Requiescat in pace

On Wednesday, October 10, my family bade farewell to Fuzzy, our faithful companion who, in a bizarre twist of fate, died on her seventeenth birthday. We had hoped that she would last long enough to celebrate her birthday one last time, but alas it was not to be. Instead of showering her with gifts and adoration, my parents buried her in our backyard. I've spent the past week preparing myself for my next trip home, but I can't for the life of me accept that she's gone. It's as though I refuse to believe she's passed until I walk into the living room and find her pillow on the loveseat empty.

I must confess I feel a little silly for mourning a pet this deeply, but Fuzz was a prominent figure in my childhood. A birthday present from my now-uncle (then aunt's boyfriend), Fuzzy was my first foray into pet ownership--though truth be told, I wasn't the model caretaker being all of six years old. Rather than clean her litter box and clip her nails, I preferred to dress her up in doll clothes, an activity that Fuzz neither enjoyed nor tolerated for very long.

You see, Fuzz was not one to suffer fools kindly. Unlike Miles, the mild-tempered, bumbling tomcat that prowls around my apartment, Fuzzy was the picture of feline grace and majesty. She was a fastidious groomer well into her old age, letting her appearance slip only when she became too arthritic to clean herself efficiently and effectively. She did not plod heavily around the house as do the younger cats; instead, she moved silently, effortlessly, daintily, with the poise and finesse of a ballerina.

This is not to say she was a stuffy, unaffectionate cat. She was a tenderhearted animal who craved attention from her immediate family, but was wary of strangers. She had a wonderful purr that required a bit of work to elicit. Fuzz did not purr to entertain us as the new cats seem to do, but rather forced us to work for that soft, soothing--and often elusive--sound.

Her elegant carriage notwithstanding, Fuzz adored human food, especially in her old age, and would make an absolute fool of herself begging for morsels of turkey or fish. (For a laugh, ask me about the "tuna dance".) In her middle age, she developed a small waddle in her abdomen, a reminder of her fondness for bacon and ice cream. In her last year or two of life, my once vital, active kitty had begun to waste away, her skin pulled taut over her bones as she was whittled away by ulcerative colitis. It was difficult to pet her, as you could feel every process of her vertebrae, every articulation of her fragile frame. However, aside from her arthritis, she wasn't in any pain, and relished any attention we lavished on her.

One of my last memories of Fuzz-Fuzz (as we often called her) comes from my week-long recovery from wisdom-teeth extraction this past May. I was on a diet of soft foods, primarily ice cream, because what recent college graduate wouldn't love the opportunity to loaf on a couch at home whilst eating Haagen Dazs and leafing through a good book. (Okay, fine, I was watching trashy daytime court shows.) In any case, that week was a bonding experience between my old friend and me. For seven days, we shared coconut gelato, a heating pad, and the chenille afghan, allies fighting a losing battle against afternoon fatigue. (Hers was age-induced, whereas mine was the result of narcotics.) That week was the last time I was home long enough to hear her purr; it was weaker than in years past, but still just as rewarding.

Perhaps my sister is right in thinking Fuzz paid me any mind only because I fed her ice cream, a forbidden treat. However, I prefer to believe that Fuzz and I came to a sort of understanding that week, a mutual respect. I was no longer the little hellion that forced her to don diapers and booties and ride around in a pram. Nor was I merely a warm body to exploit, or a pair of opposable thumbs to open the freezer door. Instead, I was good company, a loving hand unafraid to pet her despite her delicate frame, a doting friend who gently combed the mats out of her fur. I like to think those few days I spent with her were an opportunity to return to her glory days, before the aches and pains of old age had laid her low, before her body turned on her. And at the risk of sounding even more of an anthropomorphizing twit, I can't help but feel she appreciated it.

Farewell, Fuzzilicus, and thanks for all the fish.

Skye's the Limit

Leaving the shores of Loch Duich and the verdant moors of the Great Glen, we made our way to the largest of the inner Hebridean islands, Skye. We were greeted by the Red Cuillin shortly after crossing the bridge connecting Skye to the mainland.


Geographically, Skye is Scotland's Mini-Me. The same fault that bisects the mainland cuts through the hills of Skye, creating Lowland/Highland landscapes that are virtually identical to those on the mainland. We began our trip in the craggy shore of the Sligachan river, which is flanked by both the Red and Black Cuillin.


