each other and wore a kind of uniform chosen for it’s brilliance, accessorized with some sort of head gear; antlers or antennas.
Like the Germans they were quite friendly and seemed to be having fun. Unlike any foreigners we saw, the “hens” pretty much stood up and yelled out of the top deck of the bus a lot. Now, my education is complete. The idea of a hen party is to have some fun with your friends before it’s too late. Party on girls!
Now that it appears that I just endorsed the actions of young, drunk, carousing females, I must set the record straight. Christ loves successful human relationships. Jesus’ first public sign/miracle was turning water into wine at a wedding feast. Marriage should be celebrated and so should friendships, but our lives and therefore our actions should seek to glorify God.
So when I say, “Party on girls!” I mean celebrate, have fun, enjoy each others company, embrace the moments you have had together, be silly, soak up life and show your love for God and your intent to glorify Him in all of these…they are not mutually exclusive.
Stories of the spread of Christianity throughout Ireland and Scotland are fascinating. Don’t for a minute think that it was spread to the pagans via threats of the sword. Quite the opposite was true of early missionaries. In addition to the must see: Edinburgh Castle, visit Saint Giles Cathedral. A full day was barely enough time for these two incredible historical sights; drama, courage, intrigue and honor still resonate there, like no other place I’ve been.
Us Americans just get wowed by the sheer age of everything in Europe. Imagine, when New York (the city) was full of stick framed shanties and tenements, Edinburgh was a complex city complete with six story buildings that are still sound today. The Scottish enlightenment yielded further architectural and engineering feats that took us another century to rival.
There, I proved my point; I’m and American, and I’m wowed. You will be too when you go to Edinburgh. One might argue that they’ve coasted on the laurels of the greats of the eighteenth century for most of the last two hundred years, but hey, haven’t we all? As you ponder that, check out Robert Adams. Here is a guy that Howard Roark would have felt was a waste of time mixing trappings and developing a neo-classical sense of style, but then again Roark was a fictional character who never built anything and Adams was not only the real thing, but left a legacy that, like it or not, is still emulated today.
If there is another point that should be made about the architecture of Edinburgh, it is the conscious planning which has evolved over the centuries. There are many examples that could be cited, including the Nor’Loch. At first it probably seemed an excellent idea to throw human waste out the window of your high-rise. After all, soon a rain might come and wash it all down into the nearest stagnant body of water. Problem solved. But then again, there usually are unexpected consequences with such perfect solutions, especially when the solution is dilution.
Alas, the visionaries of the city installed drains at low points and instead of keeping the pollution in their own back yard, they allowed the rains to carry it out to the North Atlantic. At the same time, draining the Loch and creating much needed open space for a great park, rails and gardens. Pretty much, that’s what I’m talking about. Everybody’s life was improved (except some fish, of course); health, recreation, transportation, access to affordable housing and the perpetuation of an age old institution known and NIMBY were all brought to a higher mark.
Among the countless examples of thoughtful city planning in Edinburgh, is New Town. Here we go again, being wowed by the antiquity thing; New Town was the brain child of Lord Drummond built in the 1750s. Not convinced? Show me a “New Town” in the US that’s over two hundred years old. Anyway, It’s lovely, in an ordered Georgian way and was a purposeful escape from the city problems of the day. Namely the same things that drive people out of cities today, overcrowding, crime, health risks, having s**t thrown on your head (see Jim’s comment in my post on Fiber) and overpriced real estate. Don’t be surprised to hear our prolific architect friend, Robert Adams mentioned again and again throughout the UK, especially Scotland (national pride), including New Town.
Something which was a particular delight to me, though I’m not certain why, as I really do not like cities, was the wonderfully carved crescents. I’m referring to streets that are quite literally crescent shaped. We are all use to city blocks, well crescents are city blocks with finesse; curved gracefully around a lenticular shaped park are a pair of streets joined at each end. Flanking the park just across the streets, are a continuous row of elegant Victorian styled sandstone flats. We spent two nights in one, in a very nice neighborhood. Sure there was a noisy gang of inebriated young men strolling and singing from one pub to another, but that’s my segue out of Edinburgh architecture.
After walking all day, seeing the sights (seeing some of them twice or three times), eating too much great food, and sleeping dorm style did not make us want to stay out late (other than in London – massive changes in time zones are great for late nights). By Edinburgh we crashed into our bunks a little after nine and read with flashlights until we were too far gone to read on. Surprisingly, I was not upset about being awakened on our last night by a band of weekend revelers on the street below. Especially when I looked at my watch and saw that it was barely 10:00!
The other thing that had to make me laugh was that I awoke to the singing of a familiar tune: “Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?.” I mean how great is this? Sleeping in a youth hostel bunk bed positioned parallel to the giant bay window with a street light shining through the tattered, partially drawn curtains, overlooking a sweet park from the third floor of a hundred and twenty year old building located in a foreign city; waking slowly to the dulled sound of drunk drinking Scotsmen singing the opening theme to a children’s TV program filmed in the US. In addition to the humorous juxtaposition, I instantly recalled being a willing, (and stupid) participant in a large group singing the very same song while walking down Pacific Avenue after leaving the Shamrock Bar in Wildwood NJ. Of course that was in 1979.
When Eli sleeps he does it with gusto. Even though my beaten sports watch no longer has a face plate, it does have a reliable alarm. However, that morning I didn’t need it. It was the last day of our trip. We were to catch a bus at Waverley Station (track work), get the train in New Castle, travel to London’s Kings Cross Station, shuttle over to Paddington Station and then take the Express to Heathrow airport, fly to Chicago O’Hare and on to Seattle, then get driven home. We had a long day ahead of us and both Eli and I missed our family sorely. One missed connection would lead to a fiasco… that was one adventure I wasn’t going to allow. I woke the sleeping giant in the top bunk and went to take a shower. Guess he was excited to see the fam too, ‘cause he was up the next minute.
