Tag: Jacobite Rebellion

The Three Sisters of Glencoe, a Fairy Bridge and a Haunted Pub

by weedramofscotland, posted in Glencoe, Hiking in UK, Jacobite History, Scotland Travel, Solo Travel

I spent today, my last in Glencoe, with the Three Sisters. As it came to a close, I left the glen and drove to Appin to find a fairy bridge and have dinner at a haunted pub on the shores of Loch Linnie with a castle view. These are the kinds of activities you can throw together in Scotland.

We have Three Sisters in the Central Oregon Cascades known as South, Middle and North – not the most original but people were probably tired from crossing the Oregon Trail and not feeling particularly creative. In Glencoe the sisters are known as Beinn Fhada (long hill), Gearr Aonach (short ridge) and Aonach Dubh (black ridge), all a part of a ridge known as Bidean Nam Bian, meaning “peak of the mountains.” Also more descriptive than creative but the Gaelic adds zhuzh.

Morning commenced with a hike called The Lost Valley, or Coire Gabhail (pronounced “corry gale”), located between the easternmost sister and the middle one. The valley was not lost but a secret, and hard to access. It was used by the MacDonalds as a hiding place for rustled cattle (the family business) and it served as a refuge for those who escaped being murdered during the 1692 Massacre of Glen Coe. Although not really a refuge, as it turned out, since more folks froze to death after escaping than were killed by members of the Campbell Clan, aka rudest guests ever. Ah, but you know all about the Massacre because you read my previous blog and memorized all the facts.

The hike featured some challenging moments and the idea of urging a herd of cattle up this canyon seems completely insane but back in the day maybe cows were tougher. And fleeing up into the canyon in the snow and dead of night with no light source sounds even more impossible.

While relatively short, the hike is a gnarly enough to merit installed hiking accessories along the trail which is not much of a thing in Scotland. There are steep metal steps, handrails, and metal cables drilled into rock next to a sheer slope so you can pull yourself up. Another bit of perilous business leaves you to your own devices as there was simply nothing for it. It’s a section of smooth, steep rock with a fun drop off down one side. Walkhighlands says, “the scrambling is pretty straightforward but some may find the situation airy.” Meaning too much air and not enough rock I guess? To make matters more exciting, the rock has been polished to a high sheen due to years and years of rear-end polishing thanks to all the butts that have slid down it. If you find yourself in Glencoe, do not attempt this hike if it’s been raining. This would be my advice.

And goodness gracious me it was beautiful.

The Lost Valley itself was like a moonscape. Much larger than I expected, it could hold a fair few cattle. And by that I mean easily hundreds.

The descent was easier even with my knees not being fully stoked. And there is often a piper in that particular parking lot, as there was this day, and so my return was scored with a triumphant soundtrack. That’s right, I thought. I did it and now the pipes are playing me home.

By the way, McRaggie plays entrance music whenever I open the car door. More orchestral than bagpipes. It makes me smile every single time. And I play the NYTimes mini-crossword for the little jazzy piano tune it plays when you complete it. Maybe I should speak to a therapist about this.

Buoyed by not dying, I thought another walk was totally reasonable and so stopped for a quick ramble to visit Ralston’s Cairn. And admittedly I never would have known it existed without Instagram. Ralston Claud Muir was a train driver on the West Highland Line and loved to hike in the hills of Glencoe. He sadly died unexpectedly at 32 and his friends and family erected a wee cairn and spread his ashes there. It’s a gorgeous spot, off the trail and a little hard to find, which he probably would have appreciated. I suspect other ashes have been surreptitiously added over the last twenty plus years.

The cairn walk is a festival of Three Sisters views.
The trail is along the old military road that runs through Glencoe.
I feel this sentiment.

I planned to head to nearby Appin for dinner, and had recently learned there was a lovely walk in the area. It’s in Glen Creran Forest and features a 500 year old bridge known more specifically as, of course, the Fairy Bridge.

The hike is at the end of a single track road along Loch Creran lined by fabulous old homes with brilliant landscaping, azaleas in full bloom. Saw lots of ladies out and about tending their gardens. And so many border collies.

Arriving at the small car park, no sooner had I turned off the ignition than I was unexpectedly accosted by a blonde Norwegian woman who told me with great certainty tinged with agitation that this was the wrong car park. “I’m sorry?” “Are you going to the Fairy Bridge?” “Yes.” “Well, this is the wrong car park. We followed navigation but there’s no cell service here. Do you have different navigation?”

Forgive me, but I had absolutely zero interest in suggesting we should walk together even though I had downloaded the map and didn’t need cell service and I’ll fight anyone who says Walkhighlands.com would ever lead you to the wrong car park.

Plus I had to pee, so.

“Well, I’m just going to go for a little walk anyway to stretch my legs I think,” I said, trying to make her go away. She wandered off and then reappeared before I could lace up my boots, and shared more late breaking news. “I went up there,” gesturing vaguely behind her, “and there’s a board, and there’s a way you can get to the Bridge from here but it’s a detour (thus implicitly sticking to her wrong car park theory) so I’m sure you’ll find it.”

Does she want me to ask her to come with? Or is she leaving? If I can find it, why can’t she? What is happening? I saw she had a dude in her car because one of his legs was sticking out of the door and she kept going back and consulting it. I’m imagining he was rolling his eyes at this whole Fairy Bridge ordeal that she coerced him into (I mean to be fair how many men would be like, yes please, let’s go see the Fairy Bridge). Also he was no doubt exhausted by the disproportionate drama that invades much of his life due to this woman of certitude.

When she wandered off again to consult the leg I seized my chance, vaulted out of the car and hauled ass up the steep trail.

The real revelation on that walk, though, was not the bridge but the bluebells. They completely blanketed both sides of the trail along the entire walk. I couldn’t quite capture their beauty. Some things are just better in real life.

Not easy to outdo the bluebells but the Fairy Bridge was relatively nifty. And for the record, it wasn’t part of a “detour” or whatever. Walkhighlands remains invincible.

Coincidentally, the BBC just ran a piece on the couple who created (in 2006) and continue to maintain that invaluable hiking resource, Helen and Paul. You might enjoy taking a peek: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c72py4xg2w4o

Helen and Paul, bless you.

I walked along the road for a bit on the way back to the car and tried to imagine what it must be like to live there…..and came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be a hardship.

I should also mention, as it ties in beautifully with a story you’re about to hear, that I came upon a signpost along the Fairy Bridge trail which referenced nearby Glen Ure and included quite a detailed history. Back in the 1700s Colin Campbell was the Laird of Glen Ure and you might jot that down as we rejoin our pal McRaggie in the parking lot and head to dinner at the Old Inn.

Appin, on the shores of Loch Linnie, is interestingly central – it’s 100 miles from Glasgow, Edinburgh and Inverness. The Old Inn, I had heard, is allegedly haunted by the ghost of a Highlander wrongly hanged for murder. Excellent. The pub was established in 1670, closed in 1880, and Jim Mulligan bought the property in 2016 and gamely undertook a $1.2 million restoration project. Jim believes he has identified the ghost. He thinks it’s James Stewart, known as “James of the Glen.” He was hanged for shooting Colin Campbell, “The Red Fox,” (honestly these monikers) in Appin in 1752.

The Old Inn

This is what happened. Campbell, a government agent, was shot in the back while collecting rents from members of the Stewart family whose estates had been forfeited to the British government due to the clan’s support of the 1745 Jacobite rising. Upon being shot James allegedly informed everyone, “Oh, I am dead,” or words to that effect, and his alarmed compatriots observed a shadowy figure running away into the hills. George II’s government was jittery after the ‘45 and thought these could have been the first shots fired in another rebellion and so London sent word to do whatever was necessary to handle the situation, preferably making an example of the perpetrator. Shut it the hell down, in other words.

Our future ghost James, the most powerful Stewart in the area, had led local opposition to the evictions. In other words, he was a perfect mark. And so he was arrested and charged with aiding and abetting the murderous act of his foster son, Allan Breck Stewart. (Sounds odd but sons of clan members commonly lived under the protection of the clan chief). Allan fought on the Jacobite side at Prestonpans and so was another obvious scapegoat, although he wisely fled to France and so was beyond the reach of government authorities. After a four day trial, with most of the jurors being (ahem) Campbells, the verdict was a foregone conclusion for our poor James.

He was hanged near Glencoe (wee reminder here that the Campbells were also the bad guys in the Glencoe massacre sixty years earlier) and, dear readers, avert your eyes. His body was left dangling from the gallows under guard for three years. Under guard. Lest you think your company piffles FTE on unnecessary tasks.

It was known locally that neither Allan nor James were involved in the murder. You can see why James, in particular, would be super pissed about the chain of events but it’s hard to imagine that he’d live out his ghostly days haunting a renovated pub in Appin. Getting his sweet, sweet revenge by bothering its staff.

Ah but our story doesn’t end there. Many stories about Scottish history that have seeped into popular imagination are due to either Walter Scott or Robert Louis Stevenson wandering through the past in search of material. They wrote accounts about historical incidents which launched these mostly forgotten and not widely known events into worldwide notoriety. They were, in essence, the 24 hour news cycle of the early 1800s and had much to do with romanticizing Highland culture.

In this case, a hundred years after the murder, Stevenson’s father found, in Inverness, a slim volume called Trial of Stewart. He thoughtfully purchased it for his son who was writing a book on the history of the Highlands (instead of designing and building all the lighthouses in Scotland, see previous blog entries about this family).

As a result of this gift, our man Allan Breck Stewart, even though he managed to escape history for a time, became the lead character in “Kidnapped,” Stevenson’s book that dramatized the Appin murder. Thus Allan, who played quite a minor role in the Appin murder, became immortalized a hundred years after his death.