A look upstream a small burn (rivulet) that empties into the Sligachan. The fell in the background is one of the Red Cuillin. "Red Cuillin" is actually a misnomer; the true Cuillin are the Black Cuillin, the taller, more ancient mountains of igneous rock that loom over Glen Sligachan. The Red Hills--as the Red Cuillin are known on Skye--are far younger and composed mostly of granite, the source of their reddish hue.


One of the eleven Munros of the Black Cuillin, Sgurr nan Gillean, the "peak of young men", stands as sentinel over the Sligachan.

Skye is home to dozens of legends, most of which recount bloody clan battles, forbidden loves, and faerie kingdoms. You know, the biggies. During our tour of Skye, we were told of the sanctification of the Sligachan river by the faerie queen.

According to legend, two feuding clans on the Isle of Skye, the McLeods and the Mackenzies, hoped both to find peace and to unite their clans through a marriage of the chiefs’ children. On the evening before their wedding, the son of the McLeod chieftain—an accomplished soldier and quite the looker—and the daughter of the Mackenzie chieftain—a slamming hottie in her own right—were to meet at the Sligachan river. However, on the way to her destination, the Mackenzie maiden and her escorts were attacked by marauders. In the scuffle, the beautiful Mackenzie daughter was mutilated, her eye gouged out by an assailant’s knife.

When the maiden arrived at the banks of the Sligachan to meet her betrothed, he was horrified by her ghastly appearance, and turned back to tell his clan of the Mackenzies’ deception. The maiden, bemoaning both her disfigured countenance and the collapse of the McLeod-Mackenzie peace accord, sought help from the faeries, who, eager to end the bloodshed between the warring clans, placed a blessing on the waters of the Sligachan. The maiden was instructed to place her face in the river for seven seconds, after which her beauty would be restored. This being a legend, the spell worked, the McLeod son and the Mackenzie daughter were wed, and everyone on Skye—including the faeries—lived happily ever after. How quaint.

There is an addendum to this legend, however: The spell enacted on the river was originally intended to help only the Mackenzie maiden, but after the success of the spell, the faeries were so tickled that they plumb forgot to remove the spell from the river. To this day, visitors to the Sligachan who place their faces in its crisp, swift waters will be rewarded with eternal beauty.

Kim, myself, JaeHee, and Meredith after placing our faces in the Sligachan. The proof is in the pudding.

Driving into Portree, the island's capital, which has a stunning harbour. October is a wonderful month to visit Scotland. Not only are the summer crowds gone, but the autumn colors are jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Fun story: While were in Portree, we saw Donnie Munro, the former lead singer of Runrig, the band whose awesomely bad video I featured in this entry. His hair looks exactly the same.


After stopping in Portree for a wee pit-stop and some tea, we made our way northward to Storr. Here, we hiked up a fell, through an old growth Scotch pine forest to get a view of both the Scottish mainland, which can be seen in the background of the picture above, and the Old Man of Storr, which is featured below.


Here, the Old Man of Storr sits atop a cliff. The pinnacle is a vestige of Scotland's volcanic past, but according to legend, the rock is the remains of an old man turned into stone by the faeries of Skye.


Here before you is Kilt Rock, a 200ft cliff whose stratified rock mimics the pleats of a kilt. This rock formation is the Scottish answer to Northern Ireland's Giant's Causeway.


The pebbly shore under Kilt Rock and its stunning waterfall.


This is, without a doubt, one of my favorite pictures from Scotland. Here we see the waterfall that flanks Kilt Rock, crashing to the beach below. The roar of the cascade is deafening, and the spray from the fall whips back up to the lookout on the strong coastal air currents that slam the shores of Skye. It was quite the humbling experience.


Finally, a shot of the sunset as we crossed over the Skye bridge back to the mainland.

Note: To those of you who check in with any regularity, I apologize for not keeping this blog updated as frequently as I should. I still have hundreds of pictures to share, and I’m fast approaching the one-year anniversary of my arrival in Scotland. Make sure to keep checking back in, as I promise to keep updating until I’ve exhausted every picture folder on my computer.

Also, a grand bit of good news: My sampling from Scotland proved so fruitful that I will likely be heading back to my beloved Alba for a month this coming May. I couldn’t be more ecstatic.

The Highlands, Part Six: Eilean Donan Castle

There can be only one...HIGHLANDER!

I've never actually had the good fortune to view any of the Highlander installments, so my knowledge of the film series is limited to the completely inane casting. That is, the intentional casting of arguably the most famous Scot in the world (Sean Connery) as a flipping Spaniard while handing the title role to a Frenchman (Christopher Lambert). Reality, stranger, fiction--wash, rinse, repeat.

