So long, and thanks for all the fish...

You and I will meet again,
When we're least expecting it.
One day, in some far off place,
I will recognize your face.
I won't say goodbye, my friend,
For you and I will meet again.

-- Tom Petty, "You and I Will Meet Again"

My girls left this morning; a heart-wrenching silence has since settled on the flat. Fortunately, we three ladies of Flat G have already started planning for road trips between Vandy, Bama, and Hotlanta, meeting somewhere in the middle.

However, the prospect of seeing them again does little to assuage the pain of their leaving. That's because their departure is a symptom of a larger hurt--my own imminent congé from Scotland. I'm not ready to leave, and with my flight out from Edinburgh looming on the horizon, I fear I'll come to resent the ties to Alabama that are ultimately responsible for my return.

Damn you, Alabama! Sure, you made the best experience of my life possible; but as with every deal made with the Devil, there has been a hell of a price to pay.

My other friends will continue to trickle back to the States over the course of the week, and I've started steeling my resolve for the farewells both to them and to the Scottish friends I've made, both student and non-student alike. I hope that this cloud will lift when I see my family at the gate in New Orleans, when I get back to T-town and settle into my old routine. I hope I'm wrong in feeling that coming home is a mistake.

Excuse me, Hume's metaphysics and moral philosophy require my attention and my face seems to have sprung yet another leak.

The Highlands, Part Five: Glen Coe

[Note: If you're not up-to-date on your Jacobite history, now might be a good time to review the Culloden post a few entries back, else you might get lost. Given time constraints, I'll not be able to recap.]

Glen Coe, a narrow, steep-sided valley near Rannoch Moor, is often referred to as the "glen of weeping" for two reasons: 1) during the rainy months and first spring thaws, runoff cascades down the mountains, creating the illusion of crying hills; and 2) it is home to the village of Glencoe, the site of the most infamous breach of Highland hospitality in Scottish history.


A view of the valley in late September (my first visit), before the fern and heather started to die back.

In 1691, following the unsuccessful Jacobite uprising of 1689-90, William of Orange offered pardons to all Highland clans who had participated in the botched rebellion, provided they swore allegiance to the newly instated monarchy by the first of January, 1692. Those who did not pay fealty to the king, however, would be treated as enemy combatants and suffer grave consequences.


View of a pass through the valley as the sun sets in the distance.

Many of the Highland clans chose to await word from their "true" king--James II, living in exile in France--before proclaiming loyalty to the appointed magistrate. James, upon realizing that the seeds for revolution and his campaign to regain the throne would not ripen before the deadline, granted the chiefs permission to take the oath in mid-December. For the clans who lived in remote areas, such as the MacDonalds of Glencoe, James' authorization came too late; delayed by topography, wintry weather, and misinformation, clan chief Alastair MacDonald arrived in Inverary five days after the deadline. As such, the MacDonalds of Glencoe were not included on the list of clans who had sworn allegiance to the crown.


A view of the same pass through the valley, taken in late October when the fern begins to turn red.

In one of the more vile acts of retribution committed in British history, William enlisted the help of the Campbells of Loch Awe, who had battled with the cattle-thieving MacDonalds for at least a century. As per William's orders, the Campbells and a contingent of crown troops visited the MacDonalds of Glencoe and sought refuge from the winter weather, knowing full well that the tradition of 'Highland hospitality' would ensure the rival clan's entrance into the MacDonald compound.


The Buttresses of Bidean nam Bian, complete with Scotland's trademark mist.

For three weeks, nearly 120 Campbells and government troops dined at MacDonald tables, danced with MacDonald women, and slept in MacDonald beds. Then, in the early morning hours of February 13, 1692, the Campbells awoke and slit the throats of the MacDonald men. The women and children were driven from their village into the snow-covered hills as their homes were set ablaze. All told, 38 men were murdered in Glencoe, and another 40 women and children perished in the cold.


