End of the Line

Monday was my last day in London -- and also my day to take the bus to Covent Garden and buy tea. Not to mention, do the interview that was the reason I went to England in the first place. Boss had sorted me out -- the No. 94 bus on Bayswater Road goes to Piccadilly Circus and ends there, so I just paid my 1.20 pounds and rode to "all transfer." I could've gotten off one or two stops sooner, actually, but that's OK. It was a short walk through Piccadilly Circus -- where there are no elephants, clowns, or other Barnum & Bailey-type characters, as it is a whole different kinda circus -- to Covent Garden, to Neal Street where The Tea House is.

As I was looking for the number on the street, a pretty young black man asked me how long I was going to be in London. He had flyers of some sort and was eager to give me one. "I'm leaving tomorrow," I said. "Why?" he asked flirtatiously, although, to quote The Crying Game, I don't think I was his type. "Well, I've been here two weeks," I replied, then asked him where was the tea house? Of course it was right behind me, one door down. I do not know how I could've missed it. I mean, look at it:



A rather eye-catching display. Inside, the narrow shop was very tall and multi-leveled, crowded with wooden shelves and tables holding tea and various accessories -- strainers, pots, cups, saucers. Totally overwhelming. I asked the guy behind the counter for help, then selected some of what he offered. Got some weird South African red herbal tea with vanilla for one friend. And a big bag of Earl Grey for me. Some smashing loose black tea for the Divine Ms. M. And then I was about tea'd out.

After all that tea-shopping, I was hungry. Around the corner was a Marks & Spencer, which is a chain department store, but it has a giant prepared-foods section, like a super-deluxe 7-Eleven. I got a chicken/bacon/avocado sandwich, prawn-flavored crisps, some juice, and some water. On my way back to the bus stop I passed a souvenir stand and bought my younger sister a tiny, adorable stuffed bear wearing a blue fleece "London" hoodie, with a UK flag on the sole of one foot. Awwwwww!

It was a bit of a challenge to find the 94 bus going back ... mainly because at first I realized I was on the wrong side of the road, then I had to hike a while on the right side to find an open stop for the proper line. But on the return I sat on the top deck at the very front, which was kewl. I took a groovy picture of the tops of all the red buses seeming to mesh together along Oxford Street. Hope it comes out.

Felt proud of myself for getting off at the right stop (could've gone one more ... oh, well), and even better when a woman asked me for info, and I knew the answer.

Hung around the hotel for a while, prepped the interview some more. Took a cab to the band's place to interview one of the members -- the other was not available due to some personal problem or other. It cost me 20 pounds, but I just could not deal with the tube. Despite our mutual exhaustion -- she jet-lagged, me just plain tired -- the conversation went well. She was smart and interesting. I think the story will come out good.

Made it back to Le Dump in a minicab (much cheaper at 13 pounds), driven by a man about Mick's age who, upon learning that I am a rock critic, proceeded to good-naturedly harangue me about how he never understood rock music and much preferred classical. Even as a young man. He had a whole riff about the Beatles that was actually pretty funny. And he urged me to go buy the recordings of ... uh, something? Maybe Bach? ... that he found the be-all end-all of music. Which is sort of funny, since a lot of people feel the same about the Beatles. He was a very nice man, quite educated, and he reminded me of someone. Later I realized: Ian McKellen could've played him in a movie. Although I dunno why they would make a movie of the guy's life ... but you never know. Eh, he probably saw The Lord of the Rings as populist claptrap too. Heh.

Cabbed it over to Boss's around 8. He was cooking for Tony after Tony's first day at his new job, supervising a home for deaf persons with disabilities. Each of whom uses a different kind of sign language. Dinner was beef stew and peppery dumplings, with tender li'l potatoes and delicious stir-fried green beans. Ice cream for dessert. I drank Spanish gin. We smoked hash. Played music (Stones, Johnny Cash...) until the first half of the Scorsese Dylan doc, No Direction Home, came on TV. Which I watched with increasing fascination. Can't wait to see the other half.

Then it was time for goodbye, as I still had to pack and get up early to catch my flight back to L.A. It was only a minute in the hallway, not enough time to convey my deep appreciation for all of Boss's hospitality, kindness, fun, and general good-eggness. At the end of this very intense trek through the wilderness (including Glasgow) was this surprising bit of home-ishness -- an old mate of my mate Mick's. Who could not have been a nicer person. It was good to have that kind of anchor ... I have already noted that I didn't even wanna do touristy things by then. Being able to hang with Boss and Tony was oddly perfect.

My minicab driver on the trip back was the only driver of either mini or black cab I had over the three days who ... didn't exactly make me nervous, but definitely wasn't a poster boy for London tourism. He seemed surly and angry, so I did not try to converse with him too much. But I did learn that the young man was Afghani, very furious about what America had done to his country, and angry that he was stuck in London at a job he obviously hated, because somebody had to support his extended family. Even though he longed to be back there, despite how awful it was. All I could do was say, "Dude, I'm with ya" (translated into more appropriate English) and tip him well. My politeness seemed to soften him somewhat, but I was glad when the ride was over.

I didn't sleep well nor long. This morning (oy, only this morning? it seems a million years ago) I checked out -- they wouldn't give me a receipt because I "booked through a travel agent" ... and did I mention that the housekeepers went into my room despite my "do not disturb" sign, and then just took all the dirty towels and refolded them as though they were clean? Even the ones on the grungy floor? Well, they did. Le-fucking-Dump. But to be fair they didn't charge me for the Internet time (on the lobby computer) even though it was supposed to be an added fee.

Rashly decided to walk to Paddington Station, which was totally insane. Soon reconsidered and tried to flag a black cab. One went zooming by. Then another did the same, but stopped and backed up. I said I needed to go to Paddington Station. The driver, I swear, looked like Austin Powers and even sounded like him: "Sorry, darling, I got a paid job," he said brightly, regretfully. I must've looked ready to cry (because I was), or so I thought, because then he said, "Tell you what, it's on the way; I'll take you to the station and then get the job." I thanked him profusely and hauled my stuff into the back of the cab. Black cabs are brilliant, BTW. They always look the same, and you always know what you are getting.



Anyway, the cabbie asked if I was going to Heathrow, and I said yes, on the express. So he said he'd drop me 'round at the best entrance, the side, so I would not have to walk as far. I could have kissed him. I tipped well instead.

I am sure it was a practiced routine, but the guy really did me a solid. As I was getting out of the cab amid the driver's well wishes for a safe trip, a man ran up to the vehicle. "Sorry, sir, I got a paid job," said my knight in shining armor. "I was just doing the lady a favor ... tell you what, where you going?" I didn't catch what the man said, but it must've been too far out of his way for the cabbie to squeeze it in, because he gave the man his regrets and sped off. Still, I wondered how many times a day the cabbie used that bit. Good riff. Anyway, he saved my life and made some jack. I can't complain.

True enough, the walk was short, and I snagged a seat on the express just a few minutes before it took off. I stared at London rolling by and tried to think of it as farewell. I was pretty burnt but felt good. More like myself, somewhat educated. And very glad to be heading home.

Sunday in the Park ... and the Pub

So today I had planned to sleep in, but I didn't manage even seven hours. Too much to drink last night (but fun!), and too much random noise in the hotel hallway -- mostly the endlessly banging, heavy wood door. I had weird dreams, including one about people having to come into my hotel room and drill holes in the floor, or something.

And eventually I gave up, got up, and slowly put myself together. Boss was working all day, and Sunday lunch, I am informed, is very busy. I finally went out, walking toward Hyde Park, the north side of which was not far, across the Bayswater Road. Got some iced coffee in a can -- it was warm enough to enjoy a cold drink, hurrah! -- and a roll of film from some tiny store. Then I hit the park. I just ambled along feeling pleasantly warm from the sun and looking for a place to sit. I found an empty bench and phoned Boss at work, as instructed. Someone told me to hang on, and so I waited on the line. As though on cue, a big sweaty guy materialized from behind a tree (or something) and sat down next to me on the bench, on the other side of my pile of jacket, bag, newspaper, etc. Dammit! Boss came into my ear and said to come by the Gold around 4; then we hung up. I barely clicked "end call" before the Sweaty Guy pounced, attempting in a foreign accent I can't identify -- Greek? Turkish? Middle Eastern of some sort? really not sure -- to engage me in fruitful conversation.

SG: Are you American?

Me: (stupidly, somewhat reflexively, but coldly) Yes... [stuffs phone into bag and grabs other stuff to make quick getaway]

SG: Where are you from?

Me: ...

SG: Where do you work?

Me: ...

SG: What do you do for a living?

Me: [bails]

As I hurried away, mindful of the fact that I was not on my home turf and therefore ill-advised to react as I usually do -- i.e., with a hearty "fuck off" -- I had to laugh. Men really are all the same.

Yeah, sure. For all I know he just wanted to practice his English. Whatever. Let him try some other tourist.

I worried a little that he would follow me, but I didn't look back for fear of that being interpreted as encouragement. Just kept on walking, down a path that eventually took me to the Albert Memorial. (Which I guess is in Kensington Gardens but I'm not sure how all that works.) A bit gaudy, but very meaningful, it turns out. The air was so warm, and humid. I felt weak and tired from hangover and not enough sleep. Got a chicken/avocado wrap from a snack shop, along with a cappuccino. Sat at a picnic table and was soon joined by an older couple eating ice cream. They asked if they could join me, and I eagerly said yes -- the memory of SG still fresh in my mind. We had a nice chat. They had just returned from a trip to Moscow, which sounds like a fairly fantastical place. Full of ancient ornate subways and an ultra-wireless young generation. The wife explained about all the different elements of the Albert Memorial and what they mean, and the husband pointed out the Royal Albert Hall, just beyond it. The memorial is full of symbolism, none of which I can currently remember, but it sounded almost like a spell.

I liked meeting these old people and listening to their stories. And telling them mine, about the standing stones. After a while I left them and ambled off. All around me, couples were taking in the sun on blankets or spread-out jackets, or cuddling on benches in the shade. People and their dogs were everywhere. Families, gangs of tourists and friends ... all out enjoying the sun. I took a picture of the Peter Pan statue. (But not this one.)



Presently I noticed that quite a few people were carrying shopping bags. Shopping! Ooo, yes. And off I headed to Oxford Street, where there is much shopping. On the way I passed the Marble Arch, so I took some pictures of it, too.

That is, like, the most cliched thing you can do ... but it was on the way, and I figured I should at least make the effort. But I am pretty touristed-out. Boss had urged me to take a bus that travels around the city and hits the big spots or something. I just couldn't bear the thought of it. I know it's London, my first time here, and I should want to see the fucking Queen or at least her neighborhood or something, or more historical stuff or whatevah, but to be honest I feel like I am still processing Scotland and all I saw there. I am kind of happy to just mingle in the living city, to wander around this little portion of London within range of my hotel. That's enough of a lesson in its own way.

Well, Oxford Street was pretty crazy with people, but I did not mind the press of humanity as much as I usually do in crowds. I walked, and I browsed. And I bought ... two leather jackets -- one 3/4-length, single-breasted black Angel-style, and one full-length Spike drama. Hot! This kind of blew my wad. But I still walked around and looked at tons of stuff. Thankfully, nothing struck my fancy as hard. (My Visa card is still smokin'...) Back at Le Dump, I admired the spoils; got ready to head to the Gold just as Boss phoned looking for me. (I wasn't that late...)

It had been such a nice, blue, sunshine-y day that I totally forgot I was in London. And so I absentmindedly left my umbrella in my room. Oops. I had gone out the door in my MC5 T-shirt and new leather jacket (the shorter one); about halfway to Portobello Road, a gray cloud scudded overhead, and it began to pour! I took off the jacket and rolled it up in a ball under my arm to keep it from getting totally soaked, then stood laughing in my sweater and T-shirt under a totally inadequate tree (the only handy cover) on a deserted little side street that was stacked cheek-to-jowl with cream-colored townhouse-style facades. Anyone passering by would've thought me fucking insane, but so what? I'll never come this way again. After a few minutes, the shower subsided, and I was back on track. By the time I got to the Gold it had stopped completely ... and the sun was back out. But I was dripping wet.

I asked the bartender to call Boss from upstairs, as arranged. When he came out, I asked him for a towel. He said, "Oh, I thought you just got out of the shower." In a manner of speaking ... yes. I am not sure if he was joking or not ... probably he was. I mean, I looked like the only contestant in the pub's wet T-shirt contest.

So guess what I won? First a drink, and then dinner ordered by Boss himself. Featuring some pate he'd made, as well as roast lamb with roasted potatoes and veggies. So delicious. The gravy, yeah. Chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream for dessert. Mmmmm. Afterward, Boss had paperwork to do, and I needed to go back to my room and prep the interview that is the reason I am in London to begin with. Plus I needed to relax after all that walking and ... dampness. So we parted ways. I strolled back to Le Dump, got comfy, and here I sit. I got some work done, and then I stared out the window for a while. The kids across the way -- I think it is a hostel -- are playing loud music and being youthfully boisterous. I watched them for a while, then put on this movie Boss recommended, a detective show called I think A Touch of Frost. The kids are still noisy, but I'm going to sleep.

All Roads Lead to Boss Goodman

On Saturday morning there was so much to deal with, I forgot I had just hurtled out into the wide world all alone. I had a 9:40 a.m. British Airways flight to Heathrow from Glasgow -- so, as usual, got up early and hauled my grand new rolling duffel (in the UK known as a sports bag with wheels, apparently) and my shoulder bag into a cab and then to the airport. Got there early, place was pretty deserted. I checked my bag -- it was 19.8 kg (limit is 32). The clerk said that my old itinerary (i.e., going on to Chicago and then LAX on that same day, instead of on Tuesday) was still in effect, but she put me on the flight anyway and advised me to contact American before leaving Heathrow to make sure everything was up to date. I had a printout of the correct itin that was my online receipt, but I was still kinda concerned. It all turned out ok, though.

At Heathrow I got my bag, phoned AA to make sure my ticket was right, and trundled out to find the Heathrow Express.



At 26 pounds it's expensive, sorta, but it only 15 minutes to get to central London. Worth it!

Behind the ticket counter was a young, pretty black guy with a close-cut hair/beard style. He had amazing eyes. He was on the phone when I approached. I hung back but he gestured me forward. He was saying, in a British accent (duh), "Dad, Dad -- [pause] Dad, I'm at work."

Me: [waves hand] That's ok, I'll wait. (The train leaves every 15 minutes. What do I care to wait for a second and gawk around while the dude finishes his parental bizness?)

Clerk: "No, what do you need? [very pleasant] [then, to Dad] No, Dad! I'm at work. Are you all right? [pause; takes my order of a round-trip ticket and my credit card] Ok, good. Good.

Me: [signs slip, etc.] Thanks.

Clerk: Have a nice day! [to Dad] Yeah, no, Dad! I'm at work. I'll call you later.

Me: [leaves]

I lugged my stuff down two alarmingly steep escalators into the bowels of the earth to catch the train. Got on, and quickly was at Paddington Station, where I managed to get a cab (only the British could come up with this orderly yet chaotic way of snagging a ride), then went to my hotel, the Queens Park Hotel.

It is kinda dumpy, but I have a double bed, and the sheets are clean, at least. The room is small, but that's usual. I got settled and called Boss Goodman, who suggested we meet at the Portobello Gold at 3. It was a short walk from the hotel, about 15 minutes, and, as it was Saturday, the famed Portobello market was going off. A riot of booths and wares for sale. Clothes, shoes, antiques, trendy stuff, jewelry, handbags, tools, fixtures -- just anything and everything, as the song goes.

I found the pub and went inside under the tall blue sign with big gold letters vertically spelling THE GOLD. Stood there blinking for a moment, then walked around to the right side of the bar.



I spotted the man from the picture at the far end. Not too tall, but a big guy with short salt & pepper hair and casual dress. I peered at him and approached, pointed at him, and he at me. "Are you Boss?" I asked, although I knew. He was, of course. On the counter next to him was a white plastic bag, like a grocery bag, containing a bitchen pair of shoes he'd just bought in the market, oxblood wingtips. totally cool.

So we chatted, and he bought me a drink, John Powers neat. We talked about Mick, my trip, his heart attack, the city, and getting some Indian food later on. I then drank a shot of absinthe, and soon we went on up the Portobello Road, eventually to his place to hang out some more. I was feeling pretty good by that time. It wasn't hot out but not cold, a little cloudy but pleasant. The market dazzled with its produce, leather goods, tapestries. Souvenirs and faux-couture.

We caught a cab to Boss's apartment, where I met his roommate Anthony. Who is big and gay. And we smoked, listened to music, talked. I toured the little garden Tony planted behind the flat. So pretty and inventive, with every niche and nook used wisely. Typically, coming back inside, I tripped on a step I forgot was there, giving myself a nice goose egg on my right arm, which caught the doorjamb. Afternoon drinking is hazardous. but fun.

Presently we went off to the Indian restaurant. We took the bus, which was not scary at all due to Boss's presence. We were standing on the corner waiting for the bus, talking about whatever, and I felt strangely happy to be there. I think Boss did too. It was like we could be sudden friends due to our mutual friendship. It was cool.

Tony met us at the restaurant, where we ate and drank soooo much. (Moan.) It was all so good. Just playing with the papadams and sauces/condiments: a coconut/curry hash, the raita, mango chutney, weirdly addicting pickled lime, and some chopped onions with maybe mint? (Didn't have that one.) Boss was really into combining the flavors -- mango w/lime, coconut w/raita & onion ... that was fun. We had chicken tikka masala, chicken makti masala, lamb w/tomatoes & peppers, motor panir, eggplant something, pulao rice, garlic naan ... some kinda salad ... plus beer for them and wine for me. And Drambuie at the end. 75 pounds for the whole feast ... crazy! Delicious.

Went back to Boss's in a mini-cab and smoked some more. Hung out and got tired. He called me my own cab, and I was back at Le Dump in no time flat. A rather eventful and enjoyable first day in London, but I am sooo tired (and not a little drunk). Which is probably why I feel too awake. I gotta try to sleep. After all, this is my time to relax and recharge. Heh. Despite hectic day, it does feel far less action-packed than most of the days in Scotland.

600 Miles to the Garage

Urgh. Was it really only this morning that we left Raasay? We were the only car on that little ferry, although there were passengers on foot. It was raining, of course. We went to the town of Portree and found the shop that a young guy at Caroline's shop had told Deb about, where we could find a rolling duffel bag. Which is apparently called a "sports bag with wheels" here. Who knew?

Got the appropriate item, which was a huge relief. No way could I cram all of my crap into one single carry-on w/o a bigger suitcase. All is well.

Then went to a little cafe for coffee and something bread-y, a toasted tea cake. Mmmm.

We stopped at Skye Jewellery to shop for a commemorative bauble. I found a nice silver ring in a Celtic pattern associated w/Raasay, which fit my naked thumb perfectly. So, with the pinky thistle I bought in Edinburgh, all fingers are filled up. Anyway, the ring was expensive, but I am happy, b/c whenever I look at it I'll remember Roger and Caroline and their friendly, pretty island.

Deb of course dawdled quite a while, poring over which rings to buy. We had to jam, so I finally dragged her out of there. We decided to again take the bridge b/c the weather was so bad -- a longer drive but less fraught with chances. The rain was fairly relentless at times, but we (I) managed. Yay for the trusty Vauxhall. By this time, driving on the two-lane highways was easy. Still, it was kind of amazing how places we'd passed just a few days before, with little trickles of water flowing innocently, were now overrun by torrential cascades:



We wended our way back past Loch Lomond and through the Trossachs, stopped for tea in Luss. As we neared Glasgow, the sky cleared to a gorgeous summery blue, brilliant sun, fluffy white clouds ... a nice change.

Getting to the rental dropoff was somewhat unnerving; my city driving was much less assured. Or at least I felt way less confident about doing it. We made it there in one piece, and really without too much trouble. But my nerves were pretty ripped by then. Still, I was very chuffed to see I'd driven almost 600 miles (598, I think). Deb was like, "You're my hero!" and we hugged and jumped around in a circle like Merry and Pippin.

Here is a portrait of our trusty steed, parked outside the Raasay Hotel:



Glasgow accents are hard to crack. You really have to listen and process at once. The boys at the rental place were nice, called a cab for us and chatted a bit. We arrived at the Arthouse Hotel around 6:30, checked in, and hauled our stuff (via old-fashioned elevator with the door and cage-like gate) up to the third floor. We're sharing a bed, but it's more a queen than a double. The hotel is another old building, but renovated and done up quite artily (hence the name) ... best of all, it was warm in the room. Like, hanging-out-in-your-underwear warm. Definitely a switch.

It was our last night together in Scotland, and I wanted to go out somewhere. Anywhere. We quizzed the desk girls and finally decided to go check out this dance club called the Garage -- which we were led to believe was of mixed age but was really a 20something joint. We ate Chinese food beforehand, then ambled over to wait in line with the kidz, all decked out in their finest Friday-night hip gear, much of it hilariously '80s-throwback. The door guy was rather dubious upon our approach, goodnaturedly admonishing us about seeing a bunch of 20-year-olds getting their drink on. "That's OK, we're just going to look around," I told him. "We won't touch," Deb promised with surprising cheek, and we hurried past. We went up the steps and paid our 5 pounds, stepped to the bar for a drink. It was smoky as all hell -- more from the smoke machines than the cigs, and it was fairly early yet. The place was a maze of rooms, not too crowded yet, but lively. We were of course the oldest people in there. I didn't mind; it was all highly amusing. The biggest room was shadowy and smoky, with young folks packed on the seats around the perimeter of the giant dance floor, vid screens flashing the club's logo and ads. A gallery above that seemed mostly populated by boys. We stood under a blacklight that made our GTs glow almost blue, and I laughed b/c the kids were getting down to the Bee Gees! "Stayin' Alive," I think. OMG, most (all?) of them weren't even born when this was a hit.

So we moved on through other rooms, finally climbing more stairs to "the Attic," a smaller space, way less populated, where the music was more pop and with a bit of a mod bent (hence, perhaps, the target in the Attic logo?). Not much action here till the DJ played someone's cover of the Beatles' "We Can Work It Out." Hah-fucking-HAH!! The kids may be alright but they are definitely retro. Funny, too, that the boys tended to congregate on one side of the room, girls on the other. More drink, I suppose, needed to be consumed before mixing. I think I'm glad I'm old.

Eh, so it got boring quickly. I was ready to split, much to Deb's relief. She was a good sport about going along, although mainly I think she didn't want me going out alone. (B/c, y'know, I don't know the first thing about taking care of myself.) The scene on the street by this time was quite boisterous, although still early enough not to be turning ugly. We went back to the room. I took a shower (crappiest water pressure yet) and packed. Not too long after we got back, we heard a godawful howling of rage and banging on something metal -- maybe a dumpster? Must've been one of those drunk 20-year-olds, imbibed to incoherency. This went on for quite a while before we heard sirens, then silence. Whatever.

This little slice of a weekend night in Glasgow made a weird contrast to Edinburgh. The restaurant and the club we went to were in an area a bit like the Third Street Promenade, in that the street was blocked off at a certain point to make a pedestrian mall. But businesses leave their trash bagged on the street, in front of the buildings, thus right in the middle of all who strolled through. Not exactly a pristine vibe. While we were in line at the Garage, just after 11, some girl was already puking on the sidewalk. The effect in total was kinda grungy and edgy, like a situation poised to turn menacing on a dime. Eh, it was probably just a typical youth scene. Still, we saw on the BBC news a few days ago this report about how violent Scotland could be. It was surprising, b/c it seemed very far from our experiences; even during our nighttime jaunts in Edinburgh we never felt any kind of looming threat. I didn't really feel afraid on the streets of Glasgow, but definitely more watchful. The TV image of several young men brawling in Glasgow suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched.

On the other hand, I wish I had more time to spend here. My impression seems quite incomplete. Maybe next time.

Tomorrow (later on this morning, actually) I take leave of my sister and fly to London alone. I am excited and kind of scared -- very glad I have Boss to make contact with. I wonder if it will be raining.

A Day Off

It was a thankfully uneventful day. I slept in due to drinking too much, but the plan (at least for me) was to just kick it anyway. And indeed I was very happy to stay indoors while the weather blew by, sometimes raining, sometimes drizzling, sometimes pouring. I did indeed do my nails -- the conditions were primitive, but I managed -- and I read, and I stared out the window at the passing light/dark parade in the sky.

Deb went out of course, all decked out in her hiking/rain gear. She visited with Sadie at the shop and also hiked a bit. And of course she took pictures. I really love this thistle, isn't it prickle-ishly gorgeous?



Despite knowing I missed some lovely scenery, I do not regret staying in the room to recharge. But she saw some amazing vistas. You could write books of poems about the light in Scotland; here it is no exception.







And a couple of the shots she took made me ponder how much the remotest places can strike one as soooo familiar...





In the evening we went down to the hotel pub and ordered a bottle of wine. We drank from it while sitting by a window overlooking the parking lot, and the water/Skye beyond. We watched people coming in to dine/drink; not too many. In a far corner sat a couple with a dog that barked at us when we came in. They seemed friendly, but the dog wasn't.

We had dinner in the nearly deserted restaurant, again sitting by the front window. Gazing out into darkness, really. It felt totally comfortable, if ultra-casual. The dinner was good, mainly just relaxing. We had some pate as a shared appetizer. I had steak for an entree. Went back upstairs and packed up for yet another day of traveling tomorrow. We decided to catch the 9 a.m. ferry out and go to ... uh, I forget which town on Skye, to purchase a bigger bag with wheels for me for my London jaunt ... due to British Airways strict baggage rules. First there is Glasgow, but I'm both excited and a little daunted by my ever-looming solo trip. At least I will have the excuse of work to distract me.

Dinner Party

Sitting in the Raasay Hotel with Deb at almost midnight. Had a lovely evening with Roger and Caroline and their friends, Sadie and Monica. Drinks, dinner, music, conversation. The rain beat down outside, but it was cozy inside their house, complete with two kitties -- Coco and Charlie. They are leaving on holiday tomorrow -- got to catch the 8 a.m. ferry -- so we're lucky to have gotten to see them and spend time with them.

Roger fetched us at the appointed time. The Raasay Hotel is run by a family with a lot of kids, who double as staff. It is cozy and friendly:



So the scene was a bit loose, but they turned up the heat for us, and all was well. I think only two other rooms were occupied. Anyway, it was just up the hill from R&C's place. But then, Raasay is small, so most things are near each other.

He made us gin and tonics (with lime but no ice ... it didn't freeze fast enough -- talk about roughing it!), and we listened to some music. He made me choose, and I was thinking kinda background-y stuff, so I picked Dido's first album, and later some Nina Simone, but I think he wanted more rock-like stuff b/c he took over during dinner and played the Verve and later some Snow Patrol, which was also groovy. We had some chat time with just Roger, and then Caroline came in from work and we met her. Then came Sadie and Monica. More drinks, then dinner (vegetarian meatballs in tomato sauce, french fries, salad, wine, and ginger cake with cream for dessert ... mmm). The conversation was lively -- about Scottish history and religion, how different countries do or don't teach certain aspects of history (ie, English schoolkids don't get anything on the War of 1812 -- that is, the second time we kicked their asses; German kids of Monica's generation didn't learn much about WWII; my generation barely heard a mention of Vietnam). Lots of talk about music, writing ... and great stories. Roger and Caroline told a fairly amazine one about Coco bringing in a duck through the cat door in the middle of the night (fortunately they saved it and got it back outside). Sadie topped that with a story about a huge male cat she knew of that once brought in a lamb!! Effing hell. Cats are definitely top of the critter food chain on this island.

So I told coyote stories and hawk tales and other fables of the backyard. Which I am far better suited to than history of any kind.

We stayed pretty late but not too late, I hope. Roger did not drink, and at the end of the night he returned us safely to our hotel doorstep. Goodbyes and thank-yous were exchanged ... I felt kind of glow-y from all the friendliness and camaraderie. I am glad Mick hooked us up. Also during the visit, Roger phoned up another of his and Mick's pals from the swinging London '60s days, the legendary "Boss" Goodman, and introduced us over the wire. I got his digits and said I'd call when I got into town. And we will meet up.

But tomorrow we stay put on Raasay. I cannot stand to move around again another night. Deb is going hiking, and I am gonna do my nails.

The Flags of Ferry and Fairy

The Standing Stones really blew my mind and made the trip to world's-edge-adjacent worthwhile -- but in general I enjoyed our jaunt around Harris/Lewis with Les. Earlier in the day, before the stones, he told us all about this plan to make a giant quarry on the side of a mountain in Harris -- so big you could've seen it from space -- that the local people have been fighting against. The rock is called anathracite. Something that apparently works very well in making a road. Of course, Les said, to the big French multinational that wanted to do this, Harris is just some rocky nothing, best for exploiting. But it is a beautiful place, and should not be scarred for life. Les said the explosions they would've made while excavating the rock would've been heard SIX MILES away! I couldn't imagine such disruption in such a peaceful place. All the wildlife and fish would've been disturbed, perhaps forever changed. So far they have successfully defeated the plan. I hope they continue to prevail. Les had us each take a tiny sample of this rock. There is plenty of it for such things, and for local needs. But blasting a galactic-sized hole in the mountain is entirely something else.

While on the road we saw herons, and some seals hanging around on the lichen-coated rocks. Les isn't from Harris, but he is clearly a devotee of its traditions. He learned Gaelic (I always thought it was "Gaylick," but he says "Gallick"), and his kids have Gaelic names. (His 10-year-old daughter, Rhiannon -- love that name! -- and her mom rode with us a short way on the trip back.) He even cuts the peat to burn in winter, an old practice that some islanders still do.

On the way back from the Stones, we saw another collosal landmark, Whalebone Arch:



After the tour, Les dropped us off at a pub about a mile from our B&B du soir, called Avalon (the B&B, not the pub). We had a quick bite in the lounge. I had awesome split pea and ham soup with a savory cheese scone. Deb had fish & chips. I also had a glass of whisky, the regular Jura (not the 10-year-old). Les had said the walk back to the B&B wasn't long; it seemed like a mile, and Fussy was a bit put out. Granted, we were trudging in a fine drizzle, and the sidewalk and the lights both ended before we got to Avalon, but WTF. I kind of enjoyed it. It was very dark. It reminded me a little of being a kid and walking on the country roads in the winter.

Back at Avalon, we had a cozy two-bed room with a private bath -- that was down the hall! I couldn't figure out how to make the shower work, so I took a bath, which was actually nice and thawing. Then we watched a movie on the BBC about a train crash in Ladbroke Grove, called Derailed. Mick used to live in Ladbroke Grove, long ago. Anyway, the movie was a rather muddled quasi-true-life thing involving corporate (denial of) responsibility and the shattered lives of survivors and such, but the most interesting thing was that they interrupted the film to show the news for a half hour, then returned for the last 30 minutes of the flick. Weird.

We had to get up at 6 to catch the 7 a.m. ferry off of Harris, so we crashed around 11:30. The alarm beeped insistently at 6:02, and we struggled into consciousness, threw our stuff together, got the taxi outside and outta there. The B&B host had made up a nice breakfast on a tray in our room, but it was way too early for food. This, I have noticed, is sort of a downside of B&Bs for me. I did take the packaged cereal bar, however.

On the ferry we went straight up to the observation deck. For this time we were pals, after all. It was a cool hang, with couches and little tables and good views of the land and sea all around. Hardly anyone was up there, although when we disembarked on Skye, tons of people got off. I guess they'd rather watch TV?

I myself put on the iPod and kinda wheeled through the songs. Some of the more pastoral/pop XTC tunes were pretty great for just standing at the front window, bobbing on the waves. I took out Deb's binoculars and looked at a lighthouse at the tip of the land. The sky was grey and crappy, but I felt pretty happy in my sonic cocoon. Deb brought me some coffee and a roll. She napped a while, and I just drifted with the music and the water. From the bow a flag of Scotland fluttered in the wind. I gazed at the rocky, grassy cliffs as they receded from view. When we were farther out there I saw a seabird flying low, skimming the waves. Another came along and joined it. I wondered if they were friends. And I kept dancing my private dance with the water and sky.

Dungeons and Gardens

Anyway, we got back to Skye around 9:30 this morning. Found the faithful Vauxhall, still full of our junk, in the pier parking lot where we left it. Loaded it up with our overnight bags and drove off toward Dunvegan. It was raining, of course, really pissing down when we pulled into the castle's parking lot. A whole crowd of geezers was thronged around the ticket booth nevertheless -- at this midweek juncture, we are often surrounded by old folks at tourist attractions. I guess that's not surprising, really. Who else would be gamboling about the historical ruins in the middle of the week? Dunvegan is sort of out there on its own, isolated-like, and it is bigger than it looks. Here is a view of the front/entrance:



By the time we got where to buy our tickets sorted out, I was sort of not feeling it. Was kinda cranky or tired or ragging -- all of the above, really. Annoyed by the rain and sort of bored of castles -- after only two! -- and I suppose ancient buildings in general. The Clan MacLeod owns/runs this joint -- some still live in the upstairs rooms above the tourist part. I couldn't help speculating what the actual living quarters were like: all mod cons, a la so many places in Edinburgh? Did they have Internet high-speed and cable TV, central heat and maybe a jacuzzi tub? I would. Anyway, what this place mainly had of interest to me was the Fairy Flag, a tattered and faded bit of yellow silk said to be protective in a magical stylee. I found it quite incongruous that this mystical relic was framed and hung on the wall next to the piano in the display version of the living room. Should it not be in some vaunted place of power, a ley-circuit niche of its very own?

Oh, well. When I entered the castle I put in my earphones -- the Dandy Warhols' spiritual trilogy of "Godless," "Mohammed," and "Nietzsche" -- and tripped around. Gazed at swords in glass cases and giant portraits of long-dead Great Scots. I liked the library with its glass-enclosed shelves of moldering, fancy leather-bound books, and a desk placed at a window with a spectacular view of some loch or other (whatever). I missed the Fairy Flag the first time through b/c I was zoning out, and also there was a big crowd of the elderly around it, so I just wandered on by. The nice old lady docent in clan tartan let me go back up and see it, although she and her coworker seemed quite amused by my obliviousness. Heh.

The flag was cool, but my favorite part of Dunvegan was the dungeon. Just off the living room, actually off a short foyer b/w the living room and the drawing room (or something), there was a door, and behind it a narrow row of rough steps went up into a small chamber in which the stone bones of the castle were exposed. All around this place were rooms of elegance and refinement, with fancy furniture and bright colors, rich velvets and luxurious ornate fabrics on chairs and couches, finely carved and painted wood, huge pretty windows with lush views. But here was this raw, embedded reminder of the brutality of those days, the brutality that in part secured all the luxury that obscured it, however superficially. But really it's just human business as usual, the gut of the beast. Lairds, clans, presidents, parties -- blah blah. It is ever thus. Anyway, below the small chamber was an even smaller pit where two prisoners could be shackled, sitting up with their backs against rough stone, legs out straight or maybe bent if they proved too tall. (The pit contained two faux prisoners to demonstrate the point, along with tons of coins and other things dropped accidentally/on purpose by tourists, like sunglasses.) You could peer in through a grate. It was a long way down. Deb later told me they were playing a recording of "prisoners" coughing and generally sounding miserable, but I was in my own Dandy world and didn't hear that. Still, I was fascinated by the chamber and walked around as much of it as I could, feeling the walls and looking up at the high ceiling. I am sure the pensioners thought me somewhat batty. Before, in the living room, I had seen, deliberately set slightly ajar, a door opening out of the fancy wall and a set of stone steps behind it; later I learned that this was a service passageway from the kitchens, conveniently located so that the prisoners, slowly starving/thirsting to death, could smell the food being carried up to the diners. Humans, man. They can be most inventively cruel.

As I think I said, it was raining like hell, and I had seen now all I cared to see inside the castle. Deb was still poking around, so I told her I would meet her at the cafe by the parking lot. She said, "Don't you want to see the gardens? They're beautiful." I shivered and carped, "But it's raining." "So?" she replied. Hmmmm. Right. Of course I had my raincoat on (rock on, packable fleece-lined Lands End gear!), so I grabbed my umbrella and headed down the path (yay for waterproof hiking boots).

I was rewarded with a totally empty and peaceful world of greenery and hidden, twittering birds (no headphones needed when there's no people...)



Some spectacular waterfalls...



An incredibly sweet smell coming from a lone deep pink flower that had to be an orchid. A meandering woodland path to the Walled Garden -- please close the gate to keep the rabbits out -- also deserted and magically beautiful. Laid out with a sundial in the middle and paths radiating in each direction, to different parts that revealed themselves slowly with every footpace. I was passing a hedge and suddenly smelled that same sweet flower -- a few more steps and I could then see the cluster of pink just on the other side of the pale green hedge. At one end of the garden was a green painted door that did not open. I walked all the way around the place and almost got out without seeing anyone ... just as I finished my little tour, a guy showed up, followed by his female companion.

I left the Walled Garden and wandered into the Round Garden, laid out rather like the spokes of a wheel and also very pretty and soothing:



By then I was ready for some tea, so I ambled back up to the castle path, past an open, big shed where a worker was doing something. I said hello, and he said hi back. I also passed the fern greenhouse but didn't go inside.

The cafe was busy, but I got some tea and wrote a little. Presently it was time to go to the Three Chimneys for lunch, so I went back to the car and phoned Pokey. She was on her way. I punched the auto search on the car radio and watched the numbers reel by, capturing nothing at all, until finally it came to BBC Gael, which was actually in English at that moment.

Off we drove to the restaurant, and I had my first personal driving experience with single-lane roads and passing points. It was soon sussed out, thanks in no small part to the navigator.

Three Chimneys is a lovely little restaurant, cozy but strangely posh, with stone walls exposed inside. We had wine and the two-course lunch. Intended to do three (that is, w/dessert), but got too full. I had two different slices of homemade bread -- parmesan and sunflower/fennel -- plus an appetizer of house-cured salmon with a mustard/dill vinaigrette and deep red pureed beetroot. Mmmm. For the main course, venison, roasted with mashed potatoes w/green onions (scallions?) and "bashed neeps," i.e., mashed turnips. Which I learned I don't like much.

After lunch we flew out of the sticks and back to the main road and to Sconser, to catch the 4:15 ferry to Raasay. Roger was waiting, after all. We were first in the auto line for the little ferry that took us 15 minutes from Skye to Raasay. It was raining. I was feeling very cooked by this point -- we'd been stressing the timing a little, plus I'd done a lot of driving by that time. But on the other side of the water was Roger's smiling face and red Ford wagon, which we followed to his and Caroline's home nearby. He showed us around, including the new roof they had to put on when the old one blew off in the hurricane they had in January. (Man. What did that sound like?) There were crates of old slate shingles along the road outside -- their former roof.



He invited us to sit for a while in their comfy living room before going to the hotel, where I currently sit writing this, but I was getting antsy b/c had been wearing the same clothes for days and felt very unsettled. We are staying two nights here, so I really wanted to get into our own space and spread out a little. Roger obliged and led us up to the hotel, the Raasay Hotel. He promised to come collect us at 6. I am happy to get the chance to freshen up and change clothes before dinner.

Like a Standing Stone

I am sitting in a crowded cafe outside Dunvegan Castle on Skye, where it is raining like hell. I am waiting for Pokey. We are supposed to be going to Three Chimneys, a fine restaurant somewhere around here. Roger was going to join us but he bailed b/c he has too much work to do. Hmf. I come halfway around the world to meet one of Mick's oldest friends, and he is just as bad about choosing work over fun. I suppose that's why they are successful, but still. I don't like being stood up.

Anyway, I have had Earl Grey tea and a roll, so ... here is the story of the Standing Stones.

Yesterday morning (it seems like ages ago), I found the annoying one up on the obs deck and rejoined this sisterly party of two. There were not too many people in this wide, open space with great low couches and tables fixed to the deck. The decor was sort of '70s RV-ish. But the view was pretty fantastic as we headed toward the pier at Harris.

Off the boat, we walked up the main street to a little cafe. The tiniest place yet that we've eaten; it was like a cottage. It literally filled up at one point. I was over being pissed at Deb by then, having had the time to myself to think and write and listen to Tori Amos. I had been feeling very far away from home and missing Don a lot. Thinking that if we were here together, we wouldn't be keeping such a hectic and insane pace. Not to mention that I would have someone around to keep me warm ... .

Anyway. So, at the cafe it was the always reliable Earl Grey tea and a soft, warm scone. That made me hungrier, so I had an egg salad sandwich (here called "egg mayo," b/c it's just egg and mayo -- awesome) on brown bread, which was soooo good. The U.K. is the land of sandwiches, which is fab.

After lunch our guide, the mighty Les McInulty, showed up in his silver taxi (more like a passenger van). He was a few minutes late (and of course Fussy had to phone him). He'd had to get his kilt on, he said. Apparently these things take time. He was around my age, probably younger. Soft-spoken but very knowledgeable. Deb sat in front so she could ask her billion questions. He drove very fast on the winding, mostly single-lane roads. We stopped to take pictures along the way, and went to yet another old ruin of a church. It had some interesting features, including male and female fertility symbols carved onto its tower, on different, adjacent sides. The female one (shown here) is called a Sheela-Na-Gig, which of course is the title of a PJ Harvey song.



So we drove all around Harris, then went to Lewis. It's not really a separate land mass. They are actually joined, but for some reason called two names. Like Laurel Canyon and Crescent Heights boulevards. It was a long jaunt, and the swaying of the taxi, combined with the soothing island music Les was playing, was kind of lulling me to sleep. I nodded off a few times. We stopped to look at a golf course by the sea:



There is just a little metal box for you to put your greens fee in. The honor system.

And also we saw some white beaches and places where Les says international surfers come to surf. It looked pretty cowabunga to me, but I'm no surfer:



There were sheep everywhere, and -- along with all the roads being single-lane with the dreaded turn-out system -- that was another reason I was glad we hadn't driven ourselves. Those little fuckers just cluster by the road. Sometimes we would round a bend, and there'd be one in the road. A honk of the horn usually moved 'em, but it was fairly hilarious, if slightly alarming. They like the tarmac b/c it gets warmer than the ground. The sheep are like the heather, but mobile. They are ubiquitous. They just wander around and chew the scenery, and try to stay out of the fairly relentless wind ... anywhere they can:



Everybody Must Get ...

So at last we arrived at the Standing Stones at Callanish. Which was the reason I'd wanted to take this trip to the outskirts of nowhere. Well, it was worth it. Are they not glorious?



Les noted they are arranged in the shape of a Celtic cross -- rather long before Christianity existed. Nobody knows for sure what they were for -- could be a calendar, probably had some religious/spiritual function, no doubt was a great way to intimidate people. Excellent for parties, too. There are standing stones all over these islands, but this is a fairly impressive cluster. They are prehistoric (hence, the not knowing what they're for exactly).

They are exactly what they sound like: giant slabs of stone stuck end-up in the earth. Some are around person-height, others very very tall. In the middle of the arrangement is a cairn, where maybe they did animal sacrifice (no evidence of human) or perhaps burned the dead. The cairn came later, howev. Not sure how much later, but you can see it here:



The stones are supposedly aligned to certain moon and sun cycles. There are nearby geological features the stones line up with, like the Old Woman of the Mountain, which is just the outline of a ridge on a mountain (again with the dauntingly complex naming rituals), that looks like a woman lying on her back. It really does resemble that. And Les said that every 19 years during a certain time of year, from a certain vantage point it looks like she's giving birth to the moon. Kewl.

So I took tons of pictures and then took off my gloves and put my hands on the stones. They are considered by some to be built ... erected, perhaps ... along the energy lines known as leys. Les is an avid believer in this force, and he said he'd been a skeptic until someone gave him a dowsing rod and told him to try it. And it worked, and now he's all into it. Dunno if that's really true, but it makes a good story.

I touched a lot of the the stones and ran my hands all over. They were surprisingly not cold. I can't say they were warm, exactly, but it was an overcast day, with intermittent rain, and very windy. I thought they would be like ice, especially given my low tolerance for cold on my hands, but they weren't uncomfortable to touch, even to linger on. I leaned against the big one with the black knot in the rock that looks like an eye. And I leaned against others as well. They were dry as a bone and very comforting. Solid and strong, and they felt ancient. The wind whistled past and all around me, but I wasn't cold. I could have fallen asleep in the embrace of these relics from some far-off eon.

It is strange that I could feel peaceful in the presence of things that were probably raised in a far more nasty, short, and brutish world. How did they put them up? I know whoever did must have chosen them so carefully, for how they looked and even how they felt. If they could conduct the earth energy well. Each one was unique and subtley beautiful. Of course I was built up to feel something, but it was undeniably a magical place. Les said he has felt the energy more when there are fewer people around, and there were only a couple other folks about.

One of them tried to help me with a problem I'd been having for several hours. After talking about music with Les, I had begun obsessing over which '60s band it was in which Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton, and Jimmy Page all played, and could not remember. Les is a Rory Gallagher fan and played me some of his music; I had heard of RG but not to my knowledge heard the music. So I told Les I thought he might like Jeff Beck. And Peter Green, and blah blah, brilliant '60s guitarists. But I had a mental block with that bit of rock trivia re the holy trinity of axedom. And hanging around the Standing Stones, I was fussing over it out loud to Deb, and this woman nearby looked over and said, "Cream?" And I was like, "No," quite certainly. I knew what it wasn't. (Edit -- It took me days to remember it was the Yardbirds (d'oh!). So the Stones may be magical, but they ain't necessarily memory-enhancing.)

Anyway. The stones have stood in that ground for so long, silent sentinels, mute witnesses to some perhaps savage, yet strangely wise, age gone by. People who saw themselves as part of the season cycles ... or who at least navigated their lives that way. The sun and the moon, most basic things, were essential to their ways. Not to get too romantic about it -- there was plenty of superstitious hooey back then, as now. And I wouldn't want to be a prehistoric human. But the earth's energy does exist -- look at the magnetic fields, for example -- and to me it makes sense that ancient people who lived so much closer to the earth's bones and body than we do would be more acutely aware of its life.

Some Family Member Just Got Richer

Now I am on the ferry to the Isle of Harris, and Lewis. Where we will be taking a guided tour around the islands, eventually out to the standing stones. Mysterious prehistoric relics of ... nobody's really sure. Remnants of a culture long long long gone (as Syd Barrett might have said).

This morning we got up and saw the moon hanging, not far from where, yesterday, the setting sun's light had refracted through the clouds in a burst of golden rays. Luna was a nearly full, distinct but pale disk in the greyish blue morning sky. I took a couple of pictures of her. Then we left the Uig Hotel and drove to the ferry pier, around the little bay. It rained last night and was super-windy, but at least by the time we went to the ferry it was mainly clear, if still really gusty. (So glad I brought my fleece snowboarding hat.) We jumped on the shuttle that drives you to the end of the pier to board the ferry. We only had small overnight bags, having stashed all the bigger luggage in the trusty Vauxhall's boot.

The ferry was tying up when the shuttle arrived. It is big and black. See?



A few people came off. The air was windy, but not knife-like cold. Strangely. Deb wanted to take my picture but I was very not in the mood. She insisted; I resisted ... I became rather hostile. (Hey, I'm on the rag on the fringes of where-are-we. Whaddaya want?) An argument ensued over giving me my ticket to get on the ferry. I was very pissed at her ... edited for rantiness and tedium of same ... so at last I stomped up the steeply angled metal ramp/ladder and got on the ferry ... and got away from her. The ferry is nice and big, with a cafeteria and bathrooms and a tiny arcade with four videogames, and seats in a TV lounge as well as seats, thankfully, w/o TV. I found one by the window on this nearly-empty boat, got out my iPod and sunglasses (the sun was glaring bright on that side). Deb came back to apologize but I just did not want to hear it. I did not want to engage at all. And I told her to get away from me. That was pretty cold. But, then, I am evil.

So she went to the observation deck, and I stayed where I was. I haven't seen her since.

What I have seen is the land recede -- green hills and rocky cliffs dotted with a few houses and inns. Endless curls of whitecaps. And now some other curving, rugged humps of land amid water. Like this:



I think this trip takes two hours. The sea I am looking at right now is greenish blue, almost teal ... or aqua ... marine ... I dunno. Not as green as the Atlantic off the East Coast of the U.S. There are blackish-brown streaks in the water -- seaweed?

I am listening to Tori Amos and feeling very torn up right now. I don't want to be mean to my sister, but why can't she back off? Also in the mix, howev, is just that same thing of looking at the landscape and feeling something, peering at the shoreline and the water, seeing how close the land masses are and letting my mind wander, and just feeling it coming at me. (I know that doesn't make much sense.) Right now in this mid morning light everything is very sharp -- bright sun, blue sky, white clouds, emerald water. It kind of cuts me raw. It's a visceral sensation; I can't process what it means yet. Maybe it's just b/c it is such a weird different landscape. Or maybe it is how the music and the view are converging to intensify my fanciful sense of traveling to the edge of the world. More like edge-of-the-world adjacent, really. But still. Harris/Lewis will be more rugged than anything so far. We are very far from home, Toto.

Rain, Roads, and Roger

After the Wallace Monument we kept on trucking -- or Vauxhalling, I suppose -- all the way north along Loch Lomond and beyond to a place on Loch Linnhe called Kentallen. I drove all the time, Deb navigated. That worked well. The drive around Loch Lomond was gorgeous, although I had much of my attention focused on staying centered in my lane (tending to drift left -- b/c back home that's to the center -- is not so good when the road is so narrow and the wall is so close). The landscape here is incredibly beautiful, which is a phrase that is well overused, you realize upon actually gazing upon something that is incredibly beautiful. I am sure I'm not doing it justice with Steve's camera. Although on the other hand it's hard to take a bad shot. It's just all this ... scenery. Every turn of the bend, something breathtaking flashes by. Even the more desolate stretches are somehow lovely. Bagpipes don't really stir up the clannish emotions in me, but being among these mountains and moors is really working some kind of spell on me. I have never seen quite these colors before, for one thing: streaks of green and heathery purple and grey rocks and brown/green moss. Springs gushing forth, making jaggged waterfall paths that cut through the mountains. And the ever-shifting play of light and shadow that the clouds provide, to blue sky or grey, gives every sight a whole nother dimension. There is a certain characteristic to the light in any place -- in California, certainly. But here is something I've never seen before, and sometimes it really moves me.

All of this mercurial emotion was somewhat fittingly happening on the fly, as we had to make time, so I just kept on driving. Too bad; it might have been nice to savor different parts of that landscape for a while. But I did not want to be traveling on this unfamiliar highway after dark. The road was narrow and twisty, like the PCH gets up in Big Sur. Mostly the pavement was in good to decent shape -- a patch around Loch Lomond was kind of rutty. It took a long time to drive all that way. I am an excellent and hardy driver, but it was still tough. I was fatigued by the time we made it to the Holly Tree Hotel. It was spitting rain by then ... then, as I waited in the car for Deb to check in, it started raining really hard. (Of course.) After settling in a bit, Deb bought me a drink for my valiant service. We ate dinner in the restaurant overlooking the loch. The inn is a converted railway station from a track that used to run right along the loch. You can see the inn's little boat dock in this photo, although you wouldn't wanna be picnicking in the rain:



By dinnertime the clouds had lessened a little, and some of the full moon glowed smearily through the haze. I thought of my friends and loved ones looking at this same moon from different parts of the world -- Don in Cali, Sam in Pa., Mick all the way in Japan. But soon enough the clouds rolled back in and a velvety darkness prevailed.

Dinner was one of the better ones so far. I had venison pate: earthy, rich, savory, mmmm. And scallops in garlic and butter with rice. Vegetables, too, probably. Scallops back home are so often rubbery and kind of briny; but these were amazingly sweet and tender and good. For dessert, we had cheese and port -- mine was this amazing white cheddar from Mull.

As primitive and gnarly as the situation has sometimes felt since we left Edinburgh, many things remind me that we're not actually roughing it. First off, I am loving what I'm doing and seeing, even though I still feel sort of off my feed and unwell, don't sleep as well as I should. But everything is new and different, which is great and provides its own kind of energy. (That, and the readily available coffee beverages...) And what I am seeing is so amazing I can only take it into me ... it's hard to spit it back out in any coherent or noncliched fashion w/o more thought than I can currently give.

Anyway, so ... whatever challenges I face are well compensated for with indulgences of different sorts. I mean, we have cell phones that work, fer fuck's sake. My American cell phone gets crap reception in the canyon (thank you, Virgin Mobile)! Here we are on the edge of nowhere, and we've rarely been w/o a signal so far. The car itself is a luxury, with a radio/CD stereo and a heater and a rear defroster. (And not forgetting it is black, hurrah!) And so, not surprisingly, the Holly Tree Hotel had delicious food, soft beds, and, for me, a bathtub filled to the brim with hot water and sea salts -- a sanctuary of steamy wetness, while just on the other side of the wall the wind howled and the rain blasted down. I soaked and listened to the wind, wisps of icy air leaking in the window and teasing my earlobes with whispers of the cold just outside. Strangely, although I was very soothed and comfortable, I felt lonely and really missed Don. With the wind and the rain knocking against my little bathtub bubble, I felt perched on the very doorstep of the ends of the earth. Several times that day I had told Deb she was insane -- for planning this excursion, with its nonstop motion and distances to cover -- and she agreed, and apologized. But I didn't mean she had to be sorry. I love to drive, and it's been pretty exhilarating driving, if draining. This is definitely the most arduous "vacation" I have ever taken, in a way. In other ways, not so much.

I slept well that night.

In the morning, it was pissing rain when I loaded the car. I have taken to announcing, "It's raining!" in mock-excitement, as if it is a rare thing. Sarcasm, the last refuge of the soggy. We had been planning to take the ferry over to Skye, but this involved timing issues that were questionable given the weather. The rain was so bad the ferry hadn't sailed yet when we called to ask about the schedule. After much consultation with our Lewis guide, the ferry operator, and Mick's friend Roger, we opted to go by the bridge instead. So we would meet Roger on the mainland side of the bridge in Lochalsh that afternoon. We got gas -- and I nearly killed us a couple of times -- in the picturesque town of Ft. William. And then there were more hours of driving on twisty roads in the rain.

At the Bridge

At last we came to Lochalsh and the appointed meeting place with Roger at the surprisingly named Lochalsh Hotel. The plan was to hang with him for a while, then drop him back at his ferry and continue on to Uig, where we are currently staying.

When I turned onto the lane leading to the seaside hotel, a man in a tan jacket, wearing glasses, crossed in front of the car. He seemed to give a look of curiosity or quasi-recognition as he went by. I thought it might be Roger. We parked and went into the lounge as he had instructed. It was full of plush, inviting furniture and picture windows looking out over the water. In this one you can see the Skye Bridge, which we will soon cross:



Roger wasn't in the lounge, but he soon arrived -- and it had been him on the road! Yay, me. We said our hellos, and I gave him the issues of CityBeat Mick said to bring. Then we had coffee and whisky and some snacks, and chatted.

Roger is a little younger than Mick. He is an author too, of serious books about history and sports and such. It seems he is famous. He is also very nice, obviously smart, and cool. He calls a girl "pet," which is funny and charming when by rights it should be insultingly paternalistic. I do not know how the British get away with being adorably sexist. It all just seems so civilized, pet.

Anyway. My sister of course impressed Roger with her knowledge of something ... probably everything, as she knows everything. (Except how to drive in the rain in Scotland, hah ha!) The whisky slipped agreeably through my veins as I listened to them geeking out on historical-type subjects and attempted to sound intelligent when possible. The coffee kept me from getting totally languid, but I felt happily much more relaxed. Soon we got into the car and drove across the bridge toward the ferry at Sconser (I am so naming a cat that). There was some momentary confusion over whether or not there are roundabouts on Skye -- there is at least one -- and Roger remarked, "It must be really weird to drive in a place where there are no roundabouts" when I complained how roundabouts were bedeviling my American-driver self. "No, it's really NORMAL!!" I spluttered.

So along the way, he pointed out the sights and told us some of his own story. He came out to the islands in his 20s and started the West Highland Free Press, which he still works for, mainly writing the editorials and such. He and his wife, Caroline, also an old friend of Mick's, have lived different places on Skye and now reside on the small adjacent island of Raasay, where Caroline runs the store. (That's right: the store.)

During the drive, he told us something very cool. That the Scottish "Mac" means "son," but "Nic" means "daughter," and so our last name means "daughter of the Coll." Coll being yet another Scottish isle. Hmmm ... I guess this history stuff can be fun.

So we left Roger to catch his ferry to Raasay in the late afternoon, then went on about another hour or so to Uig, at the northeastern end of Skye, where we are currently staying, at the (didn't you just know it?) Uig Hotel. It is pronounced "ooo-ig," more or less. Another ancient, charming building. It is right off the main road, overlooking the water and a mini-tower called a "folly" -- not ancient, but a Victorian construct, like an architectural fad, I guess. It is round and sort of squat, made of stone (like everything in Scotland), with a small cross on it above the entry, which you can't really see in this photo, also showing, on the lower right, the ferry we will be taking to Harris tomorrow:



We are on the second floor. The hotel is a little more primitive than some other places we've been, but still fine. We parked in a small lot above the back of the place, directly behind a fenced-in plot of grass where grazed a shaggy red bull, a shaggy black bull, and a ram with the biggest balls! They were, like, clanking.

The sun was setting, and the light bursting through the clouds was golden and angelic. I took some photos from the window of our room, b/c how could you not? After settling in a little bit, we went down to prepare for dinner by having a whisky at the bar. I tried Talisker, from a Skye distillery. Yuck. Too iodine-y. Peat-y, they say. Not to my taste, but Deb liked it. Dinner was a split appetizer of scallops and calamari in garlic butter (mmm), and then I had lamb in this nice, light coriander/mustard sauce. Deb had a ginormous plate of mussels. All good.

Back upstairs now, we have been channel-surfing (4 whole choices!) and just saw Anthony Stewart Head -- a.k.a. Buffy's Giles -- on some drama where his character seemed to be a guy who had an affair with a woman who then killed his family ... yikes. But the news is even grimmer, with reports from Basra of British troops in ugly clash with civilians, Iraq police, and militants. Sigh. I don't want to think about it right now.

For once I am tired and might actually fall asleep OK. But at this point I still won't sleep long, b/c we have to get up kinda early to catch the ferry to Harris. It's not a far drive from here, just around the little bay, and we are leaving the car at the dock here. We have a guide on the island(s) who will be taking us around. There are things to see .. mainly, for me, the standing stones on Lewis. Which I cannot wait to see.

A Really Big Sword

We are on Skye now, having driven about 14,000 winding miles through the Scottish outback. I only accidentally nearly killed us a couple of times.

On Sunday morning, we picked up the car -- the office was in Edinburgh not far from the Stuarts', but we had to actually get the car at a lot farther outside of town: a good thing. It isn't so hard to drive on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road, but it's ... ROUNDABOUTS! The Doc warned me that they would be the hard part, but I kinda scoffed. How typical of me.

The car is black. I was so happy when I saw it. I couldn't believe the luck. It's a cute little four-door thing called a Vauxhall. With all mod cons. We have not given it a name. But it's sturdy and handles so well, I feel very confident driving it. The only drag is, no armrests. WTF is that about? Thankfully, I've been doing a lot of core-strengthening exercises, so my shoulders aren't too taxed. But it's not a very comfortable way to drive. Anyway, after we picked up the car, we got gas and drove on the motorway to Stirling -- this time to the Wallace National Monument. The motorway is easy -- just stay to the left (slow lane), pass on the right, follow the signs to where you want to go. Fairly normal, except for the orientation. Off the motorway, it's trickier. Roundabouts are very confusing until you get the hang of them. Deb navigated well, and our sophisticated system kept me on track:

Me (approaching roundabout): Tell me what to do!

Her: Follow the red car (or blue or silver or white van or whatever was going the same way we wanted to go).

Excellent system. It works every time. Only fails if there is no one to follow.

The Wallace Monument was a long way off the motorway on a two-lane road ... I forget whether that is a "dual carriageway" or "single carriageway." This type of road was somewhat trickier, but still dealable. Still, by the time I parked the car, I was feeling slightly giddy. I think it's actually good that I have been so sleep-deprived and off my feed and whatnot these last few days. Something as potentially headspinning as driving in the U.K. is just another little mindfuck to unravel ... and actually loads of fun ... not to mention probably a welcome relief in the form of me being able to have control over something in this strange new world. (Control issues? Moi?)

So ... we didn't have much time at the monument b/c had to get to Kentallen before dark. Got our tickets and waited for the shuttle van to arrive. Then, up to the top we went, to the peak of a very rugged, winding path. It is a tall tower with ornate pointy spires forming the top ... oh, just look at the picture:



If you don't take the shuttle, you have to walk up that same path ... so when the shuttle goes by, you have to step off the path into the woods or press yourself up against the side of the cliff. I was glad we took the van. On our way up the hill, we came upon a man in a kilt, who told the driver quite pleasantly that there was a fire in the forest, and they didn't seem to be having much luck putting it out with extinguishers, so could the driver please inform the fire brigade when he went back down the hill? The driver, of course, agreed. Zoinks!

At the tower we got some Earl Grey tea and a snack (egg mayo sandwich and some kind of truly evil caramel-and-chocolate confection ... mmmm). Then we just went up the first level of the tower -- I think there are seven -- to see Wallace's sword. William Wallace was the subject of the Mel Gibson movie Braveheart, and outside the gift shop back down the the hill was a statue of Wallace that looked like Mel and said "BRAVEHEART" on it, and "FREEDOM," which is what he yelled in the movie, implausibly, after the British draw and quarter him for his defiant ways. It seemed silly, the statue, and we joked that in future millennia it would be quite a puzzle for historians. The other paintings and images of Wallace that we saw looked nothing like that one.

So up we climbed into the narrow, twisting tower. The space was such a tight corkscrew of smooth stone, the steps so tiny and seemingly treacherous, and endless, that I got claustrophobic vertigo for the first time in my life. I really felt near panic for a moment, which was interesting, since such things don't usually bug me very much. OMG, seven levels? I never would've made it. Seeing the sword was worth it -- 66 inches, including the hilt. Taller than me! The guide said that Wallace was a big dude -- 6'6". So I guess a big dude needs a big sword. (Edit: I have since learned it might actually not be his sword? Bummer.) There was a kind of cheesy historical reenactment-type multimedia presentation, with the face of "Wallace" projected onto an otherwise unmoving dummy, speaking about the battles fought and lost, being betrayed by his own countrymen, etc. Despite cheesiness, I felt strangely moved ... but I was rather disoriented from the climb, not to mention still physically out of sorts and of course sleep-deprived. But when Robert the Bruce showed up on video to scold Wallace for not being more diplomatic -- like that really would've helped -- and King Edward sneered that Wallace would be defeated (which he was, but he only became more powerful...or something), I guess I had sympathy. Who wants to be diplomatic when people are trying to wipe you off the planet?

This is Robert the Bruce's statue outside of Stirling Castle. Later on he would give up his diplomatic ways and fight the British, proper-like. Or something like that.



I dunno. This whole history trip is a bit of a drag. I am constantly reminded that religion is an evil, destructive force in the world. Like we really need more reminders right now. And women got totally screwed, despite the tough chicks of Scottish/English history. And also, humans suck. On the other hand, I do like seeing all these bones, of castles and kings. The land just seems to vibrate with all the eons past. I'd rather feel it than actually know about it, which is probably weird, but what can you do?

My thirst for a sight of the sword sated, we caught the shuttle back down the hill about 45 minutes later (the driver was having his lunch break). at the bottom, the driver informed the people queued up that he would have to wait to speak to the fire brigade before taking them up. Relieved to have had such good timing, we jumped in the car and made our escape. Hope they put the fire out.

Out in the Rain

On Saturday I planned to go shopping alone, but Deb tagged along for a while before eventually going off on her own to see HM Yacht Britannia. Where she took this groovy picture of the flag locker:



It rained a lot and was truly crappy most of the day. I had spoken with the Doc's pal Roger earlier in the morning, and he said a big storm was coming through the islands -- that is, the Hebrides, where Roger lives. So it looks like there will be more of the same in the near future.

I'm glad we stuck to the game plan and went to Stirling on Friday; it would have been pretty miserable to trudge around that castle in the rain.

Despite crap weather -- even the girl whose opinion I asked of a jacket, which I eventually bought, at H&M confirmed that it was cold and rank weather this time of year even for Edinburgh -- I had a good time exploring, mostly the New Town. There is Princes Street that runs along the north side of the castle (I think), a very wide street like Wilshire Boulevard. Another wide street runs parallel to it, George Street I think, and in between, at a certain part, is a promenade a la the one in Santa Monica, with shops and cafes and such. Just like in L.A., the streets were undergoing construction, and at one point there were so many pedestrians flowing around the temporary crosswalk/detour that we just zagged up to the next street to avoid the compression. I went to this place called Neal's Yard Remedies, which I'd read about in a guidebook, and got some botanical goo for the divine Ms. M. Found "The Highway Code" to teach me the rules of the U.K. road. I also purchased a cool, square crystal shot glass etched with an outline of Scotland on it (for our collection), and a sweet little silver ring shaped like a thistle (the Scottish national plant), with a little purple garnet in it. It's slightly too big for my pinky, but I can get it sized.

I shopped and looked and wandered, from Tollcross to New Town to Old Town and back to Tollcross. I don't even know all the places I walked in mostly endless rain. Did I mention I love my Lands End fleece-lined packable raincoat? Well, I do. (I had to get a man's size S in olive green, to avoid girlier womem's-size colors like red and light blue -- no black for either gender, stupid preppies -- but it works fine.) It can be so windy here that you don't even want to hassle with an umbrella. But I have a nice, waterproof hood. I'm sure I looked like a geek walking about, but I don't really care.

For dinner on this, our last night in Edinburgh, we went to a place called Haldane's. Very fancy. When we emerged from the B&B to wait for our taxi to the restaurant, the rain had stopped. As the cabbie made his way across town, we could see the evening sky clearing over the Forth, a pretty stab of rose light shining through the deepening dusk.

Dinner was great. We had an American waitress. We decided that was planned by the staff, as Americans are so hard to understand with their damn freaky accents. I had this appetizer of twice-baked goat cheese and garlic souffle with walnut and apple salad ... mmmm. Deb's was haggis -- in a little pastry cup and topped with pureed potatoes and turnips on the side. Upscale haggis! I tried it; it was good. Kind of peppery and a bit like sausage or something. Her entree was fillet of Scottish beef with a pepper sauce on a potato patty; I had pork with an herbed crust in a dark sauce with little potatoes on the side. And some French wine that she picked (do not remember what). We had whisky for dessert.

Cabbed it back and packed up. Tomorrow (or, technically, today) we get the car. And I drive! I have been writing for more than two hours and feel not the least bit sleepy.

What I do feel is that there's been little time for reflection. I think we are trying to do too much; the trip already feels over-scheduled, even though we've been in the same place for four days. I wish I had done more here, but also less. We didn't go on a ghost tour, even though we wanted to, mainly b/c of me being so off my schedule, my feed, my sleep, and everything else. I did want to experience the ghost tour, but I also feared it would be sort of lame ... and I think part of me also feared that if we had a real ghost encounter I very well might have fainted, being so totally out of sorts as I am. Oh, well. I'm sure the ghosts will be here next time.

Edinburgh is hard to describe ... so old, yet teeming with modern life. Our B&B isn't too far from the university, so there are young people all around, listening to their personal digital stereos and radio headphones and whatnot. There are Internet cafes in elderly buildings. I like this contrast. This old Victorian that is our B&B has many mod cons -- TV, stereo, hairdryer, coffee in the room, computer in the hall. I noticed when we were riding from Glasgow to Edinburgh on the train that many of the very old buildings have installed newer, more energy-efficient windows. So you have these rows of spanking-new windows set inside ancient stone walls.

If I had been here by myself, I might have done things differently ... but I don't regret the way we did it. I just wish I could've slept like a normal person. Can't take a Xanax tonight b/c I have to drive very soon.

I guess my three days in London will be where I can sleep. I hope.

Two Castles and No Sleep

I am still not falling asleep like a normal person. So I might as well catch up on this report, since there seems little chance of sleep despite all the fucking walking I did today, the heavy meal we ate, and the not too much alcohol I consumed.

Castle on the Black Rock

Thursday was our first full day here, so it was off to Edinburgh Castle. I didn't eat much breakfast, despite how delicious it all looked. Totally off my feed. We walked to the castle from our B&B, which is in Tollcross, near the Bruntsfield Links, a famous public golf course that is also a park. The sky was kinda grey when we set out, but the weather got better. It wasn't a far walk, but much of it was wickedly uphill -- we took two long staircases upward as well. Landed in an area where there were modern-day bleachers set up for the military tattoo (big show) they do in August, when the Festival is on, I suppose.

It's strange how quickly you get used to things. Our first view of the castle, from the train coming from Glasgow, was such an astonishing sight -- this huge hulk perched atop its misshapen black volcanic pedestal. It seemed to go on forever in every direction, dwarfing everything nearby. But by the time we actually got there, it was only slightly phenomenal. Just part of the landscape. Yawn.

At the ticket window, there were only a couple people waiting to buy; then we went up. Deb asked so many questions that, by the time she decided which ticket to get, there was a huge queue behind us. Sigh. We went into the gate, and she immediately pulled out her map/book and started trying to determine ... something. What to see, best way to see it, who knows? I felt uncharacteristically impatient and just wanted to go look, so I walked off under the archway toward whatever lay ahead. The Chief had forced one of his cameras on me right before I left ("you can just leave it all on Automatic if you want to"), which was kind of good, b/c the view was spectacular, and I was soon clicking away. Shot the better part of a roll at the castle. The sun had come out, and the sky was so clear. From the place where I was standing, you could see the New Town -- which is way older than the U.S., I think. Or something.

This is not my photo; it's one from Deb's digital camera:



We waited a few minutes for the daily cannon-firing at 1 p.m. Very exciting. It was a big old gun that was green and very loud. I think it was from WWI. A fair number of tourists milled about, talking in all different languages. A group of Asian women snapped pictures nearby. One got up on one of the non-functioning cannons so that her companion could take a shot; caught in the sunlight, her pretty face was all glittery with fine sparkles ... glitter is a thing everywhere, it would seem.

By this time, I needed a boost, so we got some coffee at the snack bar. I only really cared about seeing a couple of things in this vast expanse of stone and mortar. Chiefly, the Stone of Destiny -- an allegedly magical item recently returned by England to Scotland. It had a part in the coronation ritual of Scottish monarchs. It was reached by walking through a winding path of corridors painted with historic tableaux and vignettes; there also were the symbols of power: sword, sceptre, and, uh ... crown. And some jewels, of course. You can't be royalty w/o jewels. In one of the chambers leading up to this display was an exhibit with replicas of these items and plaques marked in Braille -- so blind people could "see" them. I thought that was cool. I laid my hand on the hilt of that sword, which was huge, and tried to imagine actually wielding it on a battlefield. Huh. I'd be lucky not to break my back picking it up with both hands.

The history I gleaned in fits and spurts from this sojourn is well recorded elsewhere. Mainly, it involves a lot of killing and dying over the right way to worship God. Not even different gods, but the same one. Humans are so stupid sometimes. It's a wonder they have survived. On one hand, they can design and build these amazing edifices -- which dot the Scottish landscape like the sheep that graze the green fields. On the other hand, they destroy each other without mercy over something as idiotic as religion. It's hard for me to believe God really wants it that way, but maybe I am the idiot.

We looked around the tiny St. Margaret's Chapel, with its exquisitely lovely stained-glass windows. Wandered around more and shot more photos. Finally had enough and went off to find a place to eat.

Interlude: Before leaving the castle, we phoned the B&B to make sure my luggage had arrived via courier, as the nice man who called me earlier that morning had promised. It had. Happiness!

Lunch was beer and baked potatoes (bacon and cheese, mmm) at a pub near the foot of the castle, with a back patio looking out over Victoria Street. We actually sat outside for a while b/c it was still nice in the late afternoon sun, but moved back in before the food arrived. Did some shopping at the souvenir joints. Got back around 6 and crashed for a couple of hours. Woke up and decided to go in search of some of that traditional music Deb wanted to hear.

It took three tries, but we finally found it. We had asked the adorable waitresses at the lunch pub for suggestions, and I think Deb had one she'd read about. The first place we went to was tiny and crowded, with a band playing American bluegrass. Uh, OK -- not exactly the tradition she'd had in mind. Next up was an Irish bar with a big, young crowd and a band called the Beau Nasties playing Irish-folk versions of American pop hits: Creedence's "Bad Moon Rising," R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion" ... and we left when they started into "That's All Right, Mama."

Off to Sandy Bull's, which was pretty crowded, but friendly, and had a mandolin and fiddler sitting in the back, playing. Ahh. Success at last. We had a couple of leisurely whiskies and got thoroughly soaked with cigarette smoke. It was very warm in there. I drank a whisky called Jura, with an ankh on the bottle (water of life, you know). We walked back to the Stuarts through the park, around midnight. The darkness was velvety but damp.

Did not sleep at all that night. Sat up reading a long, long and super-boring short story ... didn't help. Still managed to drag myself off with Deb on Friday to Stirling Castle, as planned. I am really pissed about this sleeping shit, but I'll be fucked it I let it ruin this trip. Like now. I can't sleep, but I can write. So there, stupid brain.

A Castle in the Country

The trip to Stirling was kind of surreal. I was tired and a bit queasy. We took the train into the picturesque town. It took about an hour, past graveyards and golf courses. Cows -- shaggy Highland beasts, cute -- and sheep. Hay fields with big rolls of hay. Scotland strongly reminds me of Pennsylvania, at least in the countryside. And the New Town is a tiny bit like Pittsburgh.

Anyway. Disembarked, found a tourist info office, and were soon on our way to the castle. Again, naturally, walking uphill. I was glad I'd worn my hiking boots. Deb dragged me into a church ... big, with gorgeous stained glass and a high, high, fancy wood-beamed ceiling. An older man in a kilt informed us that at some point in its long history, it had been partitioned in two (east and west), due to some worship-related dispute. (Sheesh!) We walked around and looked a while inside, then went out to the graveyard behind and wandered some more. A lot of dead people, crossing centuries. But I saw a more recent tomb, from 1997. I guess there are still family plots, perhaps.

By then it was time for refreshment -- lentil-mushroom soup and bread, with Earl Grey tea -- at a small cafe. The day was a little chilly, but gorgeous, with blue sky, bright sun, fluffy white clouds scudding overhead in the sometimes fierce wind.

Trudged more uphill. Stopped at another tourist info office, looking in vain for the free "how to drive in Scotland" booklet. Deb checked on the tourist bus that takes you around Stirling and delivers you to the William Wallace Monument, visible as an ornate tower rising solo in the distance. We didn't make that scene, howev.

Stirling Castle was enough -- gorgeous views of the green countryside and the motorway a silvery ribbon in the distance. Deb took the tour; I wandered around. Through rooms being restored -- much dust and scaffolding, plus the occasional sign explaining what a given room was used for. That was fun for the imagination. The great hall was particularly impressive -- vast as its name implies, with gigantic fireplaces and room for, i don't know, practically the whole kingdom to hang out. I went also into the vaults, where each little space had presentations on the music, clothing, art, and entertainment of the day. In the courtyard among the more expected flora was a palm tree. I took a picture of it but forgot to ask how it got there.

Along the battlements was maybe the best part. And not just because it was sunny and blue-sky, and the countryside was so beautiful to behold. I could have stood there looking at it for hours. But some of the fun was b/c I by chance ended up following a little girl who was dashing along the narrow pathway built into the castle walls as though it were a garden path -- a little girl who alighted from her journey into the midst of her family, only to have her bratty little brother grab something from her and skip away, as bratty little brothers are wont to do. She protested and shrieked at him to "give it back!" Their mother could be heard somewhat ineffectually ordering him to behave in the background, but this wasn't enough for the little girl, who, finally frustrated by attempts to reason with him, simply seized the brat by the backs of his elbows, swung him around, and slammed him hard to the ground. Whereupon he, like all bullies, cried and ran to his mommy. Who, to her credit, simply asked what did he expect would happen, behaving like that? As I descended the final steps back to the ground, I caught the little girl's eye and winked at her.

At the gift shop, I got some postcards. Deb showed up and got some whisky after quizzing the poor shopgirl to death (though she was patient and didn't seem to mind). Then it was time to go back and get the train to Edinburgh, at 5. By then I was knackered. I had a hard time staying awake on the return trip -- not even the Pixies blasting on my iPod could keep me from nodding out now and then. At the station, we got a cab back to the B&B; otherwise, Deb would've had to carry me, and I don't think she was up for that.

That evening I was determined not to nap, and to stay up until it was time to sleep. So we went out to dinner at Lazio, an Italian restaurant. Against Rick Foss's strict orders, we ate pizza in Scotland. My prosciutto and cheese was delicious. I had a big glass of wine and several slices. Stumbled back home. Crashed hard around 10. Woke just before 5 -- almost seven hours of hard-won snoozing. Wanted more, so took one of Deb's generic Xanax. Conked out again until 10:30. Actually felt like myself, and thought I might be OK now.

Hah.