It was still dark when we hefted our backpacks and hiked to the train bus station. It was obvious nothing happens early Sunday morning. The heavy fog cast an eerie spell on our walk through a vacant city. It caused us to move faster than we had planned, so we hit the station a good hour before our bus was to leave. Fortunately, one of the two people actually present at that hour was a barista. We kicked back and enjoyed an unapologetic breakfast of lunch sandwiches and mochas.
Anybody who reached the line for the bus more than a ten minutes before it was to leave, got to meet the train in New Castle on time. We watched as they held up about twenty people, and told them, “No room, it’s full. There’s another bus, it’ll be ere shortly. Don’t worry.” They should have worried…that second bus never made our train. An hour early…maybe a bit excessive, but we made our connections!
The Revelation: Now, the moment you’ve been waiting for. The bus ride was Scotland’s last shot at providing the “complete” Scottish experience for us and as you know (if you’ve read the other related travel posts) we left disappointed. So what is all the fuss about? The answer is very hairy, owns a tail and has hooves. That’s right: The
humbleabsent Scottish Highland Cow. Not one to be found anywhere we traveled. None found in the Highlands where one might look first, none in the Central Highlands where cattle seem more common and finally none in the Lowlands, where we were so desperate that any shaggy cattle-like beast would have counted.Within days of being home I saw about twenty Scottish Highland Cattle on two different farms within fifteen miles of our house. Granted, our study was unscientific, but the conclusions are intriguing: Scotland no longer has any Scottish Highland Cattle. They live here now!
London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part Six: “Cape May, NJ?”
You may find this to be a strange post regarding our UK travel experience. Strange because this is not even about the UK, and while the S.S. Atlantis (see photo) does rest just off of “Jersey”, technically its hulk was wrecked off Cape May, New Jersey. The ship was made of concrete and you’ll just have to read on to understand the symbolism and connections.
My next “Travel” post will conclude my “London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations” series. It’s with much trepidation that I finish this series. It’s not only because I must share the biggest disappointment of our trip, (click here) but I’m forced to confront something that is not in my nature. Either way, I will find myself writing about it, but first I must share something personal that will help you understand what I mean.
I have this thing that I’ve dealt with my whole life. I love starting things, but I hate to finish them. I’m sure some of you armchair-psychologists-types have me classified and probably think I need a certain drug to set me straight, but let me tell you how I deal with myself in a more natural and satisfying way.
Now that I’ve confessed my problem, you’ll not be surprised to find that in my childhood, I started everything and finished nothing. It drove my parents crazy. Nothing they did seemed to help. My closet was full of evidence that I couldn’t finish anything. It stood as a temple of shame, complete with the icons of false starts: A couple of dusty musical instruments, a football helmet and pads in like new condition, even a golf club or two that had never hit a real ball. My baseball card and stamp collections sat in shoe boxes waiting for sense to be made of them, and a pair of carefully cut out moccasins lay perpetually flat in need of lacing. Behind our house, I had a great ladder nailed skillfully into an ancient apple tree, but never got around to finishing the tree fort with boards to sit on. Once I saved enough money to buy a really cool gas powered toy plane but never actually learned how to fly it.
You get the idea, so many ideas and so little motivation to actually finish any of them. Here is what happened to me. When I was thirteen I loved to sail. Sailing was a huge motivator to me. I wanted so badly to stay at my aunt’s house all summer that I was willing to do anything to stay in New Jersey, just so I could get a chance to sail a couple times a week. It turns out that my parents conspired with my aunt and if I was willing to complete one task, I would be able to live out my whole summer there. Cool! (Notice I’m resurrecting the “cool” of 1973.)
That task was quite a challenge for a 120 pound adolescent, but one I could not pass by. In addition to my normal lawn mowing chores I had to get familiar with a ten pound sledge hammer and break up the hardened mass of concrete that had been spilled the year before. My dad had purchased a sizable “portable” cement mixer which had been pre-owned by the US Army. It could mix a yard of cement at a time and run for hours, if you could get it started. As if to prove how temperamental it was, she was given the name Esmeralda.
Dads stated goal was to produce all the sidewalks around my aunt’s new house and swimming pool. Looking back, I think the whole idea simply appealed to his do-it-yourself / stretch a dollar attitude. This brings us back to my Scottish ancestry and perhaps a joke that you can relate to.
Question: How was copper wire invented?
Answer: By two Scotsmen quarrelling for a penny.
I knew what I was getting into when I said, “Sure, I’ll do that.” But if you recall, starting was not my problem. The next day my dad and I went out to examine the extent of the task which lay before me. “Break this up, load it into the wheelbarrow and dump it over there.”
As he left me, I started a ritual which would eventually consume and change me. My dad suggested that I start with the easy stuff, but heck, I could break that up with a shovel and I wanted to swing that sledge. Six minutes after I started I was through.
Truthfully, I have no recollection of how I felt. Maybe I was defeated by the sheer reality of the project, or daunted by hardest labor I had ever done. But no mater my initial feeling, the next day I was out there again. This time I pounded that concrete with everything I had until my hands were blistered and my muscles were no longer able to raise the heavy hammer.
There was no turning back. Each day I spent an hour or two plying everything I had against the amorphic form that Esmeralda and her handlers had spewed, spilled or flushed out the year before. The progress was slow. Some days I found myself pounding on close to a foot of the hard stuff with only a quarter of a wheelbarrow to show for my effort and on others, I’d clear half a yard of concrete, gravel and sand. Another thing that was changing was my desires.