In the grand scheme of Scottish clan rivalries, 78 deaths is not a staggering body count. To wit, cattle raids and various feuds resulted in far more bloodshed and often continued unabated for decades. However, it was not the blood of 78 innocents that has marked the Campbells since the Glencoe massacre; rather, it was the exploitation of the tradition of Highland hospitality. Even today, over 300 years later, Highland grannies caution their grandchildren not to marry into a Campbell family. According to a tour guide of ours, there is a hotel near the village of Glencoe whose front desk bears a sign reading: "No Solicitors, No Salesmen, No Campbells."

Sloth

Allow me to apologize for my absence these past couple of weeks. As finals week back home nears, I'm sure many of you can appreciate how the workload of the average university student increases exponentially come term's end. (Okay, so the workload isn't really any bigger, I've just been catching up on everything I didn't do while I was farting around the Scottish countryside these past few months. So sue me.)

To make amends for my journalistic sloth, which was spawned by a brief bout of intellectual sloth, I give you:



A sloth. But not any ol' sloth, oh no. This may very well be the cutest damned sloth in the world. Aren't you a lucky bunch?

And one more time for good measure: sloth.

Fear not, adoring public...

...I'm not dead. Well, not yet, anyways.

I apologize for the thin blogging of late. I've been swamped with schoolwork, essays, and presentations out the whazoo, so the vast majority of my time is devoted to drooling drowsily on one of my suggested reading texts, doing pilates in effort to stay awake, jumping to the kitchen for my seventeenth cup of tea for the day, or crying in front of my computer. (That last bit's only a little true...)

Seriously, what idiot takes challenging classes when studying abroad? Oh yeah, that's right, ME. Stupid ambition.

The Highlands, Part Four: Loch Ness

No visit to Scotland would be complete without a visit to the most famous body of water in the world, Loch Ness. Located in the northeast of Scotland, it is one of many lochs that dot the Great Glen, a fault line that stretches from Fort William to Inverness.

Contrary to popular opinion, Loch Ness is not the largest loch in Scotland, nor is it the deepest. At 22 square miles and 740 feet deep, the loch lays claim to second prize in those competitions. However, the combined depth and surface area make Loch Ness Scotland's largest loch by volume; one of the tourist industry's favorite factoids is that Loch Ness contains more fresh water than the whole of England and Wales, combined.

Our trip along Loch Ness began in Inverness where we boarded a ferry that would take us down the Caledonian Canal, which links the east and west coasts of Scotland through a chain of lochs.


Sheep grazing in a pasture that overlooks the canal as we chugged toward Fort William. The weather was glorious, if a bit nippy.


One of the 29 locks (not loch) along the canal. This picture's for my dad, who's an engineer and, thus, the nerdiest man I know. Don't worry, old man, I've got more lock photos for you to look at when I get home; I'm sure you'll tell me all about the science behind them. (In all honesty, I miss my geek father and his long-winded explications of the finer points of concrete construction.)

Only a small fraction of the canal's length is man-made; nearly 70% of the journey is sailed through Loch Douchfour, Loch Ness, Loch Oich, and Loch Lochy.


The view as we entered Loch Ness. Though the sun was shining and there was minimal cloud cover, visibility was hampered by the ever-present Scottish haze.

Approaching Urquhart Castle, which sits on the bonny banks of Loch Ness. Urquhart has a long history stretching back to the sixth century when St. Columba, credited with bringing Christianity to Scotland, visited on a mission. Interestingly enough, the first recorded sighting of the Loch Ness monster was in 585, when one of St. Columba's followers was gobbled up by the beast before the missionary's very eyes. Clearly, Highland hospitality was but a fledgling notion at the time.

A quasi-aerial view of the ruins. Again with the blasted haze. Scotland, we've got to talk about this crap. It's ruining my scrapbooking prospects.

Looking over the castle grounds and the loch from the visitor's centre.

I know you're all itching to ask the $64,000 question: Did you see Nessie?