Also, now I have to read Kidnapped.

So not to cast aspersions on our friend Jim the pub owner, but his sly assertion that the ghost of the Appin Inn is James of the Glen – because he drank in the pub (as did everyone) and because some evidence for the trial was presented in the Inn’s back room, is clearly more about publicity than reality. But I mean good for him, if a famous ghost gets him butts in seats, all to the good.

Speaking of reality, let me be clear that this does not mean the pub is ghost-free. Staff have been creeped out by rattling glasses, pans flying through the air and chairs falling over. Mysterious footsteps in an empty upstairs room and shadowy ghost figures have caused people who aren’t paid enough for this crap to turn out the lights and skedaddle. Most creepily a nonbelieving staffer, alone at night, said, “The fire suddenly went down and the glasses in the gantry started rattling. We had a St. Andrew’s flag up above the gantry and, when the glasses stopped, the flag started billowing. I looked round and a chair was on its side.”

Yikes.

The last thing you should know about the Old Inn at Appin is that the food is excellent – they specialize in locally sourced grass fed steaks, which I ordered. So, dear reader, I have my first (confirmed) experience of eating a Highland Coo. Don’t judge. I feel bad about it.

Early in the evening.
The ginger guy is the bartender.
The cool bar.
Flashback to my last trip – ahh the Hebrides.

The pub serves a DELICIOUS black pepper cream sauce to go with their steaks and chips. It’s a hefty portion served hot in a ramekin. I was contently dousing a bite of coo when something fell in with a splash. I stared, taking a second to clock that a dreaded yellow jacket had swan dived into my ramekin. I harbor quite a bit of hate in my heart for the aggressive meat-eating little dickheads, their families, and all they represent. I scooped it up into my spoon and flicked it onto the table where it staggered around drunkenly, coated in black-flecked white goo. My first thought, and I’m allergic to yellowjackets mind you, was that I need to have my cream sauce replaced as soon as possible. I waved down the waiter and explained – he nodded and whisked the ramekin away. Shortly thereafter the bartender brought me a new one filled to the brim and steaming hot. I dismissively gestured at the bee, still carving a drunken path around the table, he nodded, disappeared and came back with a paper towel. The bee found its footing and obligingly climbed onto it and he took it outside. He told me later he tried to wipe the peppercorn cream sauce off the bee but could not give me a solid prognosis as as to his recovery.

“He’ll probably be popular with the other bees,” I suggested, possibly batting my eyelashes. I mean seriously, my hero. An entire new ramekin of the best sauce in the world and a bee whisperer.

After basically drinking my weight in sauce, I wandered down to the Loch and snapped a few backlit photos of Castle Stalker. It’s privately owned but they do arrange tours and take people out there by boat during the summer.

And what is its history, you ask? We are at the end of our entry and possibly our tolerance for obscure Scottish history, so allow me to simply share the nutshell version. It was built in 1320 and many clans have passed through its halls since. There have been MacDougalls, Stewarts, King Bruce, the Lord of Lorn, a MacLaren, MacCouls, MacDonalds, Campbells, a dude called Donald of the Hammers, more than a few murders, battles, cattle rustling, a passage of title via a drunken wager and also a besiegement or two. It was occupied by government forces after Culloden and served as a local center for the surrender of weapons. The roof collapsed at one point and the owners didn’t bother repairing it because no roof meant no taxes. At last, in 1965, Lt. Colonel Stewart Allward purchased it from a Stewart and oversaw a ten-year restoration. It’s now fully habitable.

Castle Stalker. It’s larger than it looks.

The day’s adventures having at last come to a close, I headed back to Glencoe for one more night. It was such a beautiful evening I drove down Glen Etive and gave the Bookel a proper goodbye.

McRaggie and the Bookel.

Road to Nowhere, General Wade’s Military Roads (Damn Those Jacobites) and Rainbows

by weedramofscotland, posted in Hiking in UK, Scotland Travel, Solo Travel

For ages I’ve wanted to drive down the so-called “Road to Nowhere,” a twelve mile single track road with crumbly edges which heads south off the A82, the scenic road traversing Glencoe west to Fort William, taking a hard right turn and heading east toward Inverness. (Scottish roads do not head in just one direction.) The RTN runs along Glen Etive, following the River Etive and perhaps not surprisingly comes to an abrupt end at Loch Etive.

Hollywood-wise, Glen Etive is probably most well-known for starring in Skyfall, the 2012 James Bond movie. Many scenes were shot here, although the fabulous lodge in the film is elsewhere if not entirely CGI.

Daniel Craig (incredibly well-tailored suit my man) and Dame Judi Dench (legendary goddess) taking in the view. This location is literally marked on Google Maps as “James Bond Skyfall Road” which has resulted in ten billion instagram photos of people in this spot and stance, and an unfortunate litter problem, at least for a while, according to The Guardian. Nappies, really people?

I hit the RTN early and so the glen, river and loch were mine all mine, except for my first red deer encounter of the trip and the inevitable professional photographer. He was setting up a tripod on the loch shore and settling in for the day due to Scotland’s constantly shifting light and weather conditions. (You could shoot a photo each minute and no two would look the same.)

Before we go, it would be an oversight not to mention that Loch Etive starred in its own film as one of the (many) spots Harry, Ron and Hermione camped in Deathly Hallows Part 1 while they were looking for horcruxes. This looking for horcruxes business went on for quite some time but luckily the scenery was amazing every time they disapparated because Scotland.

Since the rather relentless rain made a mincemeat out of my hiking plans due to rivers being in spate and conditions being too muddy and slippery for any sort of ascent, I decided to explore part way up a couple of iconic trails. Just to do a little recon.

One is the Devil’s Staircase, part of the West Highland Way and not as scary as it sounds. It’s an uphill jaunt up and over a ridge into Kinlochleven, a town in the neighboring glen.

Here it might be interesting to talk a little bit about a dude named General Wade and why he was directed by King George I to build about 250 miles of road and 40 bridges throughout the Highlands in the early eighteenth century. Of course, the answer is, why, the Jacobites of course. There were three risings before the ’45, and the English were forever trying to clamp down on that untidy situation and sought to figure out how best to deploy troops quickly in the event of the next inevitable uprising. The roads were meant to be 16 feet wide, although at many points they were narrower and were constructed of layers of progressively smaller stones covered with a layer of gravel. They connected military forts or barracks, including Fort William, Fort Augustus, Inverness and the Ruthven Barracks that we discussed earlier. The forts were often built or upgraded by Wade.

The roads were constructed by hundreds of soldiers, fondly dubbed “highwaymen” by Wade. They were beset by a plethora of obstacles – terrain, weather, Highlanders and midges.  This extremely tough duty necessitated many many drams and pints, and so camps were established every ten miles, known as “kingshouses” as they were along the king’s highway. The Kinghouse Hotel in Glencoe, my humble lodging, still retains this name.

Many of the bridges he constructed still exist today, including the Garva Bridge over the River Spey, Wade’s Bridge at Aberfeldy (which still carries traffic), Highbridge at Spean and Wade’s Bridge at Etteridge.

Wade’s Bridge at Aberfeldy – still in use after all these years.
General Wade himself. Honestly portraiture during this period didn’t do men any favors.

Irony being what it is, by the time the ’45 came around the roads probably served Jacobite troops better than government troops. That’s the impartiality of roads for you. Tragically, this final attempt was decisively crushed at Culloden and subsequent attempts to eliminate Highland culture . Afterwards, in addition to the roads helping the Hanoverians continue to exert control over Scotland, they also opened up routes for trade, travel and tourism. While miles of the military roads were abandoned over time, many were incorporated into the country’s civilian road network. It’s pretty remarkable that by and large General Wade’s military roads were the first major system built since the Romans.

As an aside, General Wade is the only person mentioned by name in an obscure verse of the British National Anthem and was also responsible for raising a Highland militia called the Highland Watches. The militia morphed into the Black Watch Regiment and this became the genesis of the British army’s crack highland regiments that continues today.

So the Devil’s Staircase was given its name by some of General Wade’s highwaymen who were charged with lugging stones and equipment up that hill path to turn it into a paved military road. Those who decided to stay for a dram at a pub in Kinlochleven and then stagger back over the ridge to Glencoe had a sketchy time of it apparently, more due to wobbly legs and impaired judgment rather than the path itself. And with the old saying about the devil coming to claim his own – the route was thusly named.

There you have it. And so we next cross the A82 to the start of another iconic Glencoe walk, the trail up the Buachaille Etive Mor. Before the ascent begins in earnest, you cross a bridge and stroll past the much-photographed “wee white house,” officially Lagangarbh Hut, now owned by the National Trust of Scotland. The trail runs close alongside the house and then stretches into the distance, aimed directly at the very same mountain I can see from my hotel balcony. My mountain, everyone’s mountain, that mountain. Another day perhaps. When it isn’t dumping buckets.

And so my last full day in Glencoe drew to a close. As excited as I was to embark on my Wilderness Scotland trip, I’m always sort of gutted to leave this place. And before I tell you the final thing – I will offer a preface admitting that there is literally almost always a rainbow situation happening in Scotland. And yet I still think it’s meaningful magic and you can’t convince me otherwise.

Last time I was here with my pal Trish, a rainbow opened up an archway for our exit. Also one of the things best friends do is take your photo while you are walking under a rainbow.

On this trip, as I was packing to leave, I glanced out my window to see this:

It does cushion the blow.