First I thought only of the reward…sailing. By the time my blisters healed I was focusing on the work being accomplished… effort of the work itself. With half the summer gone, I simply went out there every day for the discipline of work. There was no longer any focus on sailing. That became another category of life, totally disconnected with the work at hand. Even completing the task of cleaning up the concrete and debris was secondary.
It was the work…the steady discipline of starting: gathering the tools, putting on the work gloves, deciding the next step, literally chipping away moment by moment. That became the essence of what I was doing and why I was doing it. There was no greater purpose…it was just the regimen of the work itself.
That’s how I’ve conquered my problem. My personality-default still favors starting, but now I start fresh each day and I begin each task anew. Eventually, the day comes that I find myself starting something (usually that I’ve been working on for a long time) and finish that same day!
Our trip to the UK is a great example of that process. While traveling we are forced to keep plugging away. A new city, another train, different food, renewed accommodations, fresh adventures…joys, longings and trials. Starting and finishing becomes irrelevant and memories become the only meaningful experience. My kind of reality!
So, my next travel post will be my last regarding our London and Scotland trip. It will be difficult for me to write. Sure I’ll start it with no problem. Then, I’ll leave it half written for a few days. That’s when my coping method will kick in…I’ll revisit the task; start again, soon I’ll begin to love the act of writing and before I’m ready…it will be finished and you will experience my memories of Edinburgh.
Second Hint: The coast of Jersey and New Jersey have something in common. That name has something in common with the naming of the thing (animal, vegetable or mineral) which lead to our only disappointment in Scotland.
London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part Five: “Falkirk”
If you’ve been reading my “Travel” posts, you know by know that Eli and I loved our trip to London and Scotland. The people were terrific and the countryside, architecture and history phenomenal! However, I must confess a singular disappointment – or is it frustration? Actually, to be truthful, I’m still dealing with it. Most people probably think it’s not a big thing and maybe it is a little over the top for me to be so disturbed by it. But in truth, I am.
Now, I feel it’s only right to share my disappointment with you. However, if I told you what it is right now that would deprive you from the same emotion, that feeling of frustration – or is it dismay? – that I felt upon leaving the Highland and arriving in Falkirk.
Try to understand that I was anticipating something and it never materialized. While it was not enough to ruin our trip, it did leave a void that is still not satisfied. Now that I have carefully crafted that same sense of expectation in you, the devoted reader, I feel it is only proper that I somehow generate the feeling of dismay… or is it resentment?, in you. Therefore, I will not say what it is quite yet. Perhaps, I’ll taunt you with hints now and again. Maybe I’ll even throw you a bone that will allow you to guess what it is, but ultimately you will just have to feel my pain.
In my defense for doing this, is my sincere desire that you understand what I’ve been going through and this is the only tool which will come close to getting you to that point. Go ahead and send scathing comments. I can take it. You should know in advance that I am SORRY for doing this, but it is for your own good. Just remember, I never even got a, “Sorry” from Scotland or any of its representatives.
Both before and after our trip to Scotland, one of the most common questions I am asked is, “Are you a golfer?” The answer is “No.” I understand that Scotland is a Mecca for certain sects of the religion of golf. However, we never really paid much attention to any golf courses we passed. Guess I saw one in Inverness, but they really don’t impress me too much. I’ve never even held a golf club unless there was a “windmill shot” somewhere in the course. So as for golfing and Scotland, I’m not much help. However, Eli and I did have an amusing golf related experience while preparing to board the southbound train in Aviemore.
Our train left a little after eight in the morning. We were the first ones to the station and crossed over the picturesque bridge to get on the correct side of the train. Neither Eli nor I are great morning people, but even we were awake by the time we made it out on the platform. Standing, with backpacks propped up against our legs we stared in amazement as a boisterous foursome bust through the doors opposite us. For a moment they stood there staring back at us, seemingly confused as to why we where on the other side of the tracks. Then the platform manager repeated the same thing he had told us minutes before.
It was clear that two of the group were the dads the other two were their – just out of high school – sons. Judging from the large bag of golf clubs draped over each shoulder and the golf shoes in hand it was also clear they where heading off to have a day on the links. As if choreographed, they each set down their golf bags and a round of beer’s appeared, laughter ensued and they made their way over to our side of the tracks. After a few minutes the bottles where empties, they asked again when the train was arriving. “What tha ‘ell.” One of the dads joked. The rest all laughed as they reached out to receive his offer of another round. The train came and we never saw them again, but I do wonder what their tee time was.
Even in other ways the train ride from Aviemore to Falkirk was an eye opener. The tracks meander for a long while through unpopulated areas. Skirting hills and piercing valleys there is a peaceful quiet that makes you wonder what century you’re in. The sleepy trance slowly lifts as sure signs of a town appear; there is a serpentine rock fence leading to a ruin, too small to be an ancient castle, but the remains of what someone once called “home” distracts from the sheep dotting the pasture. It’s no surprise to see a steeple marking the town just up ahead. Just when you get to thinking that the Clearances might still be ripping people out of the highlands you see a man in boots and a cap walking with a black and white dog (Do dogs come in any other color in Scotland?). Then, as if to put our mind at ease we pass children playing, oblivious to the train, ensconced in solid color sweaters their mothers put them in earlier in the day. As with most of the villages, this one is too small to warrant a stop and before long the sheep become more visible than signs of human habitation, the rocky pastureland returns as if nothing had happened.