Coming to Loch Ness, I was convinced that the Nessie malarkey was just an ingenious ruse to get superstitious tourists to drop a fat wad of cash on "Nessie cruises" and cheaply made trinkets. After all, an undergraduate degree in both biology and philosophy would lead me to consider any and all accounts of a plesiosaurid creature existing in modern time with a healthy dose of scepticism.

However, after visiting the loch and reviewing my photographs from the trip, something turned in my heart. Two photos, taken but a scant few seconds apart, show something quite peculiar. Take a look and decide for yourselves.

Frame one: Taken from the top of the main tower at Urquhart, which is the site of most Nessie spottings

I'm sure you all can see rippling wakes across the water. Nothing out of the ordinary, as boats traverse the loch very regularly, right? The next photograph, however, shows something else may be responsible for the waves:

Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot?! It's a bloody plesiosaur! For the non-paleontologists and cryptozoologists in the audience, we can tell this creature is a plesiosaur from its long, peg-like teeth, adapted to catching and consuming slippery marine prey.

[Note: In case it wasn't already bleedingly obvious from my MS Paint shenanigans, I have two essays due in a week and I'm avoiding them like the plague. Procrastinators unite...tomorrow!]

BREAKING NEWS

Scotland is cold and rainy.

Also in today's news:

• Water is wet.
• Sky is up.
• France surrenders.

These stories and more at 11.

The Highlands, Part Three: Culloden Battlefield

[In a departure from my usual silly, snarky style, this post will have a markedly more somber tone to it. Given both the date of publication (shortly following Armistice Day) and my own personal connections with the story of Culloden, a little gravity seemed warranted.]

Six miles outside of the Highland capital of Inverness sits a boggy plain called Drummossie Moor, located on which is the site of one of the most important battles fought on Scottish soil: the Battle of Culloden.

Even those possessing the most rudimentary knowledge of Scotland's bloody history could guess the outcome of the 1746 clash between a Highland Jacobite army and Government troops. However, it was not the spectacular defeat of the Jacobites that cemented Culloden's position in Scottish history and lore; it was manner in which the British government set out systematically to destroy the ancient Highland way of life--and the repercussions of the Crown's actions--that forever changed Scotland (and, it can be argued, the world).



The battlefield, as seen from the visitor's centre.

The Battle of Culloden holds a special place in my heart, despite my own lack of Scottish ancestry. My last two years of high school, I spent the better part of eighteen months researching, producing, and refining a thesis on the influence of eighteenth-, nineteenth-, and twentieth-century Jacobite literature on the formation of a Scottish national identity. My visit to the battlefield in October was an academic homecoming of sorts, the realization of an admittedly geeky dream five years in the making.

To the average American, the Jacobite Wars, fought intermittently between 1689 and 1746, are a relatively obscure bit of history, so allow me to give you a cursory overview:

In the Glorious Revolution of 1688, Catholic king James II was ousted by Parliament and replaced by William and Mary of Orange, who were Protestant. In the years that followed, supporters of the "papist" king, called Jacobites, led a series of unsuccessful rebellions to reclaim the throne for the Stewart dynasty. (Major rebellions: 1689-90, 1715, 1745-6; minor rebellions: 1705, 1708, 1719, 1744).

In 1745, the Jacobite banner was taken up by James II's grandson, Charles Edward Stewart, aka Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Young Pretender. In retrospect, it seems silly that a man born and raised in Italy, who spoke little English and no Gaelic, was able to cobble together support from several powerful Highland clans composed of farmers who spoke little English and certainly no Italian. Many scholars have attributed Bonnie Prince Charlie's success in drumming up support to his charisma and dashing good looks. However, it is my contention that the resurgence of Jacobite sympathies was the result of an ancient Highland tradition of loyalty to laird and king.

The beginning of the Forty-Five went splendidly for the Jacobites; the army stormed down through the Central Belt, reclaiming towns and cities, including Edinburgh, for the exiled king. As the majority of British forces were deployed to Flanders fighting the French, there was little resistance in Scotland, and in late 1745, the Jacobites invaded England. The Highland army made it as far as Derby, within easy striking distance of London, by December 1745, though they turned around after receiving false intelligence from a spy in the employ of the Crown.

