In any case, I skipped on down to GlasVegas, picked up a mobile, grabbed a cup of cullen skink, and tried to get a good night's sleep before I set off for the Borders the next morning. After all, I needed to be on my toes if I was going to start my journey in this thing:
This is Hamish, my trusty Chevy Matiz. What the hell, Scotland? Did you actively strive to design a car that was even more unsafe than the Ford Ka? This car, if you can call it that, is one step above Barbie's Power Wheels Jeep in terms of engine performance. In all fairness, I'm exaggerating; Hamish was a fun, zippy little drive that was perfect for tackling the single-track roads that wind through the hills and fells of the Lowlands.
Speak of the devil, here they are. Prior to this trip, I had never been to the Borders. I had always planned to make my way down there, but classwork, time constraints, and the occasional bender with my flatmates conspired against me. Traveling solo on a regimented itinerary, however, allowed me to fit in a tour of the abbey country.
One of the jewels of abbey country is in the tiny village of Melrose. I've been itching to tour Melrose Abbey for several years, so that was my first stop in the Borders. Founded in the twelfth century, Melrose is widely considered the most beautiful of the UK's abbeys, and is also purportedly the final resting place of Robert the Bruce's embalmed heart. Naturally, I had to explore.
The ruins of the abbey where the nave meets the transept. I've been reveling in the uncharacteristically good weather these past few weeks. The skies have been endless, the sunlight brilliant.
The bell tower, which fell into disrepair in the sixteenth century. Parts of the abbey have been destroyed or heavily damaged by invading English armies no fewer than three times since its founding.
One of the gutterspout gargoyles at the top of the abbey. I want some for my house.
After visiting Melrose, I drove just outside Peebles to do some collecting in the hills around the River Tweed. The Tweed Valley is a beautiful area, an undulating landscape of sheep pastures and mixed-growth forests, all of which is divvied up by 18th-century stone walls.
So, this is what I get to frolic in on a daily basis (well, this month, that is). I've never woken up and said to myself, "Y'know what? I think I'm going to try to reconstruct the phylogenetic history of an obscure group of primitive fungi for the rest of my life! OH, RAPTURE!" No, my current career trajectory is the result of serendipity. I fell into this lab as an undergrad and just so happened to find a niche that suited me. That I like what I do is largely influenced by the fact that I'm pretty good at what I do. Well, that, and the fact that I get paid to hike across places like Scotland. In high school and college, I was under the impression that a rewarding career was the result of inspiration and meticulous planning, so the preceding occupational introspection would have thoroughly upset a younger me. Nowadays, however, I'm becoming more comfortable with this wholly unexpected turn of events. Admittedly, it's hard not to be okay with your circumstances when you're in my shoes.
Also, one of the perks of my job is the ridiculous crap that happens to me. While collecting along the Tweed, I dodged into a thick wood of Scots pine trees and found an unlikely scene. It seems I had interrupted someone's party:
I stumbled