By the time this scenario repeats itself a half dozen times you are surprised to see anything different. My daydream of someday returning with my wife and riding from village to village by bicycle faded as the scenery began to change. Whether finally I noticed or simply turning a corner caused the stage to change, I don’t know, but our train did pick up speed as large open fields, set aside for hay crops, dominated the landscape. Here and there we’d see some Angus cattle loafing on muddy paddocks next to steel barns — just like home. By then the romance of the Highlands had given way to better soil and the security and efficiency of the business of agriculture. In time even that turned eagerly to examples of light industry and commercial enterprise. Only then, did our train seem to have a reason to stop.
Still, the Central Highlands would have been yet another wonderful place to spend a month. We had to settle for a day. Ever notice how some people just radiate one of their character traits? Friendliness, kindness, hope, sympathy, frankness…? A young woman and her father joined the train in Stirling and situated themselves in the seats beside us at the same table. The man was not old, maybe mid fifties, but was hesitant in his movements and speech. He carefully metered his behavior like someone who had been retrained to use foreign nerves for new purposes. While there were no obvious physical signs, I’d judge he had suffered a stroke or some brain damage years ago and was doing quite well considering what he had been through. His daughter was stunning. Upon first glance, few would pick her out as such. While her complexion was pure and fresh and her smile complimented the soft blue of her eyes, she would probably not draw most people’s attention upon passing. There was no ‘bling’ in her frame, clothes, or actions that said anything other than… “If you see a poised, twenty year old woman, that’s good, because that’s exactly what I am.”
“So, big deal,” you should be asking. “Why even comment?” That’s a good question and I certainly would have forgotten it, had she not opened her mouth. I had been dozing prior to that stop and found no reason to wake up fully as the couple took their seats. Then she began speaking to her father and immediately I came out of my trance, to find myself in another. Her voice was lovely. That’s all there is to it. She spoke to her father in a gentle tone with a warm, pleasant lilt that instantly conveyed her love and respect for him and at the same time entertained and soothed him. I was floored! So much so, I opened my eyes and searched Eli sitting across from me for his reaction. He was mesmerized and it was obvious he was trying hard not to stare across the table into her warmth.
After a couple minutes they settled into a quiet politeness that we saw so often in the trains in the UK and in time I found a question to ask, just to engage our new neighbors in conversation (read: to hear her again). Her father acted interested, but mostly silent, as his daughter delighted Eli and I in dispassionate, but lovely prose.
All too soon, our chance meeting came to an end, our stop had arrived and we reluctantly left the train at the Falkirk station. We both smiled as we stepped off the train into the brisk sun. Deep in that special corner of our mind, the place reservered for relvelation, was the knowledge that we had met the quintessential Scottish lass.
Ranald was our key to Falkirk. How we met was totally a surprise to me. After finding out we were heading to Scotland my mom gave me a letter written by her cousin in 1954, about her trip to Scotland. I cannot seem to hang on to anything for more that a couple of years, but I’m glad my mom is not like that. Reading the letter helped me get some ideas for our trip. The first thing I did was to Google the name of the family farm. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do, as it was the last place in Scotland that my ancestors lived. Don’t know what I expected, but in the day when you get a half a million hits on an obscure search phrase, I was surprised to find only four mentions of the farm’s name. Three of them somehow related back to Ranald and all were threads over five years old. I grabbed Ranald’s and one other email address and sent off unsolicited notes to them (something that I have gone years without doing) with info about who I was and a couple of questions of a general nature about the farm.
Before a couple days passed I was corresponding to with Ranald and Steve, a distant cousin from a branch of the family that went to Australia instead of Canada. Steve, my relative actually had pictures of the farm and even one of my mom and aunt in the 1940’s (courtesy of his grandmother’s brother who stayed in contact with my grandmother). It’s fun to find lost family and make connections, although the whole genealogy thing gets overwhelming very fast.
Ranald, while not family, turned out to be from Falkirk, is a “Resident Historian” (maybe unofficial, maybe not) and in true Scottish fashion is very active in civic activities and perpetuating his deeply thought-out opinions regarding problems in the area. We rendezvoused at a parking point not far from the station and there began our fabulous adventure with a new friend.
We walked the site of the Battle of Falkirk Muir, which took place in January 1746. Here Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobites defeated Government forces pursuing them. No doubt I had a few ancestors who were celebrating that night, and since I’m here today, I’d guess at least one went home the next day instead of dieing with honor later on, as that was the Princes last victory. A very interesting read about this battle, the bloodshed to come, and everything else Scottish is How the Scots Invented the Modern World by Arthur Herman. Then we skipped past one of the many places that the Antonine Wall is still visible. Constructed during the reign of the roman Emperor Antonius Pius (138 AD – 161 AD) the wall runs across Scotland at its narrowest point. Unlike Hadrian’s Wall the Antonine Wall was built of turf fronted by a ditch 12 feet deep and from what I’ve gathered, actually seemed to work to keep the early tribal “Scots” out of the “civilized” world.
These days no visit to this area is complete without a look at the Falkirk Wheel. Quite the engineering marvel. But by this time, I was chomping at the bit to get back to my roots and see the farm my great grandmother left over a hundred years ago. Our quick new friend and tour guide anticipated my desire to get on with things and we set off to Yonderhaugh. It is still an active family farm, only the family is no longer the Finlay’s. For over seventy years Ian’s family has lived and farmed this fertile bottomland not far from the River Carron. He remembers the visit in 1954 of my mom’s cousin (the one who wrote the letter she saved)! What a fun and delightful man, and his wife Sandra totally is his compliment in graciousness and class. After a quick look around and sharing some pictures of the place, we were invited in as if we were kin. We sat at a Formica topped kitchen table and told stories and laughed while Sandra tempted us with shortbread cookies, sweet bread and tea. All things must come to an end and we exchanged email addresses and said our long goodbyes. “You Americans are great-ones for huggin.” Sandra remarked as she hugged me back. After a few pictures, we left with happy hearts.