My complete ignorance of and disinterest in the Highlander movies notwithstanding, I was pretty pumped to visit the films' most iconic set: Eilean Donan. But first, some photos from the Great Glen as we trekked up there.

The Great Glen is a series of lochs and moors that run the width of the country, effectively cutting the Highlands in two. The main thoroughfare through the Highlands, A82, passes through the Glen, making most drives to the northern reaches of Scotland an absolute treat for old fuddy-duddy romantics such as myself.



One of the bajillion or so lochs that stretch across the Great Glen. I'm not actually sure which one this is, but it's on the way to Loch Garry.


As seen from A87, Loch Garry is a smallish loch that drains into Loch Oich, a larger body of water further down the Glen. As you can see from this vantage point, Loch Garry bears a striking resemblance to a map of Scotland. Consequently, Loch Garry is often referred to as "The Loch of Scotland."

Here's a second shot just to drive home the resemblance. And because it's pretty. A few times a month, usually when I'm sick of writing papers or running experiments, I look through a small collection of my Scotland photos--most of them stark landscapes such as this one--and fight the urge to drop my studies, run off to the Highlands, and open a B&B. Repeat after me: "I will finish my Ph.D. I WILL finish my Ph.D."

And now for something completely different. Moral of this photo: Asshattery in foreign countries makes for fun photos. Hot damn, I love that hat.

Okay, okay, enough lollygagging around. I visited Eilean Donan on a three-day trip to the Isle of Skye. As you can see, the weather left quite a bit to be desired. My companions and I were worried that the weather wouldn't cooperate and we'd be stuck with lots of washed-out pictures of the Cuillin mountains. We had traveled up from Edinburgh, through Stirling and Glen Coe, in a big yellow Mercedes bus, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Isle of Skye in all its glory, and we were met with muck and mire. Gee, thanks, Scotland.

So it wasn't sunny. That's not to say it wasn't gorgeous. The castle is situated on a small island in the middle of Loch Duich; the island, which earned its moniker from either some guy named Donan or the Gaelic word for otter, has been the site of the castle for the better part of seven centuries. However, the original structure was severely damaged by Crown forces after a minor Jacobite uprising in 1719. The castle lay in ruins until the early 20th century when it was purchased by the chief of the clan MacRae and reconstructed according to the original specifications.

Unfortunately, photography was not allowed inside the castle, so I can't show you any of the antiques or the historical oddities, such as locks of Bonnie Prince Charlie's hair, or samples of his chicken-scratch handwriting. I do have a picture of Loch Duich from the back of the castle to share, and if you look toward the background, you'll see the peaks of Skye's Black Cuillins.

Another view of the loch from the rear of the castle.

I'm happy to report that by the end of our visit to the castle, the clouds began to dissipate and the sun emerged. Scotland has a funny habit of making you think the weather will be absolute crap, only to turn around and bless you with a nice sunny day for sightseeing.

Finally, a trip to an authentic Highland castle would be incomplete without a Scottish piper. Next up: the lovely Isle of Skye...

Return of the Mack

Just a few words to get everyone up-to-speed. Here's what you can expect me to cover in upcoming entries:

• I am officially a college graduate with degrees in two fields that qualify me for any position that involves a paper hat and saying "Would you like fries with that?" Thank heavens for graduate school.
• My brilliant, wonderful, stupendously awesome father and sister have salvaged ALL of my Scotland photos from my now defunct hard drive. I suppose this means I'll have to see this wee project to completion...not that I mind.
• I attended my first Team Glasgow reunion this past weekend near Cape Cod. Fun stories to share from Beantown and the surrounding environs.
• I just had some teeth extracted this morning. Three hours into it and I never want to see ice cream or mashed potatoes again.

Good thing I'm on mini-break this week. I'll be churning out the posts like a blogging fool. I'm sure you're all on pins and needles.

Muahahaha.

Let this be a lesson

As if I didn't already have enough trouble churning out posts in a timely manner, last night I had a major computer crisis that could spell doom for this wee blog--or, at the very least, set it even further behind schedule than it currently is.

The scoop: while reviewing some material for a sociobiology paper that I have in the works, my laptop displayed the bane of all electronics owners, that harbinger of doom...the dreaded BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH.

A representative image...
As a result, I spent the latter half of last night hyperventilating at the thought that the 2,500+ photos I took in Scotland were stuck on my enfeebled hard drive, if not lost forever.

And before you ask, only ~40% of the files were backed up because I'm a dumbfu...er, dumb cluck. I am my own worst enemy. (Sob.)

By yon bonnie banks, by yon bonnie braes...

Loch Ness may be the most famous body of water in the world, but Loch Lomond--just a brief 45-minute train ride from the urban chaos of Glasgow--is arguably the most romantic. Straddling the border between the western Lowlands and the southern Highlands, Loch Lomond is surrounded by snow-capped Munros, old-growth deciduous and Scotch pine forests, and quaint villages. It wasn't until the last week of my semester in Scotland that I could be arsed to make a visit to the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, and after my day trip, I was cross with myself for waiting so long to see one of the more breathtaking landscapes that Scotland has to offer. Should any of you make the trip to Alba in the future, make sure to plan a few days around Loch Lomond and the Trossachs; you won't regret it.

The overwhelming beauty of the area (for which I promise I'll offer proof) has long been fodder for folk musicians and poets alike. Probably the most famous ode to the majesty of the loch is a folk song first published in the mid-nineteenth century. There are many interpretations of the lyrics of the song, but my favorite paints the "The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond" as an elegy sung by a condemned Jacobite soldier to a younger soldier who will escape execution.

Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond

Naturally, this song is a favorite among patriotic young Scots and is often sung after football or rugby victories, along with "Flowers of Scotland." My favorite rendition of the song is performed by Runrig, a Scottish band from the Isle of Skye. Formed in the 1970s, Runrig were the first musicians to find both commercial success and critical acclaim by incorporating Gaelic lyrics into their songs. Below is a video of Runrig performing "Loch Lomond" at Glasgow's Barrowlands venue. (Yes, the hair, the clothes, and the synthesizer are cringe-worthy. Sweet tap-dancing Jesus, the 80s were garish.)


Well, now that we've temporarily satisfied my yen for 80s music of questionable artistic value, I suppose it's only fair to show you what could inspire such a sweet serenade. Photos, ahoy!



En route to the village of Balloch, the train passed through the village of Bowling, which sits at the terminal end of the Forth and Clyde Canal (hence the boats). Bowling also represents the northern limit of the Roman empire, resting at the western end of the Antonine Wall, erected in the second century A.D. during the reign of Antoninus Pius. The wall and its associated garrisons and forts were intended to keep the Caledonian savages from raiding the Central Belt of Scotland, but ultimately proved ineffective and were soon abandoned. On the morning that I went to Balloch, the sun was slow to break through the clouds that had settled over the country the preceding week. Fortunately, the sky cleared by the time I got to the loch.

Those of you who have been following along in the blog will have noticed that I have a knack for scheduling trips during golf tournaments; apparently, I have a similar faculty for locating all of the angry swans in Scotland. Remember my friends on the banks of West Sands beach in St. Andrews? It seems they have cousins.



The Loch Lomond population of swans saw me as a person of interest; their fearless leader--a cocky young cygnet, as at St. Andrews--began plodding toward the walking trail, his beady eyes fixed on me. Perhaps he thought I possessed foodstuffs, or was attracted by the gleaming metal case of my camera. Or maybe, just maybe, he knew I would shriek like a little girl and run away the second he took an inquisitive nip of my hand. (In my defense, the average swan is quite intimidating, weighing in at ~25 lbs., so I feel wholly justified in sprinting down the jogging path whilst screaming, "Run away, he has a taste for human flesh!")



This is how the crafty buggers get away with it. They use their dashing good looks to lure you into a false sense of security. Evil isn't supposed to be wrapped up in a pretty package. (Swans are like Ted Bundy in that respect.)



I found refuge from my feathered assailants in the forest that abutted the loch's shores. I spent most of my trip to Loch Lomond surveying the grounds for unique collecting sites, sampling detritus from peat bogs, tree knots, and stream banks. I also found the leaf litter to be rich in macrofungal diversity, and after some haphazard searching I chanced upon some stunning specimens of Aleuria aurantia, the Orange Peel fungus.


My final weeks in Glasgow were dark, cold, and dreary; I like to think Scotland was just as upset at my leaving as I was. (Why, yes, I am an anthropomorphizing fool.) Fortunately, the gloom was lifted for the several hours I spent plodding along the loch.