Some historians claim that the Forty-Five was but a mere blip in history and that the Jacobites posed no threat to the firmly established Protestant monarchy. This is patently false. In fact, upon hearing of the Jacobites' advance on Derby, King George II began making arrangements to flee to the continent. To think that a ragtag force of "Banditti" (as described by Henry Fielding) could march through England and have the king shaking in his boots is impressive. It's even more so when you realize that the Highlanders managed to defeat their enemies not with the muskets and bayonets of the Royal Army, but the claymores, broadswords, and Lochaber axes of the Highlands.

After the Jacobites retreated to Scotland in late 1745, the Crown started calling home troops to deal with the local disturbance. Among these was William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, the king's son, who would come to be known as "The Butcher" or "Butcher Cumberland" following his victory at Culloden. Cumberland led a force of Government troops, composed primarily of Lowland Scots, into the south of Scotland on the tails of the fleeing Jacobites, chasing them back to Inverness in April 1746.

On the early morning of April 16, 1746, the day following Cumberland's 21st birthday, the Jacobites set out to ambush the Government forces, whom they presumed would be sleeping off the previous night's festivities. After marching for several miles and getting lost in the mist, the Jacobites were forced to turn back two miles from Cumberland's campsite in Nairn as the sun began to rise over the hills. Exhausted and half-starved, the Jacobites dispersed and caught what little sleep they could. Cumberland's army, well-rested and well-fed, set out from Nairn later that morning, meeting the Jacobites on Culloden Battlefield.



The yellow flag in this picture marks the front line of the Government army, which stood at 9,000 men. The Jacobite force, 5,400 heads strong, stood nearly 300 meters away. Culloden's kiss of death was its topography; the Highlanders were able to defeat much larger armies thanks to the patented "Highland charge," in which the troops would barrel down a hill toward their enemies, swinging claymores and broadswords as they ran, lopping off heads and limbs left and right. Culloden offered no such advantage.



Approaching the memorial cairn. In a mere sixty-eight minutes, Cumberland's forces had laid waste the Highland regiments. The Crown suffered very light casualties, with 52 killed and 260 wounded, as compared to the Jacobites' 1,300 dead, 1,000 wounded, and 600 captured.



One of the headstones marking where whole clans fell, cut down by musketfire and grapeshot. This one reads "Mixed Clans." Other stones around the battlefield read like a Who's Who of Highland clans: Fraser, Stewart, MacKenzie, MacIntosh.


The stone marker identifying the Well of the Dead (top), and the well (bottom). According to folklore, for three days following the battle the well ran red with the blood of the slaughtered Jacobites.

Following the battle, Cumberland ordered all wounded or captured Jacobites to be killed immediately; those held prisoner or remaining on the field were dispatched by musket or bayonet. Cumberland, however, was not convinced that the Jacobites had learned their lesson; to send a message to the unruly brutes of the Highlands, he and his troops murdered Highland women and children and set villages alight. Clan leaders who had sympathized with the Jacobite cause were arrested, tried, and either executed or sent to prison ships in London.



Memorial cairn, complete with shadow of a valiant Highland soldier. (Actually, that's Dave, our guide, who really is a Highland soldier serving in the Atholl Highlanders, the only legal private army in Europe. And before you ask, yes, I'm a little in love with Dave.)

The destruction of the Highland way of life started by Cumberland after Culloden persisted throughout the eighteenth century, starting with the 1746 Acts of Proscription, which outlawed the playing of the bagpipes, the wearing of the kilt, and the bearing of arms, and culminating with the Highland Clearances of the late eighteenth and early nineteeth centuries. Thousands of Highland crofters were evicted from their farms and forced to emigrate to the British colonies in North America and Australia.