One last stop. It was the parish church (Church of Scotland – read: Presbyterian) not far from the farm. It likely was the church (Kirk) that my family frequented as they were born, grew and died in this open valley. The history is lost on me. Ranald knew more about the life and ways of my ancestors than I will ever know. There is something about local knowledge. As we drove past the site of the famous Carron Iron Works, he said, “During hard times your relatives probably worked there.” And then before the thought of eighteenth century hardships and labor practices sunk in, he turned his attention to a very ’sixties-modern’ car dealership turned furniture store and added, “its shameful.” Looking concerned, as if responsible, he then motioned to an ill kept seventeenth century three story building, that would have been torn down long ago had they not been built with castle like methods. Sorely disappointed and knowing more about the politics than could be conveyed, he added, “It awful the way they ruin things…no care.” Some things are universal and we got the idea. We see it here too. Buildings, like neighborhoods and cities are like people when it comes to decline. If nothing is done to improve…it will not.
First Hint: Ranald’s disappointment is not the one I was referring to at the beginning of this post. Guess you’ll have to read on. Next stop is Edinburgh. Okay, that really was not a hint. So in fairness I’ll provide one. When told about my disappointment, Ian (the farmer) suggested that it probably was because of recent (last three or four years) government agricultural regulations.
London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part Four: “Aviemore”
The women conductor on the train called over the intercom Ah-VEE-more in a wonderful sing-song voice. The station sign simply said Aviemore. In somewhat smaller letters, just below, was the requisite Gaelic translation: Aghaidh Mhòir. This made more sense after a little exploration. We always think of Stonehenge when we think of ancient stone circles erected by people who spoke ancient languages. Not anymore. From now on I’ll think of the 4000 year old Aviemore Stone Circle and the rugged souls who pushed and pulled those rocks around.
To paraphrase the historical marker sign: ‘This stone circle indicates early human inhabitants, [Really?] and we buried it with dirt to preserve it for future archeological research.’
Actually, it makes sense. Since they don’t have the time, money or desire to preserve and protect it today. Instead, they pile on the dirt and make it so the huge stones won’t topple and crush the visitors and it makes it difficult to take home souvenirs, like giant rocks and old human bones and stuff.
Then, there is the added fun of someday watching student archeologist pay the University for the chance to dig it all up again. It reminds me of Tom Sawyer persuading Ben to whitewash the fence.
“Say, Tom, let me dig a little.”
Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind: “No – no – I reckon it wouldn’t hardly do, Ben. You see, the department of antiquity is awful particular about this stone circle you know…Yes, they’s awful particular about this circle; it’s got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain’t one grad student in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it’s got to be done.”
(Adapted)
And that’s how they get college students to spend their summers removing dirt with a little tiny paint brush and paper cup. [Have fun.] Strangely, this photo must have been taken a while back, as now there is a residential development encircling the circle. Notice the freshly mowed lawn. I’m certain the neighborhood children have developed a very challenging game of “football” around and through the liths. I know I would, but we were there at dinner time.
When you travel to new places, sometimes you get a whiff of a place you’ve been before. No, I’m not talking about past life stuff. That’s a bunch of crap. Ever notice past life is big with people who have weak minds anyway – sorry if you get into that – maybe take up chess! The sense I’m talking about comes from similarities which you’ve experienced before. Another place with the same smell or the way trees express texture and colors. Maybe a sound that is reminiscent of your childhood. Even the certain feel of the wind dancing on your face. This was Aviemore to me.
In this small town, smack in the middle of the Highlands I found a subtle mix of sensations from my life. Not one of them was unfamiliar. There was a little Skykomish, Washington; a bustling “last stop” before you venture off and leave moderate climate and creature comforts behind. Definitely, some Naples, New York; a rich history, but overwhelmed by newcomers with new ideas who get uneasy when they feel that first fall nip descending off the surrounding mountains. Without a doubt, a little Sandpoint, Idaho; with a population of people who are there because of choice, not birth, who wonder, “Do I belong here?” And there is a sense of a North Carolina Appalachia, not the people or the music, but the hills and valleys. Finally, it is like Whistler B.C. in that virtually everyone that a traveler actually comes in contact with seems, as we put it in the States, to be born-n-bred elsewhere. As you explore the region’s splendor, you quickly figure out that most of the people you meet don’t have roots here.
After arriving by train in the evening, we hiked the short distance to the Aviemore Hostel. The young fellow behind the desk, with his nose in a book checked us in and more-or-less answered my questions, more-or-less in English. It really didn’t mater as we both enjoyed figuring out what the other was saying. Turns out he is an avid reader, loves his short term job, enjoys meeting everybody and has a smile that transcends language and culture. He’s from Poland and is in no hurry to go back, something about, “Here, many books, much time, I read. At home… NO time.” I know the feeling.
Of course, Hostels typically draw an international clientele so the fact that we didn’t meet anybody who’s native language was English, says only one thing about Aviemore. “It and the Carigrome Park, in which it is nestled, attracts travelers from everywhere. Not that we didn’t want to stay and try out our French, German and Japanese, but we were hungry. So we made our way to the North end of town, checking everything out as we went. After stretching our legs and narrowing our choices between fish and chips of potato’s and the Indian restaurant. The Royal Tandoori Restaurant won. Very fancy, actually elegant (read: china, cloth and silver) and the food was some of the best Indian cuisine I’ve ever experienced. The price was just a bit excessive, but after hanging tough in pubs and markets for a couple days it was well worth the splurge. Guess why it was so authentic, that’s right actual East Indian owners living and doing business in the middle of Scotland.