Fairy Pools, Glencoe and Hagrid

by weedramofscotland, posted in Scotland Travel

We planned an early launch from our AirBnb to beat the crowds to the famed Fairy Pools of Instagram, our last official stop on our Skye Grand Tour. We arrived at the car park around the sweet spot of 8:00, finding official flourescent-vested guys already directing folks where to park. We crossed the road and hit the trail, walking along a clear glass river with multiple waterfalls and translucent pools, surrounded, as ever, by mountains.

Apparently during summer months, the trail is very crowded with nary an unpopulated pool. On our way up, a single naked couple was taking a tentative dip in one of them. In full view of the trail, but sure. Also brr chilly. Other than this nudie tourist sighting, we had the place to ourselves.

We at last came to the most popular spot of the journey – for good reason.

On our return, many people were venturing up the trail clad in all manner of clothing and footwear, bringing along dogs, kids and so on. It’s hard not be feel concerned about the beating this magical place takes every single day.

Honestly the struggle against going full misanthrope is real.

To add grist to the argument in favor, our next stop was Eilean Donan Castle, another star of stage, screen and Instagram. I had thought it was a ruin. I had never seen shots of the inside of the castle, and generally exterior photos are entirely bereft of people, incredibly romantic, secluded and mysterious. Well. It’s a beautiful castle to be sure, but it has the honor of being the only thing in Scotland that hasn’t entirely exceeded my expectations.

The original castle was built in the thirteenth century. A founding legend tells us that the son of a chief of the Mathesons had the ability to communicate with birds, and as a result, after many adventures overseas, he gained wealth, power, and the respect of Alexander II, who asked him to build the castle to defend his realm. The castle later ended up in the hands of the MacKenzie and McRae clans. The MacKenzies claim that Robert the Bruce sought shelter there. Even though there is zero evidence of this, I’ll allow it.

At last, after hundreds of years of defending the realm, Eilean Donan’s story came to a close. In response to the MacKenzies’ involvement in the early Jacobite risings, government ships destroyed the castle in 1719. It was gone.

Or was it. Incredibly, the castle was rebuilt in the early 1900s. While the Edinburgh-based architect followed the extant ground plan, the details are different, as many of the original plans weren’t discovered until after the reconstruction. It looks cool, no doubt, and as such is one of the most visited castles in Scotland. It has also been a shooting location for a bunch of movies, including a stint as the Scottish headquarters of the MI6 in The World is Not Enough, filmed during James Bond’s unfortunate Pierce Brosnan period.

You guys. It’s like Disneyland and I mean that in the worst possible way. Besides the fact that the castle was recently entirely reconstructed, and so is pretty much fake, it’s flanked to the south by a giant car park. Giant. Packed to the gills with cars and buses. Directly in front of it is a visitor center campus, including a cafe and gift shop. Yuck.

Even so, since we were there and all, we toured the castle. Yet another lock of the Bonnie Prince’s hair is on display, even though Charles could not have had any connection to the castle since it didn’t exist during his lifetime. Unlike Flora MacDonald’s specimen, this one is substantial enough that I wondered whether someone had to hold the Prince down to get it. I suspected that it could be a prop for the tourists. Finally, in all fairness to me for my very mistaken impression of this place, the reason I’ve never seen photos of the inside of the castle is that you are strictly speaking NOT ALLOWED to take inside photos. This is the first such warning I’ve seen in laissez-faire Scotland.

So at last, after all the build-up, here are my pics. Note the absence of people. These photos might accurately reflect a brief moment in time, but they are, in their overall essence, a lie.

Eilean Disney Castle

A side note: my apologies for complaining about tourists. After all, I am one. And don’t get me wrong, the vast (seriously, vast) majority of our time in Scotland has been a marvel of existence in a remote, wild and magical place with very few people. All of my other photos are accurate representations of the solitude we experienced. It is this sense that you are the only person in the world which makes it so jarring and mellow-harshing to encounter other humans. The fact that there are tourists at tourist spots should be a surprise to nobody, including me. But it’s fun to rant.

We bailed from Eilean Disney Donan and fled toward Glencoe, our next destination. We drove down the stunning, impossibly green valley surrounded by towering mountains, completely in awe. And I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout-out to the “Three Sisters” which I love because we have mountains by the same name in the Central Oregon Cascades.

Glencoe’s version of the Three Sisters.
Central Oregon Cascades version.

The glen holds eight of Scotland’s munros and thus is a haven for mountain-baggers. As you can see, the terrain is incredibly steep and the trails are vertical, none of this switchback nonsense.

Glencoe is beautiful, unreal and unspoiled even with tourists. It’s a wonder how so many of them pull over into the car park, snap a photo, and bounce. They can easily be ditched simply by taking a few steps down a trail. We hiked along one that borders the River Coupall (thanks for the recommendation Paul and Melisse!) which was otherworldly. I honestly don’t even know what to say about it.

After a couple of miles I continued on alone and Scotland was giving me all the magic. I kept thinking if I kept going I’d reach the notch of the valley, but the longer I walked, the more it retreated into the distance. Metaphor alert. Some things you can never reach because the journey is the thing.

Which brings to mind – and I haven’t yet mentioned this – my dad died in January of this year a few days after I lost a dear friend and it has all been extremely difficult. Sometimes I wonder whether I have fully processed their departures or what that even means really. Anyway, my dad has taken to showing up at random times, and he joined me as I finally abandoned my quest to reach the end of the valley, turned and headed back. Dad never expressed an interest in Scotland, but I think he would have loved it and I did miss telling him about Dougal and driving on the wrong side of the road. The loss hit me anew right there in the middle of one of the most beautiful spots on the planet. I know this will continue to happen forever and that’s okay. I have graduated from nearly debilitating grief to a sadness that dances near the edge of being comforting. The odd thing is that I’m still so surprised that he left. I knew he wouldn’t live forever but I also thought he would somehow.

Being in this place I love has brought me a lot of peace and maybe a smidge of healing. My patronus charm is easily cast here. I have no idea why, but I feel stronger, more connected and more fulfilled moving through these hills. And completely happy. When I see myself in photos the difference in my face is remarkable. A reminder to stop making life about moving from one thing to the next, errand after errand, accomplishment after accomplishment, dealing with thing after thing after yet another thing. It takes a toll to live like that. Much better to move through the hills and accept the solace they offer.

And so. Speaking of the patronus charm, here is your segue alert.

The next day we walked an embellished version of the Glencoe Orbital Track, which launches from the charming town itself and features fabulous stops and points of interest, including (spoiler alert) Hagrid’s Hut. You heard me. The track is billed as an hour-long walk but of course somehow we extended it to about eight miles. YES.

Main Street, Glencoe. The Pap of Glencoe overlooks the town.

Along our way, we stopped to pay our respects at the Glencoe Massacre Memorial. At this point I wonder whether you have grown weary of history. Too bad, it’s not your blog. Glencoe is perhaps most well-known, from a historical perspective, as the site of the infamous Glencoe Massacre of 1692. The story, stripped to its bones, is that the MacDonald clan, settled within the glen, was delayed in affirming its allegiance to the crown of William and Mary, demanded in the face of rising Jacobite sentiment around the Highlands. There was actually a massive misunderstanding about whether the clan had timely made the oath. The crown, nevertheless affronted, decided to make an example and ordered the 128 Scottish government forces who had been quartering there for 12 days – taking advantage of the legendary Highland hospitality – to kill everyone. While some soldiers refused, and others tried to warn the MacDonalds in preceding days, enough remained to do the job. The soldiers turned on their hosts in the early morning hours and butchered them, men, women and children up and down the glen. Many of those who made their escape froze to death. The leader of the massacre was one Archibald Campbell, 10th Earl of Argyll. The Campbells and the MacDonalds had been feuding since the days of Robert the Bruce, but the massacre was a bridge too far and the Campbells have not been forgiven to this very day.

Our trail passed the legendary 300 year-old Clachaig Inn, a favorite lodge for hikers and climbers. We enjoyed a lovely lunch after snapping a photo of the notorious “No Camerons” sign posted at check-in, much to the annoyance of the woman behind the desk who I fear would liked to have massacred me in the wee hours.

The Clachaig Inn

Next we walked to one of the iconic white houses in the glen, much photographed for obvious reasons, and then up to a waterfall.

One more parting shot (I swear) re: tourists on buses. Here they are piled up on the bridge leading to the house. Which, by the way, is privately owned and occupied.

Photo only shows only a fraction of the humans disgorged from two large buses. Query: why is this a fun way to travel?
Lovely waterfall just above the white house.

And shall we end with Hogwarts? As you probably know, many of the later Harry Potter movies were filmed in Scotland. Because obviously that is where Hogwarts would be. Along the trail we swung by the very spot where the set of Hagrid’s Hut was constructed. Most notably the location where Buckbeak almost lost his head in Prisoner of Azkaban. What I love the most is that “Hagrid’s Hut” is literally marked on Gaia, my hiking app.

Visiting Hagrid to inquire into the whereabouts of my Hogwarts letter.

That evening we had dinner at my favorite restaurant since the Michelins, Lochleven Seafood Cafe. The company started as supplier of shellfish to restaurants and gradually morphed into a fabulous restaurant in its own right. They mostly offer shellfish with some sides. It’s brilliant. The fresh langoustines were out of this world.

Looking ahead to the final days of our trip, I’m excited about my Inverness birthday plans but a little leery about having to test negative for COVID to return to the states. It’s actually the Binax home antigen test that we all have stockpiled in a bathroom drawer, but it’s five times more expensive and you take it on video with a medtech person verifying results. There’s a bar code so you can’t cheat. If you test positive you have to quarantine in your location for ten days, which wouldn’t be bad if there were any hotels rooms to be had and if you weren’t entirely sick of your clothes. This is out of whack with current science so is mostly performative, and we’re the only country that retains this requirement, but the CDC is standing firm. Even if that hurdle is cleared, my only-an-hour layover in Amsterdam is looming around the edges of my travel anxiety as well. But no time for that. It’s time to head back to Inverness.

Until next time Glencoe.

Inverness, Birthday Bagpipes and My Drunk Dude Angel

by weedramofscotland, posted in Scotland Travel
Inverness.

Back in Inverness, the first order of business was to bid a fond farewell to our faithful Dougal. I had grown quite fond of him despite the flaws he was born with – the back seat is worthless for anyone with legs, the hyper-annoying beepy lane monitor warning system, the cheaply finished interior etc. But I loved driving Dougal all over Scotland. I loved the entire experience, driving on the left, single track roads, no shoulders, glorious teeth-rattling potholes, all of it. Maintaining awareness of passing places, sorting out who should pull into one either by driving forward or backing up, and the subsequent mandatory wave to the other driver after you execute whatever you both silently agreed upon – it all makes navigating Scotland’s roads a delightfully communal experience. A very different situation than in the States where one’s car creates a bubble of isolation and basically drives itself.

Another driving-related thing I wish I could have shared with dad is the UK experience of getting gas. The pumps appear to be super-charged and sound like a jet engine when engaged – and they fill up your tank in literally ten seconds. Life-changer. Why can’t we have jet engine gas pumps? You can get your nails done while waiting for your gas tank to fill in the States.

Dougal. He’s been through a lot. Farewell my friend.

Before we relinquished Dougal, we visited Culloden Battlefield. This somber place is an incredibly rich and fascinating site. Since I wrote about it extensively during my last trip, I’ll simply leave you with a couple of photos.

We spent the afternoon puttering around Inverness in the rain, visiting Leakeys, its famous used bookstore. In addition to books they have bins and bins of prints and old maps, all “guaranteed” to be over 100 years old. OK maybe but does it matter really? I bought three.

Leakeys

I was excited to have a birthday-eve dinner at Mustard Seed, my favorite Inverness restaurant. Apparently I have my own table there, as they seated me exactly where I enjoyed a lovely meal in 2018. Maybe it’s the designated Mysterious Woman Eating Alone table. It has a nice view of all of the proceedings.

Mustard Seed Cafe, Inverness

And last but certainly not least, for my last full day in town I booked a tour with one Andrew Grant MacKenzie, who arrived to collect me with a kilt, a border collie named Sonas and bagpipes. Andrew is a legit historian and archaeologist, so he’s basically Indiana Jones. He’s also fluent in Gaelic (pronounced gallic, not gay-lic as it is in Ireland, similar to the whisky/whiskey thing). We had arranged a tour along the Moray Coast, east of Inverness, which Andrew dubbed, “Picts, a Wolf and the Covenanters.”

Andrew and Sonas

Andrew managed Culloden Battlefield for years for the National Trust of Scotland. He actually met with Diana Gabaldon as she was doing research for Outlander. (Segue: I eventually admitted to him that I had partaken of a Rabbies Outlander tour during my last trip which was a super embarrassing thing to disclose to a historian but he didn’t seem to judge.) He said that Culloden staff were the first people in the UK to see Outlander – it was released in the US first and Americans started visiting with particular questions about a fictionalized version of the ‘45 rising which the staff couldn’t answer, not having seen the series. I’m imagining fans asking to be shown the spot where Jamie and Black Jack Randall engaged in fatal hand-to-hand combat. Hopefully not, as both characters are 100% fictional but people are weird. Anyway, STARZ sent over the first two seasons and all employees had to watch it. Of course Diana’s tale is mostly about the love story, not a historically accurate depiction of events sufficient to pass muster with folks who live and breathe Culloden. Still I would have paid a lot of money to watch them watch Outlander.

Andrew also seemed to know everyone in Scotland – he knew the crazy guide we encountered on the aforementioned Outlander tour who had armed his little old lady passengers with plastic swords and reenacted various scenes (see previous blog), he knew the bagpiper Backroads arranged for us during that tour (ditto), he’s talked to the head of Visit Scotland about infrastructure issues related to the North Coast 500, and he has been invited to ceilidhs attended by members of the Peatbog Faeries. He also worked at Cawdor Castle for a while and so of course knew Lady Cawdor.

By now you are getting Andrew’s general awesomeness. And so onto the tour we go. He first drove us to Sueno’s Stone, the largest and most spectacular of the many carved stones that have survived from Scotland’s early medieval period. It stands about 21 feet high and is encased in a giant protective display case. Continuing in the Pictish vein we next traveled to Burghead, a quaint little town located on a spur of the Moray peninsula where a Pictish fort was located. You could see Orkney from the site.

Suenos Stone

Our next destination was the ruins of Elgin Cathedral, the place that our friend the Wolf of Badenoch (remember him?) burned down. I was picturing a quaint medieval chapel when it was actually more akin to Westminster Abbey.

The cathedral is a massive and gorgeous site. There’s one room with a domed ceiling, glass windows and perfect accoustics, which Andrew demonstrated via the dulcet tones of his singing voice.

After having lunch at Cawdor Castle Cafe, we finished the tour at the Auldearn battlesite. As a historian, Andrew cares a lot about this battle and doesn’t understand why more people don’t visit the site. Perhaps our friend Diana could do something about that although be careful what you wish for. The 1645 battle was fought between a Scottish Covenanter army allied with the English Parliament and the Royalist forces of Charles I. Covenanters were folks who signed the National Covenant in 1638 to confirm their opposition to the interference by the Stuart kings in the affairs of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland. The Stuarts believed all of that divine right of kings stuff and that monarchs were meant by God to be the spiritual heads of the Church of Scotland instead of that other guy Jesus. This was a sticking point even for Scots who supported the Stuarts. Andrew said it was the first time a battle had been fought between Gaels over an idea rather than land and resources.

In the peace and solitude of the ancient battlefield, Andrew liberated his bagpipes from their case and played an evocative and mournful tune about the battle itself. It was achingly lovely and sad. From the sublime to the you-know-what, his encore was a song you might recognize in honor ME GETTING EVEN OLDER.

Best rendition ever.

Over the course of the day we had some great conversations about history – and even delved into politics. Andrew said that most Scots struggle to comprehend what is happening in the States currently with MAGA, the insurrection, guns, individual rights and so on. Yeah same same.

We talked about the horrific 1996 Dunblane massacre, the deadliest mass shooting in British history. Sixteen students and one teacher were killed, with fifteen others injured. Directly afterward, Parliament passed two new firearms acts which outlawed the private ownership of most handguns within the UK, together with a buyback program. Thousands of weapons were incinerated. As we know, there have been no further mass shootings with a handgun in the UK since, even though we are told by NRA experts that guns don’t cause these horrific things. UK residents can still own hunting rifles, of course, but they are registered and owners must keep track of their shots. The guns are inspected every year to make sure the owners’ reported number of shots match the number of times the gun was actually fired. Can you imagine the cascading exploding heads in the States if something that restrictive were enacted? I guess in some countries the bother and inconvenience is worth not having people and children regularly mowed down by military-grade weapons. Imagine.

Andrew also talked about a few Gaelic concepts that inform his life and business. The words are about the sense of belonging to a place and to a people. There is no English translation. They resonated with some of the things I’d been thinking about and experiencing on this trip around why I feel so in sync with the hills of Scotland while lately feeling less connected to my home in Oregon.

Dùthchas is the connection to one’s ancestors, their lives, stories, the ground they lived on and one’s physical and emotional connection to that ground. I think ancestors can mean either a spiritual or blood lineage. Cianalas is the longing for dùthchas when you aren’t there. It’s a mournful longing but it’s not sad. Caim is the belief that wherever you are and whatever your current situation you can gain strength from encircling yourself in that longing and that connection to your dùthchas. Sonas is the sense of completeness and comfort you feel when you drop into dùthchas, cianalas and caim. These concepts echo throughout yogic/eastern spiritual traditions as well. My yoga teacher talks about his own spiritual lineage in the same way. I can’t explain why, but I feel and experience the truth of it.

Sonas.

If you find yourself in Scotland, consider Andrew and Sonas as guides. You can find more information about them at http://www.highlandhistorian.com.

I capped off this perfect day with a birthday dinner at Rocpool. After dinner I ordered an affogato because it’s unquestionably the perfect dessert. It arrived with a road flare in celebration of ME GETTING EVEN OLDER.

By all means let’s celebrate this fracking thing.

And now for the journey home. Let’s dispense with COVID. For the first time since the pandemic started, I let down my guard during this trip and didn’t don a mask the entire time I was in Scotland, throwing caution to the winds as it were. With bated breath, I took the test with the tele-health person monitoring. Negative. Never been happier to see a single red stripe.

And now for my dicey short layover in Schipol. I had an hour between my Inverness flight landing at Schipol and my flight to Salt Lake taking off. Not boarding, mind you. Flying away. As we sat on the runway in Inverness, I was feeling all the appreciation for how quickly Europeans get their asses settled onto airplanes. Everything was proceeding apace until, of all things, they couldn’t get a cargo door to latch properly. As time ticked by, inexorably shortening my layover like slow drips from the faucet of doom, I was about to volunteer to sit in the hold during the flight so I could keep the door closed with my body. Then, behold, the pilot took matters into his own hands and asked for the ladder to be brought back to the airplane so he could descend to the tarmac and “take a look.” He emerged from the cockpit, a burly central casting Viking with red hair, marched down the steps and totally took care of it. I need someone like that around me at all times.