"So what about Bonnie Prince Charlie?" you ask. Well, first, take a gander at this last photo:


The Prince's battlefield position can be seen toward the back of the Jacobite army. Upon seeing that his cause was doomed, the cowardly Italian fled the field before the battle ended. He spent the next several months island-hopping in the Hebrides until he was able to escape to the continent. In 1788, the exiled Young Pretender--who forever blamed the loyal Highlanders for his defeat at Culloden--died an overweight, alcoholic wife-batterer who had sired numerous illegitimate children.

Seriously, couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. What a bastard.

Good Tidings

Before I posted my next entry on the Highlands, I wanted to add one final friends/family post.

First and foremost, I'd like to congratulate my cousin Carl and his wife Molly on their nuptials today. I'd be at the ceremony but for the small problem of the Atlantic being in the way. As I can't be there, I'd like to leave you two with a blessing from my neck of the woods:

Mile failte dhuit le d' bheid,
Fad do re gu'n robh thu slan;
Moran laithen dhuit le sith,
Le'd mhaitheas' us le d' ni bhi fas.

A thousand welcomes to you with your marriage kerchief,
May you be healthy all your days.
May you be blessed with long life and peace,
may you grow old with goodness, and with riches.

Molly, welcome to the family. I wish you guys nothing but happiness and good times.

Finally, to the contingent of kids back in T-town responsible for the fabulous package that arrived on my doorstep this week (Pedro, Lindsay, Katie, and Mel): I love you people. Coming home will be that much easier knowing I'll get see your lovely faces again.

Yes, I have an impressive package...

I'd like to take a moment to tell you how incredible my family is and why you should lament the fact that you're not a part of it, genetically speaking.

This past Saturday morning, I was stirred from a deep sleep by the eardrum-piercing ring of our flat phone. Looking forward to whiling away my free-day in bed, I got up and cursed the representatives of Glasgow's student unions, who frequently mash multiple flat doorbells in order to pass out flyers, for rousing me from the pocket of warmth under my duvet. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted not by a pimple-faced ambassador from the GUU, but rather a Royal Parcel Service employee bearing a gift from the States.

My mum and pops--ever the awesome parents--and my darling sister had slapped together a little care package for me, filled with some Creole staples that I've been missing in my time abroad.



The package, as laid out on our cow-print ironing board. The contents: two packages of Zatarain's Jambalaya Mix; a box of Zatarain's Red Bean Seasoning Mix; one-pound package of Camellia red kidney beans; one bottle of Tabasco sauce; one container of Community Coffee's New Orleans Blend Coffee with Chicory instant coffee crystals; Mardi Gras beads (for the flatmates); a box of homemade pecan pralines; a letter and some silly photos of my kitties.

This bodes well for my flatmates, as I'll be making a flat dinner this Sunday evening with my loot. The jambalaya won't be nearly as good as the stuff my dad makes, but it'll certainly hit the spot. I'd also like to report to my mom that the six of us inhaled the pralines in a matter of days.

The coffee crystals are a godsend for several reasons: 1) it seems that there is no such thing as drip-coffee in the UK outside of some prissy coffeehouse, so if I want coffee, it's the freeze-dried crapola; 2) I only drink coffee with chicory, as anything less is just warm, bland bean water with a few glorified purine rings floating in it; and 3) as much as I like tea, I need something to break the monotony. Granted, I miss out on the experience of brewing my own pot of coffee, but as long as I have the taste, I can wait until my return in December to whip out the Krups machine.

Had the package contained only what I've listed thus far, it would have made my semester. That it contained an extra-special present from my sister made the whole year of 2006 for me. That might be a dash hyperbolic, but I'll run with it.

If you're not familiar with the website Threadless, do yourself a favor and make its acquaintance. One of their most popular shirts is called "The Communist Party." Now, I'm no dirty, pinko Commie, having repented for my involvement in "progressive" politics about eighteen months ago (due in part to the actions of two readers of this blog who shall remain nameless). But look at this screenprint:



Karl Marx with a flipping lampshade on his head. How could I not own this shirt?!



Johnnyfer, you're the best. As I'm taking a course on Marx this semester, and it's no secret that I take issue with just about everything the man wrote, I think I'll have to wear this to seminar.

On a related note, I have a question for the readers. Do the "hip" kids who wear Che Guevara shirts (you know, the ones emblazoned with this treacly image) just not get the joke? The irony of purchasing a t-shirt bearing the face of a Communist revolutionary has never been lost on me, even when I was an empty-headed, politically-muddled college freshman.

The Highlands, Part Two: The Cairngorms

The Scottish Highlands are far and away the most mountainous region of the United Kingdom. In the interest of full disclosure, Scottish mountains such as Beinn Nibheis (Ben Nevis, "venomous mountain") and Beinn Mhic Dhuibh (Ben Macdhui, "mountain of the son of Duff"), though the tallest peaks in Great Britain, are rather unimpressive to most Americans, topping out at 4409 ft and 4297 ft, respectively. However, while Scotland may not have the tallest rocks, it has some of the oldest geological formations and deposits in the world, with the Lewisian gneiss estimated to be 3000 million years old. Hah, in your face, McKinley!

"Now, Kathryn, you're not going to give us a geology lesson today, are you?" you ask. Hate to break it to you, guys, but every day's a school day in my neck of the woods, so you bet your sweet bippy I'm talking about rocks today. Just bear with me for a few paragraphs while I geek out.

The Cairngorms were formed in the Silurian period (~420 mya) when two tectonic plates smashed into each other (over the course of several million years), forcing magma up from the center of the earth and creating the granite crags we see today. Shaped by several glaciations and recessions, the Cairngorms now extend through eastern Scotland, including an area called Aberdeenshire.

Near Rhynie, a small village in Aberdeenshire, there lies a treasure trove of fossils from the Early Devonian (~410 mya) preserved in a crystalline quartz deposit called chert. The fossils in this deposit are so well preserved that paleontologists have found the microscopic hyphae of primitive fungi. What's more, many fossils show what may be the earliest known examples of symbiosis between terrestrial plants and fungi. Speaking as a mycologist, I think this is pretty cool in general. However, speaking as a mycologist whose Master's project focuses on the evolutionary history of symbiotic relationships between plants and primitive fungi from the Chytridiomycota, this transcends mere "cool-ness." It is pure, unadulterated AWESOME (were "awesome" a noun, of course).

Okay, I'm done. Feel free to point and laugh. On with the pictures!

In effort to reduce liability, our program did not actually let us climb one of the Cairngorm peaks. (Let's face it, we all know that had we hiked, some clod would have fallen off the side of the bloody mountain and ruined the fun for the rest of us.) Instead, we took a tram up to the summit for some photo-ops.


Kara, J, and Kim as we puttered up the side of the mountain. It's likely that J will never speak to me again for posting this gem of a photo, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. Click for high-res goodness. Really, go ahead, it's so worth it.



I suppose it's only fair that I post a similarly stupid photo of myself. Besides, dignity is for the birds. If only I didn't have the wonky eye-drift going on.



The view from the tram. On a purely tangential note, my two favorite words in the German language are achtung ("attention") and schmetterling ("butterfly"); the latter is especially funny when said in a high-pitched, child-like voice and accompanied by "spirit fingers." Oh man, I miss my sister, the little nutter.



Unfortunately (or fortunately, however you see it), the Scottish weather didn't fail us; the low-lying clouds, which usually make for striking pictures from the base of the mountain, completely obscured the view from the summit. If you look to the left of the frame, you can see an indistinct, grey-blue blob. That would be a lochan, which is Scots Gaelic for "small lake." I'm sure you're more familiar with the word loch, which you probably cannot pronounce correctly, unless you're a native Scot or you've had your epiglottis removed with a rusty spoon.



Seventy-five percent of Team Glasgow, Dublin edition: Shae, Kim, and I at the summit.


The UGlasgow Early Start group. Back row, l-r: Kim, Allyson, Casey, J, Meredith, JaeHee, Whitney, and Shae. Front row, l-r: Kara, Jenna, and me (perched atop my invisible stool).

After reaching the summit, J uttered a classic emo line, providing the inspiration for this final MySpace-esque photo.

Readers, I present to you a collaborative piece entitled i'm on top of the world--and yet, i'm all alone.



Limited edition prints of this piece and others in the collection are available in the museum gift shop.

The Highlands, Part One: Kingussie

I'm rather pleased with my decision to go to Scotland through an independent exchange program rather than through my home university, despite the added expense. This year, the program arranged a tour of the Highlands which included several off-the-beaten-path stops, including this one at a working sheepdog farm in Kingussie (pronounced kin-YOO-see).

I've recently been back to Kingussie since my first trip there in October, but visited the town itself rather than the surrounding farmland. Charming though the village may be, I much prefer the countryside.

Situated at the foot of the Cairngorm and Monadhliath mountains, Kingussie offers a fabulous vantage point for my favorite type of photography: landscapes. (Truth be told, I like them because they're easy; if you've got a gorgeous subject and a decent camera, you're almost guaranteed a good shot.)


Looking out over one of the pastures. While most of the animals paid us no mind, this lone cow watched us in complete bemusement. She must be a newcomer.

[Allow me to apologize early on for the photo quality. Actually, scratch that. I refuse to apologize for portraying Scotland as it truly is: hazy.]

After explaining some basic commands and introducing us to the twelve or so Border collies under his stead, the shepherd gave us a herding demonstration. The dog being used for this exercise, appearing as a small, black-and-white blip to the extreme far left of the frame, is the current defending Scottish national champion. We were unwittingly in the presence of greatness.


Shhh...if you listen closely you can hear what they're saying. Do you hear it? It's a language older than the hills, one that precious few bipeds have ever heard:

Baa-ram-ewe, baa-ram-ewe. To your breed, your fleece, your clan be true. Sheep be true. Baa-ram-ewe.

[I don't give a flying fig if not a one of you finds that chuckle-worthy. It's enough that I crack myself up.]

After corralling the sheep, the shepherd selected one from the flock and rather unceremoniously flopped her hooves-over-horns on her rump. He then proceeded to shear her with some very crude clippers and invited us to come and take a stab at it.

For those of you taking notes, the type of sheep raised on this farm was the Scottish Blackface, a hardy breed characterized by its unisex horns, ability to graze on even the crudest of pastures, and successful careers in vaudeville.

The next few shots are for my boy, Peter, who was unable to join me in the UK this semester. [pours Courvoisier on the ground]

This curious little guy braved the pack of collies and decided to pose for some photos with us before being swiftly rounded up by an eager pup.

Peter, I tried to get him to come home with me, but wouldn't you know it, the farm looks none too kindly on people who try to carry off their sheep. Better luck next time.


I also got to spend a little quality time with one of the older dogs during the demonstration. While I'll always be a cat person (please note the distinction between "cat person" and "crazy, old cat-lady"), I took quite a liking to the sheepdogs.


PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING:
This final segment features images containing overwhelming and/or dangerous levels of preciousness. Diabetics and patients with heart conditions should consult their physicians before viewing. Pregnant women and nursing mothers are urged not to view these images, lest the maternal instinct strike with renewed vigor.

I have to hand it to the shepherd, he was a marketing genius. After fannying around with the sheep, he popped into a barn and came out carrying what can only be described as a Weapon of Mass Seduction: a bucket of puppies.

Yes, you read that correctly. A bucket. OF PUPPIES.

Cue the deafening "Awwwwwwwwww!" from the ladies in the audience.

Don't be alarmed, ladies. That squishing noise you hear is just your ovaries contracting, flooding your bloodstream with estrogen. Gah, baby animals.

Prologue

The popular image of Scotland--certainly the one that has been exported worldwide since the nineteenth century--has been that of a savage, desolate wilderness of romantic, heathered moors and mountains shrouded in mist. However, only half of the countryside lives up to this quixotic notion: the Scottish Highlands.


Although the Highlands comprise more than half the land in Scotland, it is one of the most sparsely populated areas in Europe. Of Scotland's five million inhabitants, only 350,000 call the Highlands home, and numbers are dwindling as members of each subsequent generation leave to find better employment opportunities. While it may not have much to offer in the way of industry (outside of tourism), the northern half of Scotland does feature some of the most striking landscapes found anywhere in the world.

I've spent quite a bit of time trolling around the Highlands, and as such have amassed a collection of photos nearing the thousand mark. Given the sheer number of photos I have from my wee sojourns to the Highlands, I've decided to feature a multi-part series of Highland towns, regions, and attractions. Trust me, your bandwidth will thank me.

Oidhche Shamhna

Scotland has traditionally celebrated Samhain, a festival with roots in Ireland, on October 31. Much like Halloween in the States, children get dressed up and go about the neighborhood 'guising,' stopping by each house and offering up some form of entertainment in the hopes of receiving a treat in return.

This Halloween, the lovely ladies and lads of Team Glasgow decided to do a little guising of their own. The result: comedy gold.

[Note: I'll try to keep narration to a minimum in this post for two reasons: 1) I feel the photos themselves attest to this group's caliber better than any silly platitudes I could offer; and 2) I'm pretty stinking bushed. Thanks a lot, multiple fire alarms in the single-digit evening air.]

Miss Audrey Hepburn (Whitney) and the librarian (Yours Truly) kicking off the festivities. Props to Whitney for setting up an amazing little gathering, replete with all the seasonal trimmings. (For those of you wondering as to the title of my prop book, it's Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan. Political philosophy for the win!)

(Left to right) Kara, Jenna, Whitney, and Kim mugging for the camera. Jenna, who reminded me of the 1980s exercise fanatics from the cover of my mom's Jane Fonda aerobics records (yes, you read that correctly), was quite a hit with the laddies at the club we visited after the party wrapped up.

Casey, doing her best to cement the 'sexy teacher' image in every prepubescent boy's mind.

Hassan, ever the original, dressed as a businessman/suit/yuppie, and his lovely date, the toga-clad goddess, Meredith. Ladies, for future reference, never make a toga out of a bedsheet. I cannot count the number of times Mere and I had to run off to the ladies room to prevent her exposure at the club.

Tom, dressed as one of Glasgow's most beloved scholars, Lord Kelvin. Traffic cone hat added for accuracy.

Flat G and friends. Left to right, Hassan, first wench Elaine, Fr. Sylvain, naughty schoolgirl (as if there's any other kind) Priyanka, and Zein, sporting the ever-popular I'm-too-lazy-to-come-up-with-
a-costume-so-I'll-pop-in-some-fake-teeth-and-presto! look.

Kim, Mere, and myself. Kim's costume was quite possibly the most accurate representation of a chav (or a Glaswegian Ned) I've ever seen. Well, barring the real thing, that is. If only she'd had an infant swaddled in knock-off Burberry and a pack of smokes tucked into her brassiere...

Jenna's take on Olivia Newton-John and Dr. Joseph Lister, the father of antiseptic surgery and one of Glasgow's eminent, nineteenth-century faculty members, as played by J.

Lord Kelvin and Baron Lister, leading the group in a rousing acoustic version of Chamillionaire's recent hip-hop single, "Ridin'". The lyrics to The Mixtape Messiah's anthem can be found here. My goodness, how I abhor rap.

Ebony, our resident Kiwi (New Zealander), and J. I don't quite remember what exactly was going on here. I blame the punch for both my ignorance and their behavior. (And personal responsibility prepares to put its second foot in the grave...)

Hassan, Meredith, Jaehee (Yar, the tastiest wench ever to swab a poop deck, matey!), and your esteemed author, toasting the evening. Resist all urges to ask what libation is contained in our cups; you'll think less of me should you find out, and we can't have that, now can we?

Hope everyone had a safe and spooky Halloween. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming!