St. Andrews and Fife

In early October, a small contingent of students from my exchange program made the trip from Glasgow to St. Andrews and the Kingdom of Fife on Scotland's eastern coast.

The group, minus one. In this picture, kindly provided by Whitney (the photographer), the excitement on the early morning streets of Edinburgh is tangible. Go ahead, reach out and touch it.

[Back row, left to right: Tom, J (yes, just 'J'), Kim
Front row, left to right: Jenna, Kara, Me (in the dapper, 100% virgin Irish wool blazer I got in exchange for my immortal soul)]

Our first stop on the tour was the Forth Rail Bridge, an engineering masterpiece from the late nineteenth century. Constructed over eight years by a workforce of fifty-thousand men, the bridge has not needed any significant structural repairs since its opening in 1890, despite shouldering the traffic of two hundred freight and commuter trains each day. The same cannot be said for the neighboring Forth Road Bridge, a suspension bridge dating from the mid-1960s, which will likely have to replaced in the next ten years due to corrosion and shoddy workmanship. At the risk of sounding like my father, they just don't make things like they used to.

We crossed the Forth Road Bridge and entered the Kingdom of Fife, which is not a kingdom proper, but a peninsular county on the eastern coast. Naturally, the coastlines of Fife are dotted with quaint fishing villages, such as Anstruther, seen below.

Anstruther's seafront. The small turquoise building on the main drag was proclaimed the best fish and chip shop in the world. While we didn't sample the fried delectables, we found their homemade ice cream to be absolutely faboo.

Overlooking the waters of the Firth of Forth, which opens into the North Sea. The clouds were beginning to break in the mid-morning sun.

More of the same. I've never been terribly fond of tropical beaches, but the icy, rocky shores of northern beaches have always been a favorite.

We spent a wee while in Anstruther before heading up to St. Andrews. As the decision to go up to St. Andrews was a spontaneous one, we hadn't done our homework with regards to the schedule of events in the birthplace of golf. Consequently, I found myself slap-bang in the middle of another flippin' golf tournament. First Dublin and the Ryder Cup, then St. Andrews and Dunhill. Will it ever end?!

Effectively barred from both touring the greens and viewing the tournament, Team Glasgow shuffled to the beaches to re-enact one of the most iconic scenes in cinematic history.

Ladies and jellyspoons, set your peepers on West Sands Beach, the setting for the running scene in the 1981 film Chariots of Fire. Being wholly unconcerned with what the world thinks of us, we decided to pay homage to the oft-parodied clip.

There might be an element of 'you had to be there' to this photo, but it still makes me giggle. Riotously.

A view of the North Sea from the shore.

"Stop looking at me swan!" -- Billy Madison

In the tidepools on the beach, there were dozens of swans trodding along in the shallow water. Ever the curious cupcake, I decided to make friends.

AHAHAHAHAHA! The revolution is at hand!

Actually, swans are pretty mean animals. The one featured in the previous photo looked at me as I was preaching to my Anserinae congregation, stretched his neck to full height, and walked toward me menacingly whilst emitting a blood-chilling hiss from his ginormous beak. I'm no hero, so I quickly rejoined my group and booked it off the beach. After all, the last time someone tangled with a swan, she ended up bearing two of Zeus's children; I'm not ready for that kind of responsibility.

Obviously, I didn't come to St. Andrews with the intention of carousing with some waterfowl; instead, I came to see this:

The ruins of St. Andrew's Cathedral. Dating from the tenth century, St. Andrew's was once the largest cathedral in Scotland. Unlike most other cathedrals in Scotland, St. Andrew's was not reduced to rubble during the Reformation, when John Knox and his Protestant followers set out to rid Scotland of every last shred of Catholicism. Rather, the cathedral fell into neglect in the sixteenth century after the central tower collapsed, bringing down the north wall of the nave with it. Afterwards, the stone from the cathedral was appropriated by villagers for building houses.