So we arrived in Amsterdam a half an hour before my next flight. I was surprised to hear as we landed that only one connection was blown, a flight to Boston. I was instructed to “go right to the gate” for my Salt Lake flight. YES BY HELL I CAN DO THAT. The airplane landed in the “curtain” area of Schipol which is basically New Jersey, with a stinky bus that takes you to the terminal. I hit the ground running and arrived at the empty gate panting in a most unladylike manner and entirely disheveled and having to pee but I had apparently made it in time.

Ah but not so fast. The gate agent looked at my flight information in the system and reacted with a puzzled expression. She showed it to all of her gate agent friends and they were also visibly taken aback, shrugging their shoulders and saying things to one another in Dutch. What what what? I found out later that KLM, in its infinite wisdom, had decided that since my flight was delayed I ergo missed my connection and so they had rebooked me on the same flight the following day. Before my feet had even hit the tarmac. Like declaring someone dead when their heart is still beating.

So the lead gate agent (I presume) was summoned and he started calmly typing into his computer and talking on the phone. In Dutch. I still had zero idea what was happening. He finally looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, that plane is not going anywhere.” OK phew. Bless you sir.

Relaxing, it was then that I fully noticed the short t-shirted paunchy drunk dude standing several feet away and surrounded by no less than four tall, fit and woah quite handsome security agents. I gleaned that the drunk dude had been tossed from the plane due to stupid drunken behavior and it wasn’t the first time. And sad to say he was an American. Well of course he was.

He was doing that thing hammered people do, which is moving and gesturing very slowly while intoning super dumb things in an exaggerated rational-sounding tone. He of course had had two beers. From my years of lawyering, this exact quantity of alcohol is noted in every accident report. It’s a phenomenon really, that every single person who has ever caused a motor vehicle accident tells the cops that they have imbibed exactly two beers. Someone should do a study.

Anyway the dude was carefully explaining that he knew his own limits, that he was fine, that he hadn’t done anything wrong, that he would miss his daughter’s birthday party, and that he had had ONLY TWO BEERS. He also periodically dramatically extended his arm straight out in front of him and scolded the various security guys for not social distancing. For their part, the security guys appeared to be employing de-escalation techniques while at the same time trading spectacular insults with drunk dude. I literally think someone’s mother was mentioned at one point. The dude once tried to “get in line” behind me and I almost bodily moved the tallest and most woah handsome security guard so that he was more solidly between me and the dude.

Of course the dude was filming the whole interaction with his phone because obviously he’s going to file a complaint, so I might become famous as a background extra on social media.

Meanwhile the formerly calm senior gate agent finally exploded and yelled at the top of his voice, gesturing dramatically, spittle flying everywhere, for security to move the dude away because the whole drama was distracting him from getting me on the freaking plane. There was a spectacular amount of swearing. I was with him on this, and actually hoping the dude would be thrown into a Schipol holding cell where his fingernails would be slowly pulled out one by one. Do they have those? Do they do that? Hard to tell with those stoic Nederlanders.

Finally the dim light dawned and the dude managed to accurately assess the situation. He simply was not going to prevail either by his wits or physical prowess and so he wandered off down a moving walkway, throwing muddled parting threats over his shoulder. I said to my gate agent, “Americans are the worst.” He agreed so enthusiastically that I felt the need to add, as I hadn’t yet been given my boarding pass, “not me though.”

Anyway, once I triumphantly boarded the plane at last, the senior gate agent suddenly appeared onboard and high-fived me, saying none of it was my fault and asking whether I was happy. Don’t worry, why would I file a complaint about what ended up being a funny story I could share with you guys – and besides I AM ON THE PLANE.

Also, the thing is, the drunk guy was the reason the flight was delayed long enough for me to make it. They had to excavate and remove his bag. So, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, thank you my dude. And I hope you find the help you need, for your daughter’s sake.

So after that wee bit of drama, I made it home with no further incident except my checked bag decided to remain in Amsterdam for a few extra days to see the sights. And except for the fact that I am no longer in Scotland, all is well. Best thing is getting to see this face.

I so enjoyed writing about my long-postponed trip and sharing it with you. Thanks for reading. I hope it inspires you to travel to Scotland or anywhere you feel dùthchas. Just don’t be a tourist.

And gird your loins, my friends, because I’m headed back to the UK in September.

Til we meet again.
Sláinte

Outlander and Whisky

by weedramofscotland, posted in Scotland Travel, Solo Travel

I’m about 80% English/Scotch/Irish. If I were a paint color, I’d be Bland White. Long before I knew exactly how white (thank you Ancestry.com), I’ve been interested in British history. Used to be able to recite all the Kings and Queens of England. So Scotland was firmly on my travel list, but I admit it was the cinematography in Outlander, shot in Scotland, that put me over the edge. And maybe the kilts.

So what better way to spend my first full day in Scotland than booking an Outlander Tour like a geeky tourist? The tour included historic castles, forts and villages used as film locations for Outlander, Monty Python & the Holy Grail, and Game of Thrones. And then, as a topper, finishing the day with a whisky tasting at a bar named Edinburgh’s 2018 Whisky Bar of the Year.

I booked the journey through Rabbie’s, a company specializing in smaller tours using wee buses. I expected to be joined by a bunch of middle-aged women who talked about Jamie Fraser (a.k.a.the main character in the show who is widely believed to be the perfect man) the entire time. Instead, several couples, including one on their honeymoon, and one big family, the McGowans, all piled into the bus together. They were from Florida, Philly, South Carolina, France, England and Australia. I sat behind the guide and was joined by the head of the McGowan clan. The McGowan himself. Who was very quiet (his wife made up for it from the back of the bus) and went to great pains to avoid any physical contact, which I appreciated.

Of course, I instantly fell in love with our Scottish tour guide, Nicky. He just happened to be tall with reddish hair, very articulate, thoughtful and hilarious. Wearing a kilt that wasn’t a costume.

The first place we visited was Three Bridges, a town with, you guessed it, including a bridge that was built in the 17th Century. A marvel of engineering. The place has no connection with Outlander, just a cool spot.

Jamie Nicky took my photo in front of the old bridge.

Then we journeyed to the most “all the feels” of Outlander settings, Lallybroch, the Fraser ancestral home. Otherwise known as Midhope Castle, still standing but entirely in ruins on the inside. The steps up to the door were built by the film crew. A beautiful and evocative place marooned out of time on a working farm. Surprisingly, there is a picturesque cottage right next to the Midhope ruins. Not next door, but right there on the edge of the lawn. Architectural Digest – Medieval beautiful. The owners were the luckiest people alive to own this gorgeous cottage in such a setting. Ach, no more, thanks to the fickle finger of fate. Their idyllic spot has been besmirched by Outlander and the tourists who followed in its wake.

Speaking of tourists, it soon became apparent that there were different sorts of Outlander tours. As we were leaving “Lallybroch,” another, larger group came down the path toward us, led by a guy in an over-the-top Highlander costume. He held a plastic shield and brandished a fake broadsword. He was a scenery-chewing Pirates of the Caribbean Johnny Depp version of an 18th century Jacobite. Johnny Depp Jamie had obviously dispensed plastic weaponry to everyone on his tour for them to, I guess, ineffectually arm themselves as they visited ruins. Two adorable little old ladies walked side by side, one brandishing two plastic axes, the other holding two pistols. I would have died had I booked this tour. Johnny Depp Jamie immediately challenged Jamie Nicky with his sword. Jamie Nicky, sensing danger, extended an arm in front of me to protect my life and virtue. I grabbed his arm with both hands and crouched down, because I’m not about to be left behind in a sudden acting opportunity. His arm was strong and thick and suddenly I had a new appreciation for the antics of Johnny Depp Jamie.

Our next stop was Blackness castle, a 15th century fort built on the south shore of the Firth of Forth. It protected Linlithgow, one of the main palaces of Scottish Royalty, especially the Stuarts. Because of its site, jutting into the Forth, and its long narrow shape, it has been dubbed the “ship that never sailed.” It was used to portray Ft. William in the series, including the scenes of Jamie being flogged nearly to death by Jack Randall (I know people who haven’t seen the show are wondering why on earth), and later the daring rescue of Claire by Jamie, Murtagh, Angus and Rupert with Jamie scaling the tower clutching an empty pistol. Speaking of which, I came upon Johnny Depp Jamie again just as he was reenacting the scene of Jamie clubbing a redcoat over the head after asking where Claire was being held. JDJ brushed people out of the way so he could rush up some steps in search of Claire.

All swashbuckling aside, Blackness Castle is a gorgeous structure in a beautiful setting with a nicely preserved Great Hall.

Next stop was the 100% charming town of Culross, where the scenes in Cranesmuir, the village near Castle Leoch, were filmed, including Geilis Duncan’s house, Claire’s herb garden, and the scene where the wee boy got his ear nailed to the pillory for stealing. The town has barely changed since the 17th century and is managed by the National Trust. I had the second best sandwich I’ve ever had there, in a charming little place called the Biscuit Cafe. I mistakenly took a table next to the loo. We all know this, but people truly have issues about bathrooms. One lady in her sixties ducked in and her friend had to stand in front of the door like in high school, holding it slightly ajar, explaining to the gentleman who was next in line, “She’s afraid of getting shut in.” Aren’t we all.

Next was the granddaddy of all film locations – Doune Castle, a medieval stronghold in the Stirling district of central Scotland. The most famous taunting scene in cinema was filmed here.

Starring our beloved John Cleese as the pitch-perfect French taunter, with many memorable lines, including that old chestnut, “Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!” Apparently the Pythons had booked several castles in Scotland for filming until someone wondered who they were and whether they could even pay, withdrawing permission from all except Doune. So basically the entire film was shot here.

Also the most famous scene ever filmed depicting a guy shoving a boy out of a window because the boy caught him having sex with his sister. I know this scene is basically in every film, but this is truly the best version. Unfortunately, in Game of Thrones, the boy did not die and instead became the Three-Eyed Raven, which, we don’t know, but may result in the ultimate downfall of said guy in the long slow dance of karma.

In season 1 of Game of Thrones, Doune Castle was Winterfell. In season 2 they moved production to Ireland because it was cheaper.

Doune bounced right back, and became the home of the McKenzie clan in Outlander, Castle Leoch. It’s now the third most visited castle in Scotland, after Edinburgh Castle and Stirling Castle. The audio tour is narrated by Python’s Terry Jones, and by, of course, Sam Heughan, who plays Jamie. Inside the house is a fabulous Great Hall and a wonderfully preserved kitchen, including a giant fireplace large enough to roast an oxen. Many silly Python scenes were filmed inside, including the song-and-dance number “Knights of the Round Table,”and the Sir Galahad the Chaste’s seduction scene. I completely recognized them all.

The last stop on our tour was Linlithgow Palace, where Mary Queen of Scots was born and lived for seven months, after which she was whisked away to Stirling, a more secure location. She was in danger the moment she was born, and for most of her life. It was another 20 years before she returned. A lot of Stuart history here. There’s a beautiful and drafty portico on the roof where legend has it Queen Margaret waited in vain for the return of James IV from Flodden Field. Bonnie Prince Charlie was the last Stuart to stay at Linlithgow. In 1746 the castle burned because the British duke of Cumberland’s troops failed to properly extinguish their campfires.

Gorgeous spot (Scots had great taste in castle sites), with a statue of Mary Queen of Scots on the grounds. In the UK you are allowed to scramble all over ruins, climbing up tiny staircases with flimsy railings that wouldn’t be allowed in the US. No posted warning signs, nothing roped off, I guess because you’re supposed to use common sense. The higher you go, the more pigeon poo there is, since all is exposed to the skies. Many ruined castles around Scotland don’t have roofs, not even if they’ve undergone restoration. Why? Because buildings with roofs are taxed.

In Outlander, the tunnels and cells underground were used for Wentworth Prison, where extremely terrifying things happened to Jamie.

It was a fabulous tour, largely because of the fabulous Nicky. He told us the entire history of the Jacobite rebellions. There were five between 1688 and 1745, all with the goal of returning one of the Jameses to the throne of Scotland and England and all failures, finally resulting in the Highland clearances. Nicky told the story with passion and emotion. History is still very much alive for Scots. As Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “For that is the mark of the Scots of all classes: that he stands in an attitude towards the past unthinkable to Englishmen, and remembers and cherishes the memory of his forebears, good and bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity with the dead even to the twentieth generation.” Nicky also reflected on the current political situation in the UK and elsewhere (ahem), resolving to focus his efforts on things he could positively impact, like, for example, people’s lives. He also taught me a new word, “scuppered,” which originally meant to deliberately sink a ship, and has come to mean thwart. So many uses. Anyway, I adored him.

How to end such a day? By booking a very expensive whisky tasting at Usquabae, meaning water of life (Gaelic translation of Medieval Latin aqua vitae.) Sitting at the bar, I was regaled with tales of whisky and its historic impact on the Scottish economy and history. A couple of local boys chimed in, asking questions and giving their own opinions. It’s a very complex subject near and dear to the heart of Scots. I chose a tasting called “The Decades.” It included a whisky from the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s, which covers my entire life. The older whiskies were good, but as the bartender noted (he had tastes of all my drams to keep me company), they do get a bit “vegetal.”

One last observation about Scottish men. They look you right in the eye, steadily, when you’re talking to them. They don’t hang back, either, they are snuggled right into your personal American space. I love it.

Inverness, Jacobites and Culloden

by weedramofscotland, posted in Scotland Travel, Solo Travel

Bidding farewell to Edinburgh, it was time to catch a train to Inverness, known as the gateway to the Highlands.

Arrived around supper-time and checked into the Castle View Hotel, run by the lovely Eleanor and her Jack Russell, Mia. The hotel is on the River Ness and pretty much everywhere was walkable. My room was on the top floor, with no lift. (PS same deal at the Inn on the Mile, just not a thing here).

The hotel boasted a lovely view of Inverness Castle, which houses the local courthouse and other offices. There are plans to build a new facility for the Courts so the castle can be opened to visitors. Fabulous rooftop views from my room, and gazing over the River Ness at the castle while enjoying a full and fabulous breakfast was perfection.

My first morning I walked about eight miles of the famed Great Glen Way, a lovely stroll along the River Ness to the park-like Ness Islands and then up the Caledonian Canal. The Way is a walking path that runs 78 miles, bisecting Scotland from Inverness to Ft. William. People in Scotland walk. And walk and walk. Trails go on for miles, and are so scenic you could die.

All the walking gives one time to ponder many things. For example, you know all the rules we have in the States, to protect us from one another’s presumed and inevitable bad behavior? In Europe, there are fewer rules, and amazingly, unregulated people actually rise to the occasion given the chance. For example, only a few dogs were on leash during my walk. Rather than being a catastrophe with dogs running wild and eating babies, every dog was on voice command. Dogs didn’t interact with other humans or with one another because they were looking at their owners. When they did have a bit of a run, the instant their owners whistled, they hit the brakes and ran back. Maybe Americans are boorish uncivilized barbarians and can’t be trusted to behave properly. We will never know.

I then walked around Inverness, which unfortunately is pretty closed on Sunday because of God. This is too bad, mostly because there’s an amazing bookstore called Leakeys, located in a former church with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a wood stove. Next time. Visited the Old High Church, where Jacobites who survived the slaughter of Culloden were held before being executed in the churchyard. Because of God.

Next day I met George, a local guide, for a tour around the area. He arrived with coffee and croissants, so I liked him immediately. As we were emailing back and forth about logistics prior to my trip, I expressed a bit of ambivalence about visiting Loch Ness and Urquhart Castle because of all the tourists. George convinced me that it would be a shame if we didn’t at least do a drive-by before it opened. Even so, there were still a few tour buses, filled with loads of people who appeared to be checking sites off their lists, snapping photos and moving on, rather than really engaging, not that I’m being judgmental. The castle has 1,000 years of history under its belt. It’s the largest medieval castle in Scotland and the most important in the Highlands. Sadly, its owners blew it up in 1692 to keep the Jacobites from taking it. There’s a very cool old catapult on the grounds. Loch Ness is beautiful but so are many of the other 31,000-plus lochs in Scotland. No I’m serious. Scotland is a very watery land.

Like many visitors to Scotland, I was hoping to run across some Heilan coos, a.k.a Highland cattle. And they do not disappoint. Scotland’s animal population is full of extra-adorable creatures who seem to have been sprinkled with faerie dust. The hairy Coos originated in the Highlands and Outer Hebrides and were first mentioned in the 6th century AD. They are primarily bred for their meat, which is very lean, as they are largely insulated by their shaggy hair rather than by subcutaneous fat. Scotland does not appear to have industrialized its meat supply, so the coos have a pretty nice life until the end, grazing on the plentiful green grass and rounded bales of hay. Also posing for pictures.

Continuing my morning whisky tradition, we drove to Tomatin Distillery for a 10:00 a.m. tour and tasting. It was fascinating learning more about the making of Scotland’s national drink. Very complicated, time-consuming, lengthy and totally worth it. By law, Scottish whiskey must be made from water from Scotland and aged in oak barrels for at least three years. Of course, most whisky is aged much longer. There are lots of superstitions, for example, when the copper pot stills need to be replaced, if the old one is dented, the replacement must have a dent in exactly the same spot.

Tomatin has an old mash tun that you can climb inside. I was touring with a fellow from Germany who was very stoic about life and had no interest in getting his picture taken squatting inside a large tub. So what the heck is it? Ground down malted barley is fed into the mash tun with heated water. The temperature is high enough to dissolve many of the sugars in the grist but low enough to allow the enzymes to continue doing their thing. The liquid is collected and taken away to become whisky. The solid left over residue is given to local farmers for feed.

Since we did a fair bit of driving on this tour, a word about road signs. Of course, they are better than ours. They are gentler with more humor. Some examples: Instead of “travel time,” it’s “journey time.” Instead of detour, it’s diversion, which sounds way less annoying. Instead of “yield,” it’s “give way.” Instead of passing lane, it’s overtaking lane. We drove over several “weak bridges,” which means simply that it’s a one-way bridge. So drivers have to give way. But my favorite is this one.

Our next stop was the Highland Folk Museum, Britain’s first open air museum. The museum gives a flavor of how Highland people lived and worked from the 1700’s through the 1950’s. Over 30 historical buildings are on the property, all furnished with items appropriate to their time period. Some have been built from scratch and some have been moved from other sites. It was fascinating looking inside these dwellings from throughout Scottish history, but my favorite was seeing an actual peat fire. It smells lovely, and it generates heat like you wouldn’t believe.

Also, there were Shetland ponies.

We next drove by Coffin Bridge, the oldest surviving packhorse bridge in the Highlands. It was built in 1717. Before the 18th century it was impossible to carry the deceased from the town of Carrbridge to the local cemetery when the river was high. So this bridge was constructed by one of the earliest Scottish members of Parliament, Alexander Grant of Grant.

George and I enjoyed a yummy lunch in a semi-fancy pub and now for another observation about rules and dogs. In Scotland, people can bring their dogs into restaurants. Not just little dogs. During lunch we were surrounded by a yellow lab, a sheep dog and a standard schnauzer. All perfectly well-behaved. Amazingly, I did not feel my health was in danger.

Next we were off to Cawdor Castle, currently owned by the Dowager Countess Cawdor, a woman in her 70’s who retires to another home on her estate during the summer months so she can charge tourists ten pounds each to enter. It’s fun to see a castle that is not in ruins and has never been attacked by Jacobites or redcoats, just a beautiful lived-in place with amazing gardens. Its other claim to fame is that Shakespeare refers to Macbeth as being the Thane of Cawdor in the Scottish play. However, the castle was built many years after the life of 11th century King Macbeth, so never mind. George told me he’s heard staff complain about the Dowager Countess and how difficult she is to work for, but I’m inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt because she installed a “be mindful” sign over the entryway.

Finally, we headed to Culloden Moor to visit the memorial to those who perished in the devastating battle that raged there. The Jacobite army was devastated, and their defeat marked the beginning of the end of Highland culture in the 1700’s. The Jacobite Forces (supporters of installing Charles Edward Stuart, aka Bonnie Prince Charlie, to the thrones of Scotland and England) were handily defeated by the Hanoverian English in under an hour. This was the last of five Jacobite rebellions that occurred in 17th and 18th century Scotland. It was a bloody battle. The Scots lost between 1,500 and 2,000 men and the English only lost 50. This after the Bonnie Prince’s forces had swept through Scotland and almost made it to London. At this point, though, a decision was made to retreat back to Inverness, even though Charles II had his bags packed and was ready to head into exile. One of those many moments in history easy to second-guess.

Over the years after the battle the Brits decided to deal with the Highlanders once and for all. The infamous Highland clearances were implemented, where Scottish crofters were cleared from their lands to make room for more lucrative sheep farming. Laws were passed preventing all Scots from owning weapons, wearing the plaid of their clans, speaking Gaelic, effectively wiping out the Highland culture. Many, many of them emigrated to the United States. It was essentially ethnic cleansing – George told me that there were discussions in Parliament about requiring the mandatory sterilization of Highland women.

It is a somber place. Victorians installed a memorial, along with stones representing all the clans which were set about over the spot of mass graves. Thanks to the massive appeal of Outlander, the earth around the Fraser clan’s marker is denuded of grass, with little stones and flowers strewn over it. You’ll see my own disrespectful and inappropriate photograph below. The battlefield is very simple – a line of blue flags marking the spot where the Scots lined up, and a line of red flags marking the position of the British. It’s worth noting that the Bonnie Prince and the Duke of Cumberland, the commander of the British forces, were both just 25 years old. These days they would still be in college or back living with their parents while they found themselves. Hard to imagine.

We ended the day at the 4,000 year old Clava Cairns just down the road. A clava cairn is a type of Bronze Age circular chamber made of stones. They are typically surrounded by standing stones, and their history is very murky. This area was the inspiration for Diana Galbadon’s books. So again, me with the dumb Outlander photo. (PS the stones don’t work at all). George said that local witches, wiccans and druids still gather here for dances and mystical ceremonies. A couple of local Scottish women talked to us for a while, and they were dead serious about the magic of the place. The veil between Druid magic and faeries of old and the 21st century is very thin in Scotland.

George dropped me at my hotel after 7:00 and I had a quick dinner and stopped in a local pub for literally 5 minutes to check out the nightly traditional Scottish folk music. It was pouring down rain and honestly George had slightly exhausted me with all the facts and history, as much as I loved it.

Next day, I was onto my Backroads hiking tour of the Highlands!

Backroads Days 3 and 4: Over the Sea to Skye

by weedramofscotland, posted in Scotland Travel, Solo Travel, Uncategorized

Day three dawned a wee bit rainy, and our planned hike was officially scuppered due to wind, flooding and danger of being blown off a cliff into the sea.  Very disappointed, as we were heading to the famed Coulags.  Next trip.

Jenny, Eileen and Keith had another hike in their back pockets, followed by lunch in a little village.  Then we would head to the Isle of Skye. Jenny sketched out the day on a chalkboard.

The hike was completely beautiful.  Our love of sheep officially began on this day.  Adorable Scottish sheep were everywhere.  Scotland doesn’t seem to have industrialized its meat production.  Unsupervised sheep, cows and chickens are wandering around all over the place completely left to their own devices.   Sheep are marked with a splash of color which identifies to whom they belong.  Otherwise, they are free to wander, eat grass, and perch picturesquely on the edges of cliffs, gazing out at the ocean.

I kept asking people if the cows and sheep were used for milk and cheese and the people kept raising an eyebrow and shaking their heads. Make no mistake, we are talking about meat here. But at least until their day of doom, Scottish livestock have the world’s most fabulous life.

A few pictures of our hike follow, but sadly the most exciting bit went unphotographed. Just after passing someone’s lovely farmhouse (they have a black dog named Merlin who enthusiastically greets ramblers), we needed to haul ourselves up a tall boulder cropping.  And to help, there was a rusted chain that had been set into the boulders.   Completely awesome. I felt like Tom Cruise in Mission:  Impossible as I pulled myself up the outcropping, hand over hand.  Which I shared with Keith after triumphantly reaching the top. In response, he cocked his head and asked, “you felt like a Scientologist?”

We returned to the little town where we began, and walked to our lunch place, a fabulous little pizza spot on a loch. Keith removed a giant chalkboard from a wall and presented it to the table.  He asked the server permission first, and interpreted a disapproving pause as assent.  Note to self:  adopt this strategy immediately.

As we left the restaurant, we were greeted with a magical rainbow over the loch. While we pretty much had daily rainbows, this one was the most rainbowish one of all.

We set off in the vans for a bit, finally driving over a lovely bridge to the Isle of Skye. It has been hit pretty hard by tourism over recent years, but Backroads always finds more solitary spots. We stayed at the Duisdale Hotel, on the edge of the water with beautiful views.

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On tap for the evening was a musical performance by a local bagpiper and accordionist who teach music at the Gaelic College on Skye, called Sabhal Mòr Ostaig. The college is dedicated to providing education for Gaelic speakers with the goal of widening access to the Gaelic language and culture.

Bagpipe music used to make me cringe and then run out of the room. Maybe one of the things that happens after menopause is that suddenly bagpipes become majestic instruments that make you shiver and then cry.

In the middle of the show, our bagpiper challenged us to a bit of Scottish dancing in the parking lot, and so out we went. A documentary of our dance lesson experience is currently being edited for Netflix. The reviews will say, “Stunningly talented Americans and two Canadians change the face of traditional Scottish dance forever.”

The next day dawned slightly brighter with strange blue areas in the sky. Now old hands at divining Scottish weather, we thumbed our noses at the blue and donned our rain pants. Today we met Sarah, a Scotland ranger, who would accompany us on our hike and tell us about birds, plants and the Highland Clearances. Our trail started at a ruined church (see below) and took us past some old granite mines where we came across a lovely woman out for a walk with her border collie. We then dipped down to a large and desolate ruin of a village that was abandoned as a result of the clearances.

The Highland clearances are an infamous chapter in Scottish history. They were the forced eviction of inhabitants of the Highlands and western Islands, and basically cleared the land of people to allow for the introduction of sheep. For hundreds of years prior to the clearances, the Highlands followed the clan system. The clan was ruled by one family, and others lived together in agricultural townships that functioned like collectives. The land was controlled by the chief but leased by tenant farmers. Very feudal. All the men who worked on the land also owed allegiance and their military service to the clan chief. The clearances, which took place over a century, resulted in the destruction of the traditional clan society and began a pattern of rural depopulation and mass emigration from Scotland to the Americas and elsewhere.

So why? After the Battle of Culloden, the British government (aka evil redcoats) passed repressive legislation designed to compromise the power of the clan chief and Gaelic culture. The 1746 Act of Proscription required all swords to be surrendered, prohibited the wearing of clan tartans, forbade the speaking of Gaelic and the playing of bagpipes (because they were deemed instruments of war). Another act removed the sovereign power which the chiefs held over their clans. The clearances began thereafter, waxing and waning through the collapse of wartime industries after the Napoleonic Wars, a rise in population, famine, and a decline in the economy. Landlords were deeply in debt and were looking for more lucrative uses for their land. Replacement of the old style of peasant farming with well-capitalized sheep farmers allowed the charging of higher rents and required much less manpower.

Nobody knows for sure, but possibly up to 150,000 Scots emigrated during the clearances, and the effect still resonates today. In 1755 it is estimated that 51% of Scotland’s population lived in the Highlands, but by 1981 only 21% were.

Here are some photos of just one such village left in ruins.

Stop it with the history!! Please may we talk about peat instead. Scotland is covered with peat bogs, and over history Scots have used peat to heat homes, make whisky and so much more. Peat bogs have very low rates of decay and can even preserve food (up to 2,000 year old containers of butter have been found) and dead bodies (watch the BBC’s Shetland on Netflix because Douglas Henshall is gorg – I mean a great actor). Peat’s official name is sphagnum moss. I can go on and on, but since you have already been subjected to background info you can look up yourselves on the internet, suffice it to say that it can hold an amazing amount of water. Sarah stood knee-deep in heather and gave us a very interesting peat talk. She was holding in her hand a tiny bit of sphagnum moss. I mean tiny. When she squeezed it, enough water poured out to fill a juice glass. Magic.

Before I share the next few pictures, allow me to issue a disclaimer. Having learned the devastating story of the clearances, I feel slightly guilty being so enamored of the sheep. I mean, I love them. There are 7 million sheep in Scotland and I love each and every one. My thinking is, though, that those initial displacing sheep are long gone, and the current sheeply inhabitants had nothing to do with the clearances. You are free to judge their culpability for yourself.

After our visit to the ruined villages, we hiked down to a rocky shore and up the side of a cliff to our dramatic lunch spot overlooking the sea. Keith awaited us with the lunches we ordered on Day 1.

That evening we visited a brand new distillery on Skye, called Torabhaig. It’s so new that they haven’t yet produced a whisky because there hasn’t been enough time to age it the requisite number of years (3) in oak barrels. After the tour, as we were tasting another distillery’s whisky, we chatted with two employees. One shared that he was an extra in the iconic Hardhome episode in Season 5 of Game of Thrones. He also gathers with his mates every week for Dungeons & Dragons – and you got the sense that he is quite the appreciative drinker. The other has exactly one drink every year, a whisky, on Christmas Day. He works in a distillery, he lives and breathes whisky, and yet only one drink per year. He told us in foreboding tones about Scotland’s relatively new zero tolerance policy on drinking and driving, and said that we were all legally drunk after sampling our first wee dram. Scottish authorities warn that the only way to ensure you stay within the limit is to have no alcohol at all. It’s actually had a negative impact on Scotland’s economy and critics say it amounts to a form of prohibition. Dinna fash, though, if you are a non-driving tourist sort of person.

We were amazed by the huge investment it took to start a distillery, especially when you aren’t making gin or vodka (which one can whip up in a matter of days, we were told dismissively). Huge up front expense and a long wait before anything hits the market. A labor of love, to be sure. I bought a tshirt to help things along.

And a last word about whisky. When I first arrived in Scotland, I couldn’t believe how cheap a dram was. Well….it is much cheaper, but it’s also more wee. A pour is about one ounce of liquid, whereas in the States, it is more like 1.5 ounces and maybe even 2 if the bartender is clueless. I never once saw a server eyeball a pour, either, it’s very carefully measured in a jigger, which means that your glass is inevitably sticky from the awkwardness of the transfer. I generally favor the smaller food portions you are served in European restaurants. But with whisky, I say, supersize me.

Fort William and Reflections on Traveling Solo

by weedramofscotland, posted in Scotland Travel, Solo Travel, Uncategorized

“When you’re not sitting across from someone, you’re sitting across from the world.”

I am writing this final entry from Oregon, in fact I’ve been home for exactly two weeks.  I have thought about Scotland every day, with the fondness of remembrance and the surprise of new revelations.  It’s a little harder to write a travelogue from home, though, so sadly Fort William will not receive quite as much love as it deserves, even though it is totally wonderful  and you should all go.

Fort William is nestled between Loch Linnhe and Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the UK at 4,413 feet.  (Remember they are starting from sea level.)  It’s also at the other end of the Great Glen Way from Inverness.    As such, it is gateway to multiple recreational areas in the Highlands, including the beautiful Glen Coe and and Glen Nevis.  This being my last full day in the Highlands, I arranged another private tour with local guide Peter, who grew up in the area.  We first drove through beautiful Glen Nevis, noticing that the tippy tops of the surrounding hills, including Ben Nevis, had been sprinkled with faerie dust overnight.  We call it snow in the States but of course this is Scotland, so.  Peter pointed out filming locations for basically all the Scotland movies, as well as Harry Potter.  The road ended at a trailhead marked with an ominous sign about people falling off the trail to their deaths.  A couple of dudes were carefully reading, and photographing, the sign before setting off down the path.  Hopefully not too far, as orange sneakers and jean jackets, I fear, bode ill.

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Peter shared more Jacobite history, especially about the Bonnie Prince’s journey after he scarpered from Culloden, fleeing across Scotland to the Isle of Skye.  Even though he completely bailed as his men were being slaughtered, his escape is heartbreakingly recounted in the folk ballad, “The Skye Boat Song.” (Listen to it and try not to cry.)  He made it to the Outer Hebrides, where he met  legendary Scottish heroine Flora MacDonald.  Flora sheltered the Bonnie Prince and kept him hidden from British authorities.  She ultimately masterminded his escape from Scotland by disguising him as “Betty Burke,” her Irish maid.   Peter said there were rumors they had a fling.  They were both in their twenties, attractive, hiding from the redcoats and having a dangerous adventure together, what do you think?

 

While the Bonnie Prince escaped to a life in Rome as a sad, aimless alcoholic, Flora was captured and thrown into the Tower of London.  Typical.   She was released, and later married a MacDonald, a kinsman, thus insuring that she was Flora MacDonald from cradle to grave. They had a family and emigrated to North Carolina, where they supported the British in the Revolutionary War.  Being on the wrong side of history yet again, they ended up losing their property.  They returned to Skye, where Flora lived to the ripe old age of 68.  Everyone in Scotland knows her name.  You can visit her home, her grave and a statue on the grounds of Inverness Castle.  I suppose she is depicted searching for our Charles Edward Stuart, although I’m not certain why there is a wolf.

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We next stopped at the Commando Memorial, a striking sculpture honoring the unit of elite soldiers created by Winston Churchill during World War II.  Their special training was adopted by other elite military units around the world, including the US Army Rangers.

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And of course, we visited the Highland Memorial, located near the Glenfinnan viaduct, which I had traversed on the Hogwarts Express days earlier.  The memorial honors the Highlanders who supported the Bonnie Prince during the 1745 rising.  Surrounding hills were framed by a yet another beautiful rainbow as I headed back to the car.

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Finally, we drove down the road bisecting Glencoe, another fantastically beautiful and remote valley framed by six of Scotland’s 282 Munros.   These looked particularly serious, and indeed, Peter said he lost a friend in a hiking accident there.  Munros may only be 3,000 feet or so, but they are not to be trifled with.

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Since returning, I have thought often about the Scots and their beautiful country.  My overwhelming impression of the Scottish people is their openness, humor and kindness.  Their strong connectedness to their rich and bloody history and culture (read How the Scots Invented the Modern World), and to nature and their fellow creatures.   Also, as in many European countries, they have a very relaxed sense of time.  Am I romanticizing?  Almost certainly.  Nonetheless, I’m trying to carry my perceptions with me, because they reflect how I’d like to be in the world.  Travel forces us to slow down, unless we take our frenetic American pace with us, and also imparts a sense of perspective and proportion that there’s a big wide world out there and it’s pretty silly to coil up inside our constricted sense of our own importance.

I have never done a major trip like this on my own.  So this blog was meant to be the Journal of a Woman Traveling Alone.  The thing is though, just as in my life at home, I found that I actually didn’t think about it that much.  I did notice a few things.  I learned that one’s experience of travel is very different when traveling solo. When you are with a group you create your own universe of interaction.  You experience everything together, and share experiences visually and verbally.  You talk to one another more than you interact with locals.  I felt that as a solo traveler, I was more open to anything happening, to anyone talking to me. You are, as the quote says, sitting across from the world.

When traveling with others, if you are a person who pre-worries and over-worries (ahem),  there’s an underlying layer of concern about whether your companions are okay, happy with the itinerary, having a good time, etc.  Are they hungry, would they like to stop, do they need to go to the bathroom.   Women are the worst at this.  We want to be supportive of others’ experiences, like, at all times, and if we can help, especially by giving up something we kind of want, then by all means.   We like to smooth things over, we like to soothe.  We are the great mediators.

Being alone, you are forced to do whatever the blazes you want whenever you want to do it.  You experience your travels directly, taking responsibility for your own experience, interacting with complete strangers, figuring out all the things.   Very liberating.  There’s no waiting around, or worry that you are keeping others waiting.  No one was humoring me.  There was no need to clear anything with anyone else, no need for compromise.  The phrases, “what about…” or “what if we…” or “do you want to….” never passed my lips.

One is a free agent.  You are your very own self, looking at things through your own eyes, feeling your own feelings, being your own observational genius.     Bearing witness to your own journey.  Your emotions are closer to the surface because they are outward-facing, rather than aimed toward or through a companion.  I often found myself welling up at the beauty of the scenery just because that’s what happened.  No need to say anything or seek validation by asking, “Isn’t that beautiful,”  and then being impacted, even subconsciously, by another’s reaction.  There’s a lot to be said for moving through your experience with no filters, no agendas, and none of the indigenous drama that can permeate interpersonal relationships.

The downside, of course, is missing the camaraderie of traveling with a like-minded soul, with someone you love enough to travel with, which can be such a profound experience.  On a more practical level, another person means a reduced level of travel anxiety since you aren’t on point the entire flipping time.  On the other hand, you discover that you can have some pretty fabulous camaraderie with yourself, and being on point actually makes you feel pretty badass.  Who knew.

On balance, I highly recommend it.  It doesn’t have to be a two-week extravaganza with a passport.  Take a break and head out for a solo weekend once in a while. You won’t regret it.

So it has been wonderful sharing this journey with you, and I greatly appreciate the personal feedback I’ve received, for real.  I have enjoyed writing this more than I can say, and I hope I’ve convinced all of you to consider a trip to a beautiful and magical country in any way that makes sense to you. I swear Backroads isn’t paying me for writing this, they just happen to be a great fit for me.   Find ways to travel that work with your own personal style.   Visit countries and cultures that give you a fluttery feeling inside your heart.  Spend a lot of time in the outdoors once you get there.  One thing I’ve learned from others’ well-intentioned travel recommendations is they can land with a bit of a thud.  Travel is an intensely personal experience.  Have faith that your very own adventures await.

Travel is profoundly life-changing, every single time.  Even the inevitable sucky bits. And life is short, as they say.  So begin imagining your next adventure and then make it so.

Sláinte mhaith!

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