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,
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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:
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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.
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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.
Old Man Saber here. (By the way, I wish some of my fellow old people (Silver Foxes?) would comment - am I the only one who retains the ability in old age to turn on the laptop and click the comment button? I am feeling a little exposed, quite honestly, given the entire world now knows how Sherry traveled with great trepidation (and with such remarkable agility!) in Paris - but that's another story). Stay to the road lads!! Beware the moon.
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