Perhaps what I love most about Scotland are the colors. The quality of the sunlight in Scotland--when you get it, that is--beats anything I've seen in the States. In the absence of clouds, the sunlight gilds each leaf, rock and blade of grass, lending a golden halo to that which will never ascend to heaven. (You'll have to forgive me. Experiencing the Scottish countryside is the closest I've had to a religious experience.)


A lovely shot of the loch and the surrounding fells.


Every so often, when the winds are calm and the waters still, I'm lucky enough to get one of these reflection shots. I've got several of these from my travels around the UK and Ireland, but this one remains one of my favorites.


Finally, a parting shot of Ben Lomond as the sun sets over Balloch. (I offered bits of my sultana flapjack to the seagulls for lining up like pretty maids all in a row. They were not impressed. Bloody ingrates.)

Over the Hill

[Apologies for the unbelievably long hiatus. It's been quite a semester, and I'm sure most of you can relate. Anywho, back to your regularly scheduled programming.]

In November of this past year, I stepped over the threshold of adulthood and celebrated the 22^nd anniversary of my birth. Sure, one could argue that twenty-one is the first step into adulthood, what with reaching the legal drinking age; however, if my first year of legal imbibing is any indication, then achieving twenty-one years of age is hardly an indicator of maturity or adulthood. (Sure, I had plenty of fun, but I'm glad I finally got that out of my system.)

In any case, my incredible flatmates knocked heads and pooled resources to throw me a wonderful wine and cheese party.

Meredith and JaeHee decreed that the festivities would require semi-formal attire, being a fancy-schmancy cocktail party and all. I honestly think they were looking for another excuse to go shopping. (Not that we ever needed one before.)

LtoR: Whitney, Meredith, Frenchie (Sylvain), Kristen (one of Hassan's flatmates, an American studying civil rights law), Hassan, Elnaz.

The boys and girls of Flat G shocked the hell out of me with their party spreads. My wee darlings, some of whom had come to Scotland not knowing how to prepare scrambled eggs, had come quite a ways. (Also, a shout-out to the parentals for the gorgeous bouquet they sent, featured on the island.)

(Most of) The lovely ladies of Team Glasgow: (L to R) JaeHee, Kim, Shaelyn, Moi, Whitney, Meredith. I often find myself going back to these photos, especially these past few weeks, which have been cold and rainy--that is, too much like Scotland for comfort. No, the transition has not been a smooth one.

Walid, J, and Tom, all looking in different directions. While I find most wine snobs to be terribly obnoxious during tastings, I'd be lying if I said there wasn't any assessing of the "I do say, this '85 Chardonnay has a brilliant color, but the '78 Bordeaux has a heady, intoxicating nose" sort. (Pfft. Wine snobs are twats.)

I'm always looking for an excuse to include a picture of Jenna. She is quite possibly the most darling individual I have ever met.

JaeHee and I after cutting the cake. I doled that chocolate bad boy out like grain at a relief camp in Calcutta. I take a whiff of sweets these days and I go into diabetic shock.

Shaelyn, Walid, Kim, and Allyson representing the Kelvinhaugh and Cairncross factions. Obviously, being outnumbered in Queen Margaret (enemy territory) requires one's warface, a la Walid. (What? Like you have a better explanation.)

Flat G, in all her glory: (L to R) Frenchie, Yo, JaeHee, Meredith, Zain, Hassan. Of the nearly three thousand pictures that I collected while in Scotland, this one is among my favorites. I've always thought the bond that Flat G shared was a special one; I've talked to many friends who have spent time abroad, and the vast majority of them were not as lucky in their housing placements. While I would have enjoyed my time in Scotland even in the absence of such amazing people, that I was fortunate enough to meet them turned a memorable semester into the best time of my life.

Finally, the requisite 'dead soldier' photo. Geez, I need an aspirin just looking at it.

But wait! There's more!

Just because I've left the cold, rainy recesses of Scotland doesn't mean that I've finished posting my various adventures across its misty moorlands. I've yet to regale you with tales of my trips to Stirling, Paisley, The Great Glen, Skye, and Orkney, or of the amazing birthday bash my fabulous flatmates threw in my honour.

Such posts will be forthcoming, but I'll have to ask for a little patience on your parts: naturally, I have yet to finish the two papers that are due for submission on 15 January, so those will take priority until next week when I can squirrel away some time for blogging.

Hope everyone had a fantastic holiday break and ushered in the new year with a bang. (Mine was spent playing backgammon and Trivial Pursuit with my mum and da, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.)