Lads in Scotland

It’s our last night in Scotland (as of this writing), and the Lads On Tour are staying in a hostel that – for our mothers’ sakes – I should refrain from describing. Nonetheless, our time in the country has been terrific. After spending a week or so in Scotland, we have each earned nicknames that reflect our most noteworthy feats in this most impressive land: I am Zeke, Breaker of Horses; there is Evan, Harnesser of Wind; Tirrill, Feller of Trees; and Rich, Spiller of Milk.

In line with such noble nicknames, we have made our esteemed clans proud by doing things like: hiking Ben Nevis (at the summit there was the “U.K.’s Highest War Memorial,” which is less impressive when you consider that anything could stake that claim atop Ben Nevis – “U.K.’s Highest” Discarded Crunchie Wrapper, “U.K.’s Highest” Haggis Statuette, etc.), discovering a new sleeping position,

Rich looking comfortable whilst making everyone else uncomfortable.

doing mundane things with zealous politeness (i.e., sleeping while holding the door open, going through customs, offering a waitress an extra chair, etc.), and hearing only one angry honk while driving on the left side of the road. 

With its foggy green landscapes and rustic aura, Scotland immediately reminded of the beginning of An American Werewolf in London (no, Tirrill, not “Werewolves of London,” the Warren Zevon song), particularly the beginning, where a couple of backpackers wander through the moors of England (I know I know, it’s close though…) and are attacked by one of the beasts – this, of course, was a troubling thought to immediately come to my mind. 

Some good puffy coats here.

Alas, we did not have to worry about werewolves (though there were some dinosaurs near Roy Bridge…), and thus I was able to enjoy the setting to the fullest extent.

Natural Scotland is a bit difficult to capture in words – my attempt at description would be sublimity that calms. One moment that stands out was when we were atop cliffs overlooking Old Man Storr (or Old Man Story, as Rich calls it), a huge, balancing vertical rock formation that’s been used as a setting for Prometheus. It’s otherworldly, as you might suspect. From our cliff we could see the huge rocks below, but turning the other way we could see endless more mountain and cliffs… only the fog was so thick that our sight was cut in half horizontally. It was like someone got lazy and forgot to paint the rest of the scenery:

On a less grand scale, we’ve enjoyed the small, serendipitous moments that inevitably pop up during travel. In Roy Bridge at the Grey Corrie Lodge (a very… retro… look) we met Dutch/Albanian friends, who we then saw at our next stop on the Isle of Skye at the Saucy Mary’s Hostel,* and then again at a random pullover in Northern Scotland. At the Saucy Mary’s we also met an older couple from England who were great fun and who had actually been to Iceland before (apparently the horse there is delicious…). This Iceland connection provided common ground for conversation (as did the annoying number of midges flying around our faces), but the older man, Keith was his name, had a habit of pronouncing the word “geysers” like “geezers.”

At first I thought he was talking about the elderly folks shuffling out of the many (and aptly named) Silver Fox tour buses. Why was he rambling about the old people in Iceland? Wasn’t he one of them? This habit of his led us to great confusion and, on occasion, embarrassed hand-wringing – one exchange: “Did you enjoy looking at all the geezers in Iceland? I sure did. Didn’t get too close, mind you – that one, you know, the big one, got my wife wet and smelled of sulfur.” We changed the subject soon thereafter.

Shock and awe.

Eventually we left the Isle of Skye, along with its lovely sights and midgerable bugs, behind. It was on to Inverness, a goofy town that fancies itself a major European destination – it has a bridge (though it’s small and rickety), a river (though it’s 3 feet deep), late night drag races (a bit like Capital Boulevard), a Primark (limited selection), scaffolding all over, and heavy charges for parking/bathrooms. But it has not the tourist appeal of major cities like London or Paris.

Speaking of Paris (I’ll let old man Saber handle the Mrs. Frost segue joke here), we’re about to hop on the Chunnel and make our way over. Looking forward to it since I’ve never been – perhaps an aperitif with Proust will be on the itinerary.  

* I picked up some literature by the Eilean Dolan Castle on Skye that briefly details the Saucy Mary story, so now’s my chance to pay the knowledge forward: Legend has it that for centuries the semi-ruinous Castle Moil (on a pleasant little fishing village called Kyleakin) was built by one Saucy Mary, the spitfire daughter of a Norwegian king, for the purpose of levying a toll on ships passing through the strait that separates Skye from the mainland. Legend also says that she stretched a chain across the strait to make sure that no ship sailed through without paying up – this is both cruel and impressive, not sure of the order. The irony of the Saucy Mary legend is not lost on those who campaigned against the extortionate tolls extracted by the Skye Bridge Company from 1995 until their removal in 2004.