I hate to belabor a point that you have already figured out. So I’ll sum it up and cut to the chase. During our two night stay in Aviemore, we came into direct contact with about twenty individuals and not more than three were actually Scottish.
One was a waitress in a sandwich shop. She was a pretty blond girl, who was very distracted by a rather eager fellow who apparently wasn’t allowed into the restaurant. The situation didn’t make for stellar service, but she did come back to ask us, “Is everything alright?” on her way to use the bar mirror to re-apply her makeup.
Another was a window washer. He got a little careless and broke a lamp near us. The coffee shop was owned by what I gathered was a modern Turkish family living and doing business in Scotland. The distinguished businessman didn’t seem upset at the broken lamp. Guess it just represent some window cleaning he won’t have to pay for. The banter of a postal worker (actually he was Scottish too, but he really didn’t talk to us so he doesn’t count) walking past caught our attention. He couldn’t help but tease the window washer about wasting a university education. The lamp breakers retort was informative, however. Apparently wielding a squeegee is more fun and more lucrative than putting a university education to use. Good to know.
The third was a friendly chap at the shooting range chatting it up about the &@@#%! shotgun shells he’d bought through a magazine at a discount. He was not pleased, but he was Scottish and had hoped he could save a few bucks. Our instructor on the other hand was a newcomer from England. He and his wife, moved to Aviemore eight years ago, ‘before it got crazy.’ It’s the good life… plenty of time and an ideal playground for hiking, hunting, fishing and every other outdoor activity. Does that sound crazy to you?
I’m certain there are other places that are very multicultural, but the last time I was struck by such a diversity I wasn’t in a tiny town in the mountains far away from everything I was in Anaheim at Disneyland!
Surprise is the best thing (most of the time) about traveling, and Aviemore was a delightful surprise and not just the people. Here is the amazing thing. It rained on us 80% of the time we were there and we still had a practically-perfect time. Another amazing thing is when our busy day of touring, shooting, eating and sightseeing was done we had hiked a good 16 miles. Not only did we see the castle ruins in the mist of Loch an Eilein, but were treated to deer and other wildlife. Unfortunately, we didn’t see a Scottish Wildcat although we kept our eye peeled for one. After our hike and while still getting rain soaked we had great fun shooting clays at Rothiemurchus Shooting Ground. With the expert instruction of Mike (the “retired” transplant from England) our shot gunning precision increased rapidly and both Eli and I hit for twenty out of twenty-five at five different stands. It was beyond our expectations.
Question: Why go to the Scottish Highlands to shoot clays?
Answer: Because we could.
London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part Three: “Inverness”
At first it seems ironic to arrive in the economic and political center of the Scottish Highlands and realize that you are standing in a place that’s not high at all. Inverness is no more above sea level than most other coastal cities. Sure, on our way up the map, to this quaint city, we passed through hilly expanses carpeted by heather, rimmed by Scotch pine, mixed with an abundance of rocky crags and no shortage of Brigadoon mist. But once in Inverness, surf boards on a car wouldn’t look out of place. Yet, it only took two hours to come to terms with this geological faux pas.
It is the people and their unique culture which creates the Scottish Highland. It has little to do with altitude or latitude or for that matter, continent. The Highlanders we met seemed content with their plight (good or otherwise) while maintaining a free spirit with an open and friendly demeanor. Fanned with a few drinks the friendly Highlander, turns into a pleasant, gregarious instant-friend (unless you support the wrong soccer team). They obviously love family and family time and are quick to invite others into the mix.
We may have looked like foreigners, but I quickly got the idea that our faces just didn’t look familiar. Followed by the idea, that being unfamiliar in a local pub was reason enough for a greeting. Nobody looked surprised when Dorothy left her seat to meet us. She was a smiling fifty year old woman, with bright blond hair. There was no getting around her even if we wanted to (we didn’t). “Aboot time I haz a look at yooz. An’ what a large-un wee ‘ave here (almost falling backwards looking Eli in the eye). Where ye from?, com un’ sit doon.”
Quickly, I realized that her song was not meant to be a couple of statements followed by a question and command. To the best of my reckoning, it translated as, “I don’t know you. I should know everybody here. Boy, he’s tall. So come on and give us a hug and let me talk to you.”
Dorothy is a hugger, which I’m told is not typical of much of the UK, but then I get the idea that the Highlands are not typical of much else in that part of the world. Her husband, Jim, apparently had been waiting a long time for his “surf-n-turf” (does anyone even call it that in the states anymore?). No matter, as long as there are people to talk to. The upside is; the longer the wait, the more to talk about, so it all works out just fine. Have another round. They probably picked us out as different when we ordered our meal with our first drink order. As a result we finished eating way too fast for anybody’s comfort. Come to think of it we finished in less time than it took Dorothy and Jim to get back to their table with their third drink of the night. Must check in and make sure every one’s Mum is “dooin goot.”
By far it is the people with the most outstanding character that create the most notable memory. Dorothy and Jim, I salute you with a non-alcoholic toast: “Your character opens up the Highland for all who venture into your Pub.”
Unlike the US, workdays begin and end around a 9-to-5 schedule, surprisingly, even for many of the restaurants. Neighborhood pubs fill the food void left by closed eateries and unlike their American equivalent serve as a place for family (young and old) and friends to enjoy community. Now that public houses are non-smoking they are even a better place to have an excellent draft and enjoy the friendly atmosphere around reasonably priced food. Two thumbs up for neighborhood pubs in the UK.
P.S. We don’t get it over here. We probably never will get it. So please don’t establish any pubs/bars in my neighborhood. Thank you very much.
Now, since I’m of the opinion that being a Highlander is defined not by geography, you may be thinking it’s about race and heritage. Not so much. If you go back far enough in Scottish history you quickly find that the purebred Scot doesn’t exist. Personally, I was able to shock my wife of Swedish ancestry by informing her that our children are part Norwegian! In another time, that might have been grounds for exile, but once I explained that I had learned that my Scottish decedents had been pillaged by Vikings (or possibly Norsemen marooned on the coast) she agreed that there was little that could be done. “Cheers to mongrels everywhere!” Now-a-days, some of our best friends are Norwegian and mankind is getting along a bit better. So maybe you are a Highlander. I hope there is some of the rugged, interdependent, free spirited nature that typifies the Highlander in all of us. “Here’s to the tribe!”
A quick look of the struggles of this area reveals centuries of feuds and wars. After the typical problems, which develops when people steal each others things (cattle, sheep, wives and children…), most of the unrest in the Highland was due to the next level in the hierarchy of conflict…religious and political maneuvering by powerful (family) leaders and (government) officials. Even without conflict, the Highlands seem a difficult place to make-a-go-at-it. The people mostly sustained themselves as beast herders and hunter–gatherer types. A modest soil made for equally modest agriculture. Then of course there was always life on the sea searching for fish (making stealing cows seem safe). As is usually the case, whether in war or famine, it is the common people who get the worse of it. Scotland is no different anywhere else, it takes generations to get over the hardships created with the subsequent loss life, property and opportunity. Probably, that’s why there are thirty or forty million people of Scottish decent in the New World and only five million in all of Scotland.
A tough life apparently requires a tough national symbol. The thistle: we actually saw gardens with thistle planted in it. Heck, Edinburgh even has a Thistle Street. At home I’ve become a keen advocate for the dandelion as an integral part of a healthy lawn (a dandelion’s taproot digs deep into the subsoil, grows pretty yellow flowers, you can eat the whole thing, worms love to hang around their roots, when mowed they seldom take over, in fact, they will live happily along side grass and clover (and other weeds like thistle) with a non-compete agreement keeping the lawn greener with less water and care than any grass could). However, I’m not ready to embrace the thistle. Perhaps I need to have my mind opened to the positive or even the symbolic stance as to why this noxious weed could become an icon of a nation. Please help me with this one. P.S. I know they’re pretty when blooming…but watch out!
Thistles aside, Inverness is an interesting place to explore and there is a wide assortment of fascinating people coming and going and staying. Our second meal was just as notable as our first. We found a great place for mochas — kind of a Scottish “Starbucks” (the real Starbucks abound in the UK now, but what fun would that be?) Funny thing, though no longer surprising, was they opened at 9:00 AM (don’t laugh the owner probably had breakfast with his family and dropped his kids off at school). The sun was shining down the street and its warmth encouraged us to sit down at a little table outside and enjoy our breakfast. Within minutes three retired ladies asked, “Doon’t mine, we ave a free chair?” Before we knew it, they were sitting with us at our table. In the US and certainly in England, they would have moved the chairs to one of the other tables and lit up their cigarettes elsewhere, but hey this is Inverness Scotland. They were delightful and friendly and for a second I wished I’d smoked so I could ask for a light.
London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part Two: “London”
Here’s a hint for travel in the UK. Buy a BritRail pass before you leave home and use the trains! They are clean, reliable and take you through gorgeous countryside. Second hint use Rick Steve’s website and guide books. They are the best. Whether you want to hire a driver in a Bentley to be your personal tour guide or you plan on backpacking through the UK you will never regret the modest investment.
We landed in the morning (London time) and my wife’s advice was, “Take a City Tour bus and stay awake as long as you can.” I always listen to her, so that’s what we did. When we got too tired to see any more of the sites, we checked into the *Baden Powell House. A short afternoon nap did the trick and we set out again for dinner at a sidewalk cafe across from the Glouster Station. We took full advantage of the incredibly slow service and enjoyed watching people, cars and how they did things up and down the street. After dinner we checked out the Tube for the shot trip to see Piccadilly Circus at night. To my delight it was much more sane and tame than the impressions we yanks get. After hanging on every corner and getting our fill of more people watching and the sites and lights, we found a nice restaurant that had the brilliant idea of marketing ice cream (was more like gelato, but they called it ice cream) to the crowds through a street-side window. For only three British pounds, we stood in one of the chambers of the pounding heart of London and thoroughly enjoyed two healthy scoops of quality ice cream. Sure, you could get a McFlury at the McDonalds around the corner for one pound, but what fun is that?
*A note on Scouting and the Baden Powell House: Our family heritage is intertwined with Scouting and it seemed appropriate to stay at this world famous Scout Center. When it comes to Scouting and accommodations my standards are very low. Seems each one of my scouting nights have been some of the worse night sleeps of my life. My sleeping bag has been soaked in water, buffeted by wind and frozen under snow. I’ve endured rock mattresses and snoring scoutmasters (I’ve even been one of them), and happily eaten food that should have been chucked. But the thing that makes these experiences so tolerable, heck even enjoyable, is the camaraderie under the brotherhood of Scouting. Somewhere in the UK they lost that and what should be a great place with a terrific Scouting atmosphere is in actuality rather mediocre. It may be because they have tried to be an upscale hostel or it may be because they have absolutely no idea how to create a proper Scouting atmosphere. That would include purpose, encouragement and fun, but something is sorely lacking at a facility that by rights should be a beacon of Scouting excitement. Personally it looked to me to be a lack of leadership. Poor leadership is something that Scouting should never fall victim to, as building leaders is the essence of the organization. I’d start by getting the urban dwelling, business suits types out and replacing them with Scouts who know how to get outside and have fun. Thanks for listening.
Basically I detest cities. I’m not a big one for crowds, don’t tolerate traffic well and would usually choose a good read over an evening out on the town. That said; I loved London. Eli loved London. We walked and rode and walked and even cruised down the River Thames for another look at the wonders of London. The city was clean the people polite (in a city kind of way – somewhat indifferent – which is fine with me). Even late at night I never once felt uncomfortable or worried that we had stumbled into a bad neighborhood. Actually most of the neighborhoods we walked through (which ended up being a lot) had Ferraris, Aston Martins and Maseratis parked on the street. Who parks their $250,000 sports car on the street anyways? We actually saw so many exotic sports cars plying the streets of London that Porches and BMWs began to look like Chevy’s and Fords. Even the inevitable derelict bedding down for the night in the underpasses were quiet and avoided eye contact. Perhaps having a 6’5” companion helped.
London has a great transportation network. Between the Underground (Tube) and busses there’s no reason anybody should desire a car. Even getting out of the city and traveling to much of the UK seems practical without a car. Mostly we stuck to the tube and walked a lot in between stations. A few times I questioned the vulnerability of their Underground. Perhaps I shouldn’t have read Perfect Soldier by Terry McDermott on the plane over. Or maybe I just have a long memory. Roll on London!
Of course we had to take in a show on London’s West end. Wicked was our first choice but it was sold out for weeks to come, so we agreed that Les Mis would do. Eli had had crumby seats when he saw it in Seattle and I’m always moved by the story. So after grabbing reasonable tickets at Half Price Tickets we enjoyed our perspective from the center of row four at the Queen’s theater Les Miserables always makes me tear up, and John Owen-Jones did an amazing job playing Jean Valjean. The set and the makeup at The Fifth was way better and I don’t remember the American company interjecting unnecessary homosexual antics in most of the livelier numbers, but none of that was enough to diminish the essence of the play. In fact, considering that it has run continuously in London for a couple decades it is amazing how fresh and purposeful it remains.
The one thing I do like about most cities is their parks. Most have mature and varied plantings and topography that remind us of the grandness of natural ecosystems. That becomes even more important when surrounded by active urban life. Hyde Park / Kensington Gardens are certainly not the most incredible parks around, but they are assessable and there is a huge sense of userability. You name anything that a park is good for and you will find someone doing it in one of these. For instance…we ate lunch on a bench, in the sun. It was sublime.
Where we live, we seldom can find a grave stone over a hundred years old let alone a building. So the first thing which caught our eye was the fabulous older buildings. Thousands of them! Everything from ancient stone edifices to elegant Victorian homes. The architecture alone, both old and new, was worth the trip. Among our favorites was: Museum of Natural History. We were far more captivated by the buildings themselves than any of the exhibits, although I did enjoy seeing an actual Dodo (even if stuffed). Also we took to The British Museum like bees to honey. Truly grand! Inside and inside-out and outside too. Then there are all the typical icons of London…they were amazing, but just not enough time to explore and inquire…next time.
By all means go to this city! If you love great cars including exotic super cars this is the place to see them rolling. If you like to people watch, it doesn’t get much better than this. London does have its own style and its fun to check that out too. I quickly got the idea that fashion is very important to the beautiful people there. Mostly in Seattle I see people dressing with comfort in mind. We are likely to wear layers and add or shed as comfort dictates. You couldn’t help but notice that people in London dress to impress. During the temperature swings that came with a fall day people seemed content to spend a quarter of their time being miserably cold and a quarter being horribly hot. On the other-hand they spent half the day just right and looked great all the while. As in most places men get away with comfortable shoes. On the other hand, I have this to say to the women of London, “Sure, heels look great, but are they worth it? As a chiropractor, with your best interest in mind, I advise that you go shoe shopping. This time buy stylish shoes that you cannot fall off of.” With advice like that I’m sure to get lots of emails from London women thanking me for a lifetime of happy feet!
London and Scotland — Beyond Expectations — Part One: “The Why”
In case you were wondering why I’ve not added to my Blog in the last two weeks now seems a perfect time to let you in on my secret. I skipped out of the country. My youngest son and I went to London for a couple of days and then on to Scotland for the remainder of our trip.
When my wife and I decided to homeschool our children we agreed that travel would be an essential part of their “curriculum.” Unfortunately, the annual month long journeys to exotic destinations with the whole family never quite materialized. Probably, most of the problem was the time and money thing…never do the two coincide.
Still, even with concessions, we have managed to travel some of the world with our children. Notably, these concessions limited travel to one parent and one child and reduced the frequency of trips to every couple years. Even though our original intent was modified by the realities of life, Carol did managed Vietnam with our oldest and Sweden with our next. We also took a number of less ambitious, but very fun family trips: On the East coast we explored Civil War battle fields, and discovered the museums of Washington DC; on the left-coast we traveled to destinations from British Columbia to Mexico; and one year we even enjoyed the people and beaches of Costa Rica for a month.
In spite of all that fun it became obvious that Eli never got his one-on-one trip with a parent and I never got my one-on-one trip with a Pope kid (Scout camp not withstanding). As next year he may off doing his own thing, it seemed like this year would be none too soon. Not much thought went into deciding where we would go. His top two destinations were Spain and Scotland, while mine were Chili and Scotland. So we easily agreed and set our sites on the Highlands.