In the nineteenth century, the cathedral ruins became a protected property and have been under the aegis of the National Trust of Scotland ever since. All that remain are the incomplete south, west, and east walls of the nave, and a few bits of the south transept.

The remains of the west gable, as seen from what would have been the interior of the cathedral.

If I'm not mistaken, this is the interior of the south transept, replete with tombs set into the turf.

St. Rule's Tower, which probably served as the cathedral prior to the consecration of St. Andrew's in 1318 by Robert the Bruce. I purchased a token to enter the tower, hoping for some great views over the town and harbor; however, I failed to notice that I had to be back at the coach in ten minutes, else the tour would leave me several hours from home in a town with no direct bus service to Glasgow. So, if any of you readers are coming up to Scotland in the near future and have plans to see St. Andrew's Cathedral and St. Rule's Tower, come see me for an entrance token and save yourself seven bucks.

Erin Go Braugh, Part Three: Cork and Blarney

Our first view of Cork upon arriving from Dublin was of Merchant's Quay, the shopping centre of the city. Below you can see the River Lee, which winds through Cork and empties into Cork Harbour, one of the world's largest natural harbours.

Including Cork in the title of this entry is a bit disingenuous on my part; while we certainly spent the night in Cork, the only reason we made the trip was to satisfy our tourist-y need to swap spit with a certain famous piece of limestone. All told, we spent perhaps ten hours in Cork, eight of which were devoted to sleeping, albeit in the nicest hostel I've visited and without the roar of Dublin's Canadian woodchipper in the next bed. (It would seem the hostel gods finally decided to throw us a stinking bone.) Should you ever find yourself in the south of Ireland in need of decent lodging on the cheap, go to Cork International Youth Hostel. Tell them Kathryn sent you. They won't have a clue as to what you're blethering on about, but I'll certainly get a chuckle out of it.

Immediately after being dropped off, we hoofed it to the hostel, deposited our bags in our private room, and quickly scurried back to the bus station to catch the 3:30 bus to Blarney. Oh yes, we were ladies with a singular aim, that of getting some face-time with the Stone of Eloquence. While I'm sure Cork is a lovely city, I just couldn't be arsed to fit it in the trip itinerary, not with this gem sitting a short forty-minute bus trip away:

Everyone, welcome to Blarney Castle, a medieval holding in the quaint village of Blarney. The original castle dates from the late twelfth century, though it was destroyed in the middle of the fifteenth century and subsequently rebuilt.

The entrance to the castle. Most of you know I love history like a fat kid loves cake, so you can only imagine the state I was in as I approached the archway that opened into the castle lobby. (Read: Frenzied, geek-tastic hysteria)

A picture of the view from the second story of the castle, which served as my desktop wallpaper for several weeks until it was replaced by a landscape panorama taken during a trip to the Highlands. The smaller tower to the left is the watchman's tower; the larger, creeper-covered tower which is only partially in frame is featured in the following image, as seen from one of the family bedchambers.
Thanks to New Orleans's semi-tropical climate, autumn and the turning of leaves are foreign concepts to me. It seems that even in Tuscaloosa, which is far enough north to boast at least three seasons to southeastern Louisiana's two, only the ginkgo and maple trees get the annual 'quit making chlorophyll' memo. Ireland, however, was showing signs of fall in mid-September. Here in Scotland, where the leaves are coloring and the rowan trees are laden with berries, autumn is in full swing.

The interior of the ruins, as seen from the top of the castle. Centuries ago, this open space would have been divided into three floors. The bottom floor would have served as a banquet hall, with the second and third floors serving as priests' quarters and family living quarters, respectively.

Me, making an ass of myself in a hearth in the former banquet hall. No, you simply cannot take me anywhere.

My personal rendezvous with the Stone of Eloquence, aka the Blarney Stone. Please forgive the dusty elbow, the unfortunate souvenir from my earlier shenanigans in the hearth.

For those of you not familiar with stone-kissing protocol, allow me to give you a little rundown. The Stone itself is mounted between the castle wall and the parapet, meaning in order to get within canoodling distance, you have to lie down, bend backwards and, holding onto the provided iron bars, lower yourself to the Stone, all whilst hanging over an open hole in the castle wall 39m (~126ft) off the ground. Your only protection should you slip? An iron grid that could easily allow for the passage of a falling human body and whatever kindly volunteer works the kissing booth that day.

According to the free SkyNews magazine provided to us by AerLingus, famous smoochers of the Blarney stone include Colin Farrell, Matt Damon, and Vince Vaughn. If we were playing Six Degrees of Separation, I could proudly claim to have bussed Brad Pitt (Vince Vaughn - Jennifer Aniston - Brad Pitt). However, this would also mean that I've had the misfortune of kissing Billy Bob Thornton (Vince Vaughn - Jennifer Aniston - Brad Pitt - Angelina Jolie - Billy Bob Thornton).

That would explain the infection. (Author's note: Infection in my trachea...jeez.)

The dungeons at the foot of the castle rock. Feeling brave, the four of us entered the dark, dank underbelly of the castle, intent on touring the ancient cells. We quickly scrapped that plan as soon as we discovered that a) there was no illumination in the dungeons, save the faint glow from my mobile and my camera's LCD, and b) the walls separating the cells from the staircase were eroded, if not completely missing. Not wanting to fall to our deaths (or, at the very least, a bone-crushing thud), we turned back and decided to scope out the gardens and arboretum instead.

Being a mycologist, I know plant pathology and taxonomy insofar as they relate to fungi. As such, I haven't the foggiest notion as to the species of tree featured in the above photo. For the time being, we'll call them Druid trees, by virtue of their proximity to the Druid's Cave and Druid's Circle on the castle grounds. (I apologize to all botanists, plant taxonomists, and dendrologists in the audience for my ignorance.)

While not as large as some of the southern live oaks in New Orleans, these Druid trees were pretty monstrous. The four of us hopped into the larger one for a scale comparison.


Another classic from the "Kathryn Can't Act Her Age" files: Shae and I testing the Sacrificial Altar for quality-control standards.

As dusk fell on Blarney, we made our way from the castle grounds into the surrounding village, on the hunt for some grub.

The village's main drag.

After dinner, we settled on the steps of an old church and watched the sun set over the hill- and rooftops. Say what you will about CFCs and other air pollutants; they make for a glorious sunset.


Tune in next week (or tomorrow, whatevs) for our next installment: St. Andrews and Fife

Erin go Braugh, Part Two: Dublin

Our three-day tour of Ireland began and ended in Dublin, the capital of the Republic of Ireland, which sits on the eastern coast. An ancient city dating back to the first century BCE, Dublin has succeeded in building a modern, cosmopolitan city around a primarily medieval centre, much like Edinburgh here in Scotland. Below are a few of my favorite shots from our day-and-a-half visit.

The four of us were highly amused by the directions painted on the tarmac. Adjusting to the driving patterns in Scotland has proved a slow-going process, so it was nice to have a little help in Ireland. The chirping crosswalk signals were also a nice touch.

Our first stop--after purchasing toothpaste and deodorant, that is--was Christchurch Cathedral, the oldest building in Dublin. The ruins, outside of the restored nineteenth-century structure pictured above, date from the eleventh century CE.

Here are the ruins of the original cathedral. The sign next to the entrance kindly asks you not to run on the ruins. It saddens me, but in no way surprises me, that the National Trust of Ireland feels the need to remind the average Joe not to horseplay on the remains of a ten-century-old religious structure.

After unanimously deciding we were all too cheap to pay the 5 Euro admission to Christchurch, we ambled along toward the city centre and dropped into City Hall, an imposing structure dating from the 1760s that formerly housed the Royal Exchange.

A view of the columns in the rotunda. The floor of the entrance hall was a gorgeous marble mosaic featuring the seal of the city.


The dome of the rotunda. (Why, yes, I did lie prostrate on the floor of City Hall to get this shot.) As I completely lack the mad photographic skillz of my paternal grandparents, my father, and my immensely talented sister, this photo is hardly symmetrical.

Our visit to City Hall was quite brief; we hadn't really planned on visiting, but it started to rain (Rain, in Ireland? Surely you jest!) and, wanting some shelter in which to ride out the storm, we ran to the first admission-free building we could find. Fortunately, the rain relented and we made our way to St. Patrick's Cathedral, the highlight of ancient Dublin (for me, at least).


The bell tower of the cathedral. The original Celtic wooden church was raised to cathedral status in the twelfth century CE.

The nave of the cathedral, looking toward the altar. Arranged around the pews are several barrister bookcases housing relics and artifacts. My favorites included the belongings of Jonathan Swift, a priest-cum-essayist, one of Ireland's most beloved literary figures, and perhaps the foremost satirist in the English language. Included among his personal effects were first edition prints of Gulliver's Travels and A Modest Proposal, his death mask, and a bronze cast of his skull.

Flags hanging above the choir and a view of the vaulted ceiling.

The cathedral's sanctuary.

The Door of Reconciliation, located in one of the transepts of the cathedral. In 1492, two warring clans, the Butlers and the Fitzgeralds, struck a peace accord through this door. According to the story, Black James, a Butler on the run from Fitzgerald soldiers, sought sanctuary in St. Patrick's. Gearoid Ó“g Fitzgerald, the leader of the Fitzgerald troops, hoped to end the feud between the families, but each negotiation was refused by the Butler clan. Gearoid, in an act of profound bravery (or stupidity, however you see it) ordered his soldiers to cut a hole in the door, then thrust his arm through it, asking for a truce. Luckily, the Butlers did not slice off his vulnerable limb, instead agreeing to the accord. (This warm and fuzzy feeling of clan solidarity has been made possible by the National Trust of Ireland, Guinness Stout, and viewers like you.)

The River Liffey as seen from O'Connell Bridge, named for Daniel O'Connell, The Liberator. A political leader in the nineteenth century, O'Connell helped spawn a wave of non-violent Irish nationalism and pushed for a repeal of the act of union tying Ireland to Great Britain. He is also featured in a statue just off the bridge.

The front facade of Trinity College. We took a brief tour of the campus before entering the Book of Kells exhibit. Unfortunately, there was no photography allowed inside the exhibit, so I can show you neither the Book of Kells, nor the Long Room, the 65-meter long, barrel-vaulted library. I suppose you'll just have to go yourselves (which I fully recommend).

A street artist outside of Trinity College who paints scenes on black tarpaulin.

The Spire of Dublin, a sculpture erected in 2003. The Spire sits on the former site of the Nelson Pillar, which was blown up by the IRA in the late 1960s. Symbolizing progress or some such nonsense, the Spire, dubbed the 'Stiletto in the Ghetto' by the locals, was quite the controversial addition to the Dublin skyline. Honestly, I'm not sure how something that resembles a hypodermic needle is supposed to herald progress. Unless 'progress' is a new buzzword for 'heroin use.'

Dublin has always been a religious city, originally Catholic, then Protestant, then returning to Catholic again. However, it seems there's a new kid on the block in Dublin, so the Christians had better watch out:

I'd like to apologize to the young man outside the Church of Scientology who sneered as I poked fun at his 'religion.' I'm sorry that you're ignorant enough to fall for the science fiction-turned-gospel of one L. Ron Hubbard. I'm sorry you feel the only way to enlightenment requires plunking down gobs of money and avoiding body thetans. I'm sorry South Park belittled your nutty cult--er, religion. Bunch of crackpots.

Having been inspired by our Xenu-loving friend earlier, we ladies decided to do a little worshipping ourselves at the Temple Bar. After receiving our communion from Sean the bartender (in the form of a Guinness Stout, no less), we celebrated Shae's 21st birthday, eventually making our way to a hotel bar that was featuring traditional Irish music and dancing. Below is a short clip of an a capella jig performed by the dance troupe.



We returned to Dublin Sunday afternoon and wandered around aimlessly, killing time until our flight back to Glasgow. Unfortunately, my camera decided it was in no mood to take any photos that day, so you have no lovely pictures of the National Museum of Ireland (complete with bog people!) or the woollen mill store where I spent the equivalent of a round-trip ticket from Glasgow to Athens on a wool blazer. In my defense, it's a gorgeous jacket (proof upon request).

Our final shot from Dublin was taken early Saturday morning as we walked to the city centre to catch our coach to Cork, near the southern coast. As sketchy as our hostel and its location had been, we were rewarded with this sunrise over St. Augustine Catholic Church. As I've said before, everything is prettier in a foreign country.

Erin go Braugh, Part One: Lessons from a Backpacker

A few weeks ago, I accompanied some friends from my exchange program on a three-day tour of central and southern Ireland, taking advantage of the long weekend that preceded the commencement of classes. As this was my first time creating and realizing an itinerary, I feel it's best to begin with a post about what I've learned about the finer points of student/budget travel.

1. Piss-poor planning prevents proper performance.

Now, I wouldn't call our planning of the Ireland trip a complete debacle, but we did make a few mistakes that any first-timer would. Our biggest blunder, perhaps, was booking our visit for the weekend of the Ryder Cup, the biennial American and European golf tournament, which was held in Dublin this year. Consequently, we had no accommodations in Dublin on Saturday evening, as everything had been reserved well in advance, forcing us to make the trip to Cork, which lies near the southern coast. (As luck would have it, this was a blessing in disguise).

It would seem that this is a rather common beginner's mistake, as another group from our exchange program booked flights to Germany for the same weekend of our Irish vacation. Munich happened to be celebrating Oktoberfest that weekend, as well.

In the end, however, everything worked out just fine. We managed to avoid the throngs of plaid-knickered, visor-wearing golf fans, and none of the members of Team Oktoberfest fell ill with alcohol poisoning. You really have to love a happy ending.

2. The day before security restrictions are loosened, the security guards at the gate will be supreme asshats.

As many of you know, following this summer's foiling of a terrorist plot to blow up planes by mixing volatile household chemicals, very stringent restrictions were placed on the size and contents of airplane carry-ons here in the UK. The restrictions in place for travel outside of the UK on the day of our visit stated that, in addition to the ban on liquids and balms, carry-on luggage could be no larger than the average briefcase.

Now, after having dealt with luggage issues on my way into the UK, I was in no mood to check my baggage into the cargo hold and hope I was reunited with it in Ireland. My group shared that sentiment. We had, for that reason, not brought any toiletries with us, save our toothbrushes. No deodorant, no toothpaste, not contact solution, nada. However, anyone packing for three days of travel, even sans toiletries, will be hard-pressed to fit it all in a valise the size of an Apple laptop. Even after much jostling and rearranging, Shae was forced to check her baggage.

So far this sounds reasonable. Inconvenient, perhaps, but certainly not life-ending. The trip through the security gate was quite another matter. Kim, upon arriving at the X-ray machine, was informed that only one carry-on was allowed per passenger, so her purse would have to be placed inside her backpack. Wouldn't you know it, that tiny addition completely changed the dimensions of her knapsack, and would have forced her to return to the check-in counter. Kim, however, was having none of this. After a solid five minutes of rearranging this and that, vainly trying to shove her bag into the crudely assembled, temporary carry-on bin, she took out her sweaters and put them on over her clothes. Five layers of sweaters later, and we were through security...

Though not before Shae and I were frisked by a woman who took employee dedication to a new, violative, and, perhaps, criminal level. A sample of our conversation:

Madame Frisk: "Spread your arms and legs and stand still while I search you." [She forgot to mention that normal "search" procedure included running her hands over my chest several times, adjusting both my bra and belt, and giving me a wink. (Fine, I lied about that last bit.)]

Me: "Um, wow, this is way more thorough than in the States. I kind of feel like you should buy me a drink first."

Mdme. Frisk, unsmilingly: "I'm not that kind of girl."

Me: "Yeah, neither am I, but..."

Mdme. Frisk, sternly: "If you don't stand still I'm going to start all over again."

Me: "Eeep." [inner monologue: "Find your happy place. Find your happy place."]

Naturally, the security restrictions were taken down a notch the very next day.

[Tangent: the result of us not bringing any toiletries on the plane? Brushing our teeth on the streets of Dublin.]
From left to right: Kim, Shae, and JaeHee taking advantage of a little toothpaste and some bottled water.

Me, getting in on the oral hygiene-goodness. Seriously, the mouth felt fuzzy that morning.

3. You get what you pay for.

Being students in a foreign country whose currency is trouncing the dollar, we try to find bargains on everything from haircuts to CDs. When it comes to accommodation, we are equally frugal. This can, on occasion, cause problems.

Our hostel in Dublin was touted as one of the best that Ireland had to offer by Hostelworld.com. After all, it was convenient to City Centre and attractions, including the Guinness Brewery, which was right next door. Surely we must have booked a gem of a budget hotel, eh?

Not so much.

We trudged up to our room at 2AM after a very delayed flight out of Glasgow, to find that we were sharing a 10-bed ensuite with six other travelers. Too tired to think, we all changed into our jammies and eagerly plopped into our respective bunks. Our respective bunks that smelled of nasty, dirty, unwashed men. All of the bedding reeked to high heaven of some ungodly mix of B.O., patchouli, and cigarette smoke; while I never had a desire to attend any incarnation of Woodstock, I felt like I was there.

Fortunately, breakfast was pretty decent the next morning, though the raspberry jam was magenta.

JaeHee and Shae sitting at the breakfast table. The breakfast room, with its cheery colored walls and city maps, was perhaps the hostel's only redeeming quality.

As horrible as the first night may have been, it paled in comparison to our second and, thankfully, last night at the Brewery Hostel. Coming home from a day tour of Dublin, we encountered queer little packages on our pillows.

If you can't make out the note, it reads: "Sorry I SNORE. Hope these help! -Canada"

How cute and considerate, but surely she couldn't be that bad, we thought.

Fast forward seven hours...

This girl sounded like she was sawing logs from her bunk. She was felling the great California Redwoods with each snorting, blustering breath. Around three in the morning, a few drunken Americans who were sharing the room stumbled in and proceeded to ask us how we were sleeping through such a racket. We weren't, was the unanimous reply from the seven other roommates.

Canada, I know we're friendly neighbors, but I'm tempted to take this girl's behavior as an act of aggression. You had better watch oot, eh?

4. Try to blend in with the locals.

This seems pretty straightforward. You know, when in Rome, and such. As Americans, we've been advised not to talk too loudly, not to travel in huge groups, not to make fun of France for always surrendering, etc.

So, we tried to do what's natural. We stopped into the famous Temple Bar on Friday evening, and settled down for a pint, grabbing the only seats available in the packed pub.

Aww, aren't we cute? [We had better be pretty damned cute, because those stupid pints of Guinness cost nearly $8US.]

Well, blend in is something we completely and utterly failed to do. Everyone stared, a couple snickered. This one guy leered, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

Now, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I think it might have had something to do with the fact that we were unwittingly perched on the pub's stage for the better part of an hour; we may as well have been iguanas at a giraffe party. After finishing our pints, we quickly and quietly gathered our belongings and made for the door.

And, finally...

5. Take some Vitamin C.

While I'm still scurvy-free, I did manage to contract some nasty viral infection in Ireland, which led to tracheitis after a week back in Glasgow. My flatmates were saints for putting up with the cacophony of my simultaneous hacking and wheezing fits. One morning, I very nearly dislodged my spleen as I coughed foul, green sputum into the sink. There's an image I'll never forget.

Seriously, though, Ireland was amazing, as I hope the next few posts will show.