16/06/07: Brighton

I suppose I wouldn’t be a true Austenite if I came all the way out here and didn’t go to Brighton. So off to Brighton I went this very not-fine Saturday. Storms were forecasted and I was truly not in the mood to get out of the house. But I had to get my bike to Steve’s before heading off to London anyway, and would have already been on the train. So it was decided.

There's a lot of history surrounding Brighton, like how it's name actually stems from 'bright helm town'. But as always, I don't intend to give out history lessons in my blog, so you can read up on it yourself.

As with other trips around Kent, I ended up spending more time on the train and buses than I did in the town itself. It was an uneventful trip, and despite the lovely things I saw, somehow I only ended up feeling slightly melancholic and lonesome.

Brighton was ridiculously crowded. Unlike Rye and the other beachside towns I had seen, it was crammed with people rushing this way and that, which took away the holiday feel. I took a walk down to the Brighton Pier, which was quite nice. Crowded and in some ways even tacky – they’d stuck a disco ball at the top of one of the domes on the pier. The architecture of the time reflects the new-found interest the English had of all things orient, and some of the rooms on the pier had slightly mosque-like domes on top of them.
What was lovely to see was all the families out en masse to take in some sun on the beach. My goodness these Brits are amazing. I wouldn’t allow my kids anywhere near that water. You’ve got the beach made up of pebbles the size of my fist, then it suddenly drops off and massively large, choppy, hungry-looking peaks of water lap up on the shore. It’s not even as if they’re large waves but the water looked deep and thick. But it was very nice to just people watch: kids out and about (where the hell are your parents?!), tourists, grandparents with kids, everyone just enjoying themselves.

I had a kebab in the drizzle and took a walk up and down the streets before making my way to the art gallery. There were some very lovely pieces of work, and some more modern ones. Following this, I walked through the gardens of the Royal Pavilion, where a wedding was being held.

Lovely place Brighton. Good for a visit, but not when it’s as crowded and busy as it was when I went.

10/06/07: Sutton Valance Castle

As per my get-out-every-weekend resolution, this weekend, I decided to ride my bike to the 12th Century, Norman, Sutton Valance Castle. Which, judging from my fruitless quests for directions, the locals had no idea existed. And when I eventually peddled there I found out why. It wasn’t a castle at all, but a pile of rubble cramped in between two private properties. On a clear day, and without the double and triple-storey houses around it, it would have offered a spectacular view of the weald, having been built high up on a hill as most keeps were.

There were no signs or information plaques because they’d been vandalised long ago. But the town of Sutton Valance itself is steeped in history; there’s been evidence of iron age remnants in the area, and there’s very detailed information about its Saxon and Norman heritage.

Still, good exercise was had, and I got to tick another site off my list of to-do I suppose.

02/06/07: Skye to Edinburgh

We left Kyleakin this morning, and headed back towards Edinburgh. It was quite a gloomy day, not only because today marked the end of the tour, but because the weather had changed and the clouds had gathered.

We drove past Scotland’s most photographed castle, Eilean Donan. And added a few more shots to its reputation.

We drove through lots of mountains, Dave pointing out what Munros he could, and stopped to take a shot of Ben Nevis (Beinn Nibheis), the tallest mountain in the British Isles.

The most touching part of the day was the drive through Glencoe. Dave-the-tour-guide did a very, very good job I must say. He told us the history of the area, and it really helped that the mist was covering the mountains as we drove through them, the skies were grey and the mood was somber. Then he played the Ballad of Glencoe. By the end, I got a little bit sniffly-nosed myself. Naturally, when I got back, I did my own research into the Massacre of the MacDonalds by the Campbells at Glencoe myself. There doesn’t seem to be much discrepancy in the history books about what had happened. The Campbells had come into the MacDonald land seeking refuge and at the behest of the king, murdered the MacDonalds while they sleeping. Those who weren’t murdered died when their houses were burned or from exposure to the elements. If you see the photos, you’ll see how hard it would have been to escape from the glen – ridiculously steep mountains on either side of the valley means an impossible climb for even the most experienced mountaineer, let alone sleepy old women in children in the nighttime. The murdered MacDonalds are buried on an island and you can still see the headstones there today.

Eventually we started to come out of the highlands and into the lowlands. And then:

Dave the tour-guide: Oh guys! See that brrrudge thar? Now that brrrudge…
[Sounds of Velcro tearing resounds from all over the bus as everyone undoes their camera cases again: craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak. There are murmurs and whispers and a few ‘finally!’s and ‘about time’s]
Dave the tour-guide: that brrrudge… is not it either [Chuckle chuckle chuckle].

We stopped by Doune Castle, which was popularised by the scene from Monty Python and The Holy Grail (‘Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries!’). There was a wedding being held there, so a piper was at the front of the castle absolutely killing the Highland Cathedral – yes! I know of traditional folk songs! Dave had played a version of it at some point during the trip to emphasise the point that when played well, the pipes could actually be quite emotionally charging – apparently it makes his patriotic side come out and he wants to don his kilt and go out and kill someone. And Mark found a CD called The Red Hot Chilli Pipers in a shop which had a decent version of it in there as well. So we all knew that the guy standing at the front of Doune Castle wasn’t very good. Because he made it sound like a cat being put through an old clothes wringer.

We got to Stirling and stopped by the William Wallace memorial. Now that was sad. Not only the story, but because someone had carved a statue of Mel Gibson and donated it to the Heritage Society. So they had to put it at the front of the information centre. It’s like road-kill or wobblifully large women with whale-tails and hipsters. You know you shouldn’t look but you can’t help it. You know you shouldn’t take a photo… but some primitive, buried gene whose job it is to file away ‘this could be you’ memories suddenly wakes up and reprograms your physical autonomy.

Sigh. And then it was Edinburgh. It was all over. I realised that I’d spent a week in Scotland and hadn’t yet tasted Haggis or a deep fried Mars Bar. I was determined not to get onto a bus until I did those things. So a couple of Canadian girls and I went and did just that.

The haggis was good. The deep fried Mars Bar was… I would say better. But it was… It’s like road-kill or wobblifully large men in Speedos. You know you shouldn’t touch it let alone taste it. But you can’t help it. Some primitive, buried gene whose job it is to file away ‘this-is-why-we-don’t-do-things-like-this’ memories suddenly wakes up and reprograms your physical autonomy.

We met up at a pub for some drinks later, and then I walked off with a lifetime’s worth of happy memories gathered within a week to catch my bus back home to mediocrity.

01/06/07: Harris

Another beautiful day today: blue skies, cool breeze – divine. We were on our way to the Blackhouse Village. I’m not sure how to pronounce their name is Gallic, but it’s spelt Na Geàrrannan Baile Tughaidh The history of this area is pretty amazing. It’s almost like an Amish community without the religious twist. They didn’t get electricity there until very late on. Basically they were the first ‘suburbs’ really, of little houses. And the land was crofted – I’ve got some pictures where you can see the strips of land that are kept in strips to this day. People actually lived in these houses until the 1970s, when the last inhabitants, basically older women whose children had left for the big smoke and whose partners had died in the war or similar, had moved out. Today, the buildings are maintained as they were for visitors and some of the houses are used as youth hostels for revenue.

I digress. On our way, we passed through Braghar Bho Dheas, who have their name on the map because a local man (whose house just happens to be on the main road) found a blue whale mandible on the shore one day with an unexploded harpoon still stuck in it. Now, it would have been quite an old bit of beachcombing find. He took it home and, of course, it exploded in his shed. Luckily, he made it out alive and well. So the whale jaw now grace his front gate and tourists like me stop by and walk all over his garden to take photos of it. Bet his wife loves that. Can you believe there are websites dedicated to this find!

Before we got there though, we stopped by the Shawbost Norse Mill and Kiln, where we saw the old houses that people used to live in and how they used water to turn machines to grind the mill.

Then after that we went to the Blackhouses. There we learnt the history of the world renowned Harris Tweed. Yes! This is where the Harris Tweed originated! Rather than explain it all in my own words you can read about the history of the Harris tweed here. There is an actual definition of what Harris Tweed is because – get this -- there is a 1993 Act of Parliament passed to ensure that only the genuine Harris Tweed has the insignia of the Harris Tweed Association on it. Naturally, I had to buy a shawl. I deliberately bought a brown one to capture that whole ‘natural’ feel of the wool and where I was. To be honest, genuine Harris Tweed feels like the potato sack Snooza beds that Bowen and Luka have. I can’t imagine that I would wear it directly against my skin.

At the Blackhouses we saw the looms and watched a lady weave a sample of the tweed – can you believe that their tie every single individual strand of wool off by hand when they change the colour or bring in the next batch of wool? It was amazing.

We also watched a lady make traditional corncakes on the peat fire. My goodness those peat fires smell really nice. I actually got a fair bit of vertigo standing in the little old house listening to the lady talk about what the lifestyle was like in the village. The floor was sloped and the walls weren’t and my eyes and ears and head was getting confused. So anyway. A really great time was had there.

Next stop, Dun Carloway (Dún Chàrlabhaigh) Broch. It’s a pretty amazing structure. You have to imagine that it used to look like a beehive so it was virtually impossible to climb. The legend was that the clan Morrisons were stealing clan MacAulay’s cattle, and when they were discovered, the Morrisons ran and hid in the broch, which was supposed to be impenetrable. Donald MacAulay somehow managed to climb the broch by sticking his knife in between the rocks and climbing to the very top where the air-hole was and dropping in some smoking heather, and smoked the Morrisons out of the broch. We tried to work out where the steps would have led to. There were some pretty tight climbs in between the walls. But managed to get through. So that was a bit of fun.

We also stopped by the Calanais standing stones. That was cool. It’s actually been built in the form of a Celtic Cross. Once again, very much like the other standing stones experiences I’ve had in Scotland.

We caught a ferry from Tarbert to Uig, where I, of course, slept for the entire journey. Once in the Isle of Skye, it was just amazing and beautiful scenery all around. We were just surrounded by gorgeous mountains that they call Cuillins. These mountains have been the settings of many movies, one of them being Highlander.

We went through the Faerie Glen, where Dave-the-tour-guide told us of the folklore of the faeries who live in the area. We climbed up to one of the little streams in the glen and drank the very refreshing water. He also told us of the story of the Old Man of Storr, which was sad and sweet. Wikipedia will tell you it’s just a rock formation. But apparently he was a lovely old man who had his wife turned into stones by the faerie folk because they wanted to keep her with them, and he couldn’t live without her so he had himself turned into stone as well so that he could be forever with her. Apparently until recently when the Old Lady of Storr fell down, the two rocks that stood atop the mountain were identical in almost every way.

Skye is MacDonald and MacLeod land, and Dave-the-tour-guide took us to a bridge and river where he told us the story of the great war between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods over the one-eyed girl. But his story didn’t match up with any of the readings I had done about it. And no, my research didn’t consist solely of Edna’s ‘history’ books. Ah well. I guess most tour-guides don’t expect that we would actually go back and read up on the stuff he says… still…

As mentioned before, the mountains of Skye are amazing. What’s absolutely brilliant is that you can see very distinct rock types in the mountains, such that one particular group of mountains are mainly basalt and black, and another group are granite and red. There are several Munros in the area as well.

We stayed in Kyleakin that night. And being our last night, we dance our feet off to a live band and had a wonderful time. Highly memorable. I think the band’s manager loved it too because he took a lot of photos of us dancing to the music. All of them blurry.

An amazing time had today. Click here for more photos with commentary.

31/05/07: Stornaway, Lewis

So this morning, we caught a ferry from Ullapool to Stornaway, a town on the island of Lewis and Harris. The ferry ride lasted for a whole three and a half hours. Apparently, almost all of us slept for most of the journey. We’d spread ourselves out all over the couches on one of the deck. Wish I’d been awake to take a shot of it. It must have been a sight.

The entire area is know as the Hebrides, and the island is actually called Lewis and Harris, but no one actually really knows where Lewis starts and Harris ends or vice versa. The inhabitants of the island is still very much in their own little world, where Gallic is still the main language. In Ullapool, all the signs were written in English, with Gallic written in smaller letters underneath. In Lewis and Harris, all the signs are written in Gallic with English written in smaller letters underneath. So Stornaway is actually spelt Steòrnabhagh. It truly is like going to a whole new ‘foreign’ country. So, getting back to the Lewis and Harris name, the people of Lewis and Harris still use the ‘old’ way of determining territory: Harris is the flat part of the island, Lewis is the hilly part. Look on any map, and there’s no marked border. Lewis is green, and Harris is coloured white. Amazing huh?

When we got to the island, we went to the Garry Beach in Tolsta. The weather was sublime. Almost as if someone was making up for yesterday. The sky was that perfect blue, there was that cool breeze, it was just mmmm. We stopped by a shop to pick up some lunch, and went and had a picnic on the beach. The most amazing thing? We had the whole place to ourselves. Had stopped by shops to buy picnic lunch. There are caves at Garry Beach that lead out into the ocean, and if you wait for the tide to go out, you could walk through them. Luckily, the tide was out. Believe it or not, I really, really wanted KFC that week and couldn’t bring myself to buy something that plebian (not that there were KFCs around anyway) when I’d come this far out. But when we were at the shops I saw a pack of pre-cooked, spicy chicken drumsticks. Had to get it. And because I was hungry and partly because I couldn’t pack it away… um… I ate about 1.2 kilograms of spicy chicken. Heh heh! All the other girls around me had rolls with trimmed meats, nice cheese, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks and rocket. No kidding. Not lettuce, rocket. But boy was I smiling. Sun’s out, I’m on a beach that actually had sand, there was no one else around but us, my shoes and socks were off and my pants were rolled up, I had spicy chicken sauce all over my fingers… Mmmm! It was so uplifting. Spoilt rotten year 7s? What year 7s? Leaky roof? What leaky roof? I even got up and kicked the soccer ball around a bit with everyone. Yeah! I know!

So while the other girls rolled up their shirts for a tanning, I went off wandering. There was a small estuary that ran out into the ocean, filled with large rocks. I had to get across it to get to the caves. The tide was coming in and I wanted to see the caves before I lose my chance. So I stuck my foot into the water and started walking across. Oh good god. The rocks were beyond sharp – they were large, slippery, sharp and not fixed. On top of that, the water must have been below zero degrees! But I figured, ah well. There’s only a little bit to go. Lesson learnt: my depth perception isn’t that good. A little bit more turned out to be around 50 metres. Maybe even more. I got halfway and couldn’t figure out whether I should turn back or keep going. Finally made it to the other side, and of course, it had taken me that long to get there that the tide had really started to come in and I couldn’t go into the caves. Took some timed shots though. Decided to walk back the long way on the fluffy grass. That was a mistake. Not only was there sheep poo everywhere, there were these horrendous prickles all over the green! I should’ve just taken my chances with the wobbly rocks and the hypothermia.

Now there was a mass movement by politicians and the like to ‘civilise’ the Hebrides. But the people resisted. One of these futile attempts involved the building of a bridge and road to link the top of the island together. The bridge was built, but then it just stops. So it’s known as the Bridge to Nowhere. I had to see for myself what Nowhere looked like, so I got my shoes back on and went off on my hike. Turns out there is actually a path that links up the northern part of the island. It’s just that it’s made for mountain goats, that’s all. So anyway, the bridge doesn’t just end, but the road does. So if you had a car, when you get to the bridge, you wouldn’t be able to drive any further because on the other side of the bridge is basically the cliff edge, with a very fine, thin rocky track. You wouldn’t even be able to take a bike on it it’s that rocky. So you could walk, but that’s about it. I walked for a bit, but after yesterday’s experience, decided to turn back. Especially since I didn’t know how much longer we had there.

We went back to Stornaway and, after some time, found the Heb Hostel. Now this! This was decadent! It had clearly been put together by someone who knows about staying at hostels. All the little things that other facilities don’t usually think about had been catered for: hooks to hang up towels. A bedside lamp. Power points beside each bed. And mirrors! And all so tastefully decorated! I’d definitely recommend it.

We had a nice, civilised dinner at the Caledonian. I really wanted some salad. But ended up with one of those thick salads – you know: potatoes, pasta, cheese sort of salad? I actually really wanted some leafy greens. But anyway. We went to McNeil’s for drinks afterward, but I walked back to the hostel alone and called it an early night. I think ferry rides wear me out.

29/05/07 – 30/05/07: Ullapool

We were leaving early today to catch the ferry back onto the mainland, so I got out a bit earlier than that and went to have a look at St Magnus’ Cathedral. Gorgeous place! The bit I found most interesting was the fact that the skull and cross-bone, as seen on all things pirate-y, featured on all of the tombstones! It was so cool. and headed straight for a most remarkable drive along the northern coast of Scotland. It was reminiscent of the Nullabor drive – they’d only put asphalt down up along here only recently; and it’s the most remote part of all of the mainland. The road was incredibly twisted, winding this way and that, going up and down, and the scenery was pretty amazing too. Needless to say, I didn’t have my eyes open long enough to see a lot of it. I passed out pretty early on whilst still on the ferry, and most of the crew already knew I wasn’t feeling my best. The New Zealander next to me, an older woman, was so sweet. She went and sat somewhere else so that I could have both seats to stretch out on. So I slept most of way, waking up occasionally when Dave-the-tour-guide put on the PA to tell us some interesting fact about the surroundings (‘we’re now in McKenzie territory’ or something like that).

We stopped by the town of Tongue – I know! – but the rain prevented us from enjoying the view from the lookout. I took a shot nonetheless. And of course, I had to get an ‘I love Tongue’ T-shirt! (partly because I only packed two shirts and I’d already worn one since Friday morning…).

After a little more shut-down on the bus (I don’t know how long I was ‘out’ for), we stopped again, this time at Smoo Cave – I know! – and once again, the rain stopped us from having a good time of it. Apparently, you can get into this cave, and there’s rivers inside the cave, and there’s little boats that you can hop into and paddle down these dark tunnels until you get to the ocean or something. But the rain was falling pretty badly, such that the water pouring out of the cave was torrential. I tried to get a shot – god I love my waterproof camera! – but the water was just pounding down so strongly from somewhere – you couldn’t even see it – the pictures just turned out white. So we walked up to the top of the cliffs instead. Check out the photos I took of their slugs. Everyone just thought those black things were sheep droppings. I did too, I must admit. Until I remembered that sheep don’t do droppings like that (anyone else thinking of ‘The little mole who knew it was none of his business’?) So I took a closer look. They were big, fat, gigantic slugs. Zoologist major I may be. But they still give me the heebees. Got a few ‘looks’ when I took out the coin.

The next stop was Durness. Talk about a desperate attempt to put your town on the map! This has got to be it. Remember that song by the Beatles, the one about how there are places he remembers but some have changed? (In My Life) well the people of Durness reckon he was singing about Durness because he went there as a child. So they’ve built a memorial garden there for him. So Dave-the-tour-guide parks the bus and I kid you not, on one gets off. Except me. And the coo-lovin’ Canadian. So we walked around this memorial garden while the rest of them watched us from the bus.

By the time we got to the Assynt, my ears, eyes, head and stomach were getting some very, very mixed signals and I really just needed to lie down. The people from sheep countries were eager to see deer. Yes, yes, you could always see one at a zoo, but here, in the highlands, in their own environment you know? Dave-the-tour-guide had pointed a single one out in the distance when we stopped to take pictures of the Assynt mountains (mostly blocked out by the mist and fog), and when we got into the bus again, one of the New Zealander yells out – ‘Theer! Theer!’, which is how you cleverly point out that over there, there are some deer. So we get excited, Dave realises that he really had to pull over, and we run out to get a few shots of fluffy white tails. But they were so far away it was pretty fruitless.

We stopped by Lochinver next, and Dave was going on about how this place (Lochinver Larder) makes the best pies in all of Scotland, not only because they make the best pies, but because they make really interesting pies like ‘wild boar and rhubarb’ or ‘venison and cranberry’. And seeing as he wasn’t wrong about the Orkney ice cream, I decided to try the haggis pie. And when he saw me he doubled over, crying out in agony ‘What ye think ye doin’ mon?!’ the ladies are giggling, I’m going ‘What? What’s wrong?’ ‘Ye dinna come herrre un get a haagis pie un put ketchup on it! It’s sacrilegious! Aaaarrrrggghhh!!’ I had to try to get the other Aussies to back me up – how else do you eat a pie but with sauce? I was the only one who actually got the haggis pie. Everyone else had gone for an apple pie or something mundane. Then one of the girls asked ‘what’s it like?’ and I replied, quite honestly, ‘tastes like leftovers’; and from the left of me there’s another horrendous cry, so much louder this time: ‘AAARRRGGGHHH!!! WHA??!! Wha? Did she just say leftovers??!!’ The girls are giggling even more. I’m feeling a little mean: ‘well, you know, like a Chico Roll – you guys get Chico Rolls here? – Chico Roll without the cabbage…’ It was one of those you-have-to-be-there moments. Oh. And the pie was as good as he said it was. The pastry was light, fluffy and crispy and yet, it was substantial you know? Not puff pasty or some of that French stuff, but not so thick that it was like German bread or something. Not too hot, but consistently warm throughout, and the haggis inside – well, having never had haggis before, I couldn’t compare it. But it was nice.

Okay. Next stop, Calda House and Ardvreck Castle. One of the McKenzie lairds had built the house for his wife because she didn’t like the castle. Both are in ruins, although Calda House was an architectural first in its time (nothing remarkable now, it’s just a plain house), and all the other McKenzie lairds followed the design and popularised it.

The Ullapool YHA was a little squishy, but we were lucky to be in the dorm with our own ensuite! Yay! And I got the trundle bed, which worked fine for me. Fell into it and didn’t wake up until the next morning, still in my clothes. I didn’t even realise I was that tired.

The next day was a ‘free day’. Unfortunately, the previous days’ rain and carried through and it still didn’t stop. Most of the crew had opted for a ferry ride out to some of the islands. As much as I wanted to join them, after yesterday’s traveling effects, I wasn’t going to voluntarily get onto a ferry, let alone pay to do so. Regardless of how calm they tell me the waters are. I’ll go for a nice walk thank you very much.

Now, I’ve always said that there’s a fine line between courage and stupidity; between being adventurous and just plain dumb. Today, I crossed that fine line.

Feeling quite buoyant after having slept off my sickness, I had a nice shower, and got myself dressed in all my wet weather gear – oh yeah, I was prepared: waterproof hiking boots, waterproof outer pants, warm inner pants, waterproof Gortex jacket complete with hood and warm neck-cuff, warm inner fleece, waterproof extreme-weather gloves; water bottle, munchies, foodies and camera all nicely tucked away in my (you guessed it) waterproof backpack with waterproof zippers – I was so set to go. The rest of the gang could go on their boats and to the pub, but I’m not going to let a little rain (a drizzle really! A sprinkle!) stop me – no no! I’ve come all the way here, I’m going to make the most of it by god! I’m going to go for a day-long hike through the highlands!

So I get myself to the information bureau for a map or something. The man wasn’t particularly friendly, so I didn’t bother staying long or asking too many questions. Just asked to see a map. I didn’t see the point in buying one – it’d just get wet anyway (didn’t have a waterproof map-holder – aka plastic pocket), and I wasn’t going to need one. I’m quite good at remembering maps. So I had a look: hmm, yes, find my way to the quarry, follow the road, take a right… surely there’d be markers… cool. Set to go.

Yeeee-aah. You’d think that after my more ironic episodes (the numerous Nullabor trips, Radio Hill, trying to quit teaching…) I’d learn something. Maybe I need to write out lines: Murphy’s Law exists! Murphy’s Law exists!

I found the quarry. Walked along it. It was still spitting. Took a few photos. Saw the signs that said something about a walking trail. Decided to ignore it because they’d only go around for about an hour and then what would I do? No, no, I’ve got the whole day. I need a longer walk. So I followed the road. Which led to a loch. And I walked along the loch. And it was still raining. And I took some photos. And I kept walking. And it kept raining. And I kept walking. And it kept raining. And I started to get a little wet. And I kept walking. And I started to get more wet. And the mountains started to get higher. And the road got narrower. And then it wasn’t an ashphalt road anymore. And three hours had gone by. And I kept walking. And I saw a car coming towards me. They wound down the window and there were three older men in there, complete with those chequered fishing hats with flies pinned all over them, and the coloured ear-flaps folded up. Like something out of Grumpy Old Men. They asked me where I was going, I told them I’ll find the next town; and they told me they were going to find a fishing spot in the town I’d just come from. They drove on. I walked on.

I kept walking. It kept raining. I got more and more wet. The loch started to disappear and trees started to pop up. The narrow road became even more muddy and narrow and pot-holed. The skies started to get really dark. I didn’t realise how dark it was until I went back and looked at my photos. Eventually, after about 4 hours, I thought that it would take me just as long to get back into town. So I turned around and started heading back. By now, my socks were soaked, so my heels started to rub on the inside of the shoes and was starting to hurt. My backpack felt like it weighed a tonne. Probably because it, too, was soaked. And it’s a 35 litre capacity bag… Truth be told: I actually had no idea where the hell I was. I was planning out the news report for when they find my body… When halfway into my walk, the Grumpy Old Men’s car started heading towards me again. They pulled over, wound down the window and smiled. I asked them if they found their fishing spot. They said no. The rain. They asked me if I got to the next town. I said no. The rain. They then offered to drive me back to Ullapool. I accepted after doing the perfunctory ‘oh no! are you sure? You’ve just come from there!’ stuff. Got their seats all wet. Couldn’t understand a word they were saying to each other. One would murmur something, and the other two would nod and say ‘och aye, aye…’ and another would say something, and the other two would say ‘och aye, aye…’, then one of them would ask me something and I’d say something back and all three of them would go ‘och aye, aye…’. It made me smile.

Eventually got back into town. Thanked the men and sloshed myself back to the YHA. Problem: Only brought two changes of clothes and one pair of shoes. Other set’s dirty, this one’s wet. Not getting back into the smelly stuff, especially not after having danced myself silly the night before last. So I had to stay in the wet stuff. One of the girls had brought along a hair dryer (not just a travel dryer, but some bazooka-sized, blow-you-into-next-week, Black-n-Decker-powered machine of a dryer). Sat there and dried my shoes and socks and basically feeling a little silly. I think the thing that made me most upset about the whole incident was the fact that I'd completely forgotten I'd bought a nice book on the Orkney Neolithic History and some nice postcards and stored them in the safe, keep-flat compartment at the back of the bag. And they'd all turned to mush. I kid you not. I kept them as souvenirs of what could happen when books get wet. I've found a map of the area. I walked to the end of the path basically.
Two Canadian girls invited me to join them in their search for a pottery studio. So when the shoes and socks dried we went back out into the rain to find the studio: Highland Stoneware. Some of the bits and pieces were quite pretty actually. It was a nice change. Very calming. Made me want to take up pottery. And of course Unchained Melody automatically starts playing in your mind doesn’t it?

Oh, and the place here apparently makes the best fish ‘n’ chips in all of Scotland. So we all had to try it. And actually, like the ice cream and the pie, it was quite good! So I’d recommend it too. If you’re ever in Ullapool, the little fish and chip shop on the corner, The Seefresh, next to the big fish and chip shop, The Seaforth, is good (the little one, not the big one).

We fish ‘n’ chipped for dinner before heading out to the Seaforth for drinks. No dancing tonight. Slept like a log.

27/05/07 – 28/05/07: Kirkwall & Orkney

We left the Inverness Youth Hostel and drove up the A9 highway along the coast to make our way to the most north-easterly point of the United Kingdom. A lovely drive, because for most of the part you could see the water. If it wasn’t the water of the ocean, it was water of the beautiful lochs. Along the way, we stopped by the town of Dornoch, who have their name on maps because they were the town who had the very last witch burning in the Scotland, and stopped by Helmsdale, who have their name on a map because the an over-zealous mother who wanted her son to be earl accidentally poisoned him instead.

We went past a couple of very, very pretty bridges. On one occasion…

Dave the tour-guide: [you have to imagine it with the Scottish brogue] Eh guys! Know thut brrrudge frum thut rrrrully famus moovee? With da flying carrr?
Someone on the bus: [Gasp!] Harry Potter?
Dave the tour-guide: Aye, thut’s da one… remumburrr thut scene where Haarre un Rrron fly thrrroo thar brrrudge?
[Sounds of Velcro tearing resounds from all over the bus as everyone undoes their camera cases: craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak. There are murmurs and whispers and a few ‘oh migods’ and ‘cools’]
Dave the tour-guide: Eh… well thut brrrudge there? See it?... Well thut’s not it [Chuckle chuckle chuckle].

There were castles all along the way up to our destination. We only got fleeting glances at them though. I guess when you’ve seen one castle – and I’ve already seen several castles – you’ve ‘seen ’em all’ as they say. From what I’ve gathered, there are three sorts of castles. You’ve got the fortress type of castle – like the ones all along the bottom of Kent, the Cinque Port Castles; then you’ve got the residential castles, and then you’ve got the just-to-show-off sort of castle. Most of the castles along this A9 highway were residential and show-off castles. One of them was a typical fairy-tale castle with the conical towers and everything.

And then…

Dave the tour-guide: Oh guys! See that brrrudge thar? Now that brrrudge…
[Sounds of Velcro tearing resounds from all over the bus as everyone undoes their camera cases again: craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak. There are murmurs and whispers and a few ‘oh migods’ and ‘cools’]
Dave the tour-guide: that brrrudge… is not it either [Chuckle chuckle chuckle].

Now, most people have the idea that John O’Groats is the most north-easterly point of the UK. But it’s actually not. The most north-easterly point is another 20kms or so away from John O’Groats, at a place called Duncansby Head. We had all stopped by a supermarket and bought our lunches for a picnic. And what a lovely day for a picnic it was. The skies were the most perfect shade of spring-time azure, the grass was lush and green and just that little bit damp, and the cool breeze was blowing. And it was fresh and crisp. Not that ‘countryside’ fresh which essentially translates to ‘eau de manure’ or that ‘salty sea air’ fresh which basically means ‘rotting seaweed’. No, this was actually, factually, really fresh. We walked to the top of the cliffs and it was like when I was at Dover. There were no fences. Just cliffs. Well… there were fences, but they were there to keep the sheep in! A few of the team kicked a soccer ball around, Rob the American went chasing sheep. We could see him in the distance, the little white balls moving away very quickly from the little black figure. There were a few choice comments floating around as we sat on the grass digesting. He came across a little aloof to most of them, but I had spent some time with him during the ‘speed-meeting’ session on the first day and found him to be a pretty ordinary guy. He’d later revealed to me that all he wanted to do was feel what real wool was like, before it’s been processed. Guess since most of us were from sheep-countries – Australia, New Zealand, England – it’s something we take for granted. I told him it wasn’t that exciting. It smells funny and it’s greasy and dirty. Still. He wanted to feel a sheep before he went back to New York City. Not many sheep in New York City apparently.

Anyway. Lunch finished all too quickly because we had to catch a ferry to the Orkney Islands. On the way back to John O’Groats, we passed some heilan coos. That’s ‘highland cows’ with Scottish accents. We’d been driving a fair bit that day, which meant that we only saw in passing and from the window of the bus what would be considered mundane to some – like sheep. Needless to say, the heilan coos, like the sheep, were not mundane to some. As we drove past one paddock full of cows, a pitiful cry came from the back of the bus. It was Jordan the Canadian: ‘Stop the bus! Aaah maaaaen! Ya gutta stop the bus!’ I didn’t turn around but I could just picture his two hands open-palmed banging on the window, dying for a shot. Dave-the-tour-guide had to laugh. C’mon. I laughed. We couldn’t stop the bus where we were when that happened, but Dave pulled over this time. We must have looked a sight, a bus load of people taking shots of cows. What their farmers must think. But I didn’t just take a photo of them, I even bought a souvenir key ring later. They’re so cute! They’re so hairy, with these horrendous dangly fringes that could rival my most attention-seeking students’; and these long, long, horns. Of course, Rob the New Yorker had to stick his arm through the barb-wire fence to try to feel the fur!

The ferry ride to St Margaret’s Hope wasn’t too bad. I had taken my ginger pills and filled up my stomach with thick, heavy buns, and was actually well enough to brave the deck! I took a video shot to prove it all happened. St Margaret’s Hope is so called because the 3 year old Princess Margaret was on a boat to Scotland to be married to one of their Princes when the boat crashed there and she died.

The Orkneys is an amazing place. It’s got an unbelievable collection of immaculately preserved Neolithic community sites, all previously buried under their peat bogs. One place we went to see this in detail was the Tomb of the Eagles. Due to loop-holes in the law, the entire precious archaeological site is privately owned by the landowners. The elderly gentleman had been digging around what’s basically his backyard years and years ago when he found a cave, and there he was on his hands and knees in the dark, he flicks his cigarette lighter, and came face-to-face with mounds and mounds of human skulls. Turns out he’d stumbled across a Neolithic burial site. Bones and talons of eagles were found with them, and the actual archaeologists who later came along and put all the pieces together and studied the place decided that the people had put their dead out to be picked clean by the eagles that used to populate the area, then separated the bones, putting all the skulls in one place, and all the arms and legs in another spot and so on. The family later opened up a little visitor centre. Very, very nice by the way. Not just some cheap garage-job either. Check out the photos of the site with accompanying commentary.

While we were there, Dave-the-tour-guide espoused the wonders of ‘Orkney Ice Cream’. Now I know my chocolates. And I know my ice-creams. And I know that tour-guides usually get a little something for their tourists’ patronage of any particular emporium… So we all bought a tub of Orkney Ice Cream. Some had bought them on the ferry, but they sold out pretty quickly. So I got mine at the Tomb of the Eagles. And my verdict? Good god it was very, very nice ice cream. Creamy. Smooth. Melts on your tongue without icy bits. Subtly flavoured without any overpowering sweetness. Mmmmm. Ice-creeeeeem.

He also went into considerable detail about the Orkney people, or, as they prefer to be known, the Orcadians. They like to separate themselves from your general idea of what’s ‘Scottish’ because their history is so much more… diverse, I suppose? There’s significant Viking and Norwegian heritage in the Orkney Islands, and the language, culture and archaeological evidence (that basically just ‘sits’ in people’s back yards!) demonstrates this is still a part of their everyday life.

After visiting the Tomb of the Eagles, we made our way towards the Kirkwall YHA. Apparently described in one of the group’s Lonely Planet guide as being ‘prison-like’. On the way, we had to go through the Churchill barriers and passed over Scapa Flow.

The Orkneys are made up of around 70 separate islands, and during the war, was the perfect spot for the other side to make their way into Britain because the British couldn’t possibly guard all the various channels that the islands made. At some point, the British ships that were stationed around the flow got the wrong message about the end of the war, and the captain commanded that they all scuttle their ships is a final attempt to stop the Germans from getting through. So to this day, the wrecks sit Scapa Flow. Winston Churchill then had the barriers built around certain islands to prevent any future problems with undesirables getting through. The barriers were built by prisoners of war, and a lot of them were Italians.

The Italians being staunch Catholics, had to have a place of worship. So in their spare time, they all put in together and built a chapel out of a two Nissen war huts. Check out the photos and see how they’ve painted all the little bricks on the inside. Don’t forget that the whole building is basically one big piece of corrugated tin bent into a concave. What’s so amazing about this little chapel is not only the story of the men’s dedication behind it, but the art work inside. I mean, most chapels you see in the cities and stuff are big, grand, over-the-top things. Yes, the art inside them are amazing. But think of the money behind them when they were built. This little chapel built by prisoners in their spare time with what spare bits they could scrape together (mainly bits from the ship-wrecks in Scapa Flow) made me think of that story of the two men in the temple.

So, having slept so early last night, I went out to a pub for a steak and ale pie tonight with some of the group. The pie was cold and the meat was powdery. Apparently when you ask for a pie here, it’s the meat and gravy on a plate, with a piece of puff-pastry on the side. Weird.

Mark texted me at some point during the night and insisted that we all join the rest of the gang at some other theme pub down the road, so we popped in on the way back. One of the other girls mentioned that the only reason why he’d text would be because there was no one there. Most shrewd of her. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one completely bushed, so I didn’t look like that much of a party pooper when I bowed out and went back to the YHA.

And good god – it was prison-like! Lovely people running the place, mind you. But it was horrendously dark, dingy, squishy, with squeaky metal-framed beds and no ventilation so the whole place smelt like a toilet. It was pretty gross. Nice people though.

The next day was full-as. We went to Skara Brae. History. Photos. Rain. Chilly pins-n-needles inside your nostrils kind of wind. It was brilliant. What was remarkable about Skara Brae was that in this Neolithic settlement, the houses were set up as they are today. And to really feel that, we went to Skaill House next. Which is one of your fancy mansions all done up. Didn’t get many photos there. But still. The point was that in all those thousands of years, we really haven’t evolved that much.

We also took a walk up to Marwick Head. Then went to the Borough of Birsay for lunch. By this time, I was on information overload. And even as I write this, I can’t quite bring myself to go through all the details because I’d get them mixed up, and there’s just so much, so much, so much to write.

We also stopped by the Castle of some big laird or prince who was a tyrant, so the people left it to ruin. And a Church. Whose name I forgot. All I could remember of that place was that I was really busting for the loo and used the rickety men’s loo on the side of the road because there was too long a queue for the ladies’.

And then! We drove past the town of – get this! – TWATT! Heh heh heh! Talk about puerile pleasures.

Just when you think you couldn’t possibly fit another destination and history lesson in, we went to Maeshowe. Wow. The guide there was a little… you know. Stuffy. Don’t take photos! Don’t touch! And so on. But basically, it’s like something out of those Indiana Jones movies. Temple built so that on certain days the sun shone in just the right spot and all that. And it’s been graffitied all over by Vikings. Apparently academics have come along and translated the carvings despite the thousands of years of difference, graffiti hasn’t changed a bit either. It’s got stuff like ‘Thorni fucked Helgi’; or ‘Ofram the son of Sigurd carved these’. Which is no different to our more contemporary ‘Jim was ’ere’ and ‘For a good time call…’ There was also the carving of a dragon which is now the emblem of Maeshowe. What really cool is the fact that the carvings were very, very thin. Which meant that it must have been done with a sharp knife of some sort and no mistakes made. Amazing huh? On top of all that, there were, of course, the carvings which were meant to be there. Read up about it. It’s brilliant.

Following that, we went to the Ring of Brodgar, and the Stones of Steness. What I loved about these standing stones is the fact that everyone flock to see Stonehenge in Salisbury, which is fenced off, and there’s big hoo-ha about it all. And these rocks here in the Orkneys stand literally in people’s back yards and front yards. There was one property that had some significant pointing stone (like a heel stone or something) in the driveway, and the driveway had to go around it, and there’s flowers planted around it! It was pretty cute. The Stones of Steness were smaller, but no less amazing. It was a very good experience because we’d come quite late in the afternoon, and there were no other people around. Just us, and sheep. And the beautiful breeze. All very spiritual actually!

That night, the group of us walked around the town for ages until someone made an executive decision that we were having curry. Yep. Curry. The meal that just kept on giving… Another amazing thing about this trip up here was the fact that because we were so far north, the sun literally didn’t really set until close to 10pm at night. There was just so much light. One would imagine that the opposite would be true during the winter months of course. So dinner was at a nice curry restaurant. Then, it was off to a nice pub for a few drinks, and a bit of booty-shaking. Yep. I’ve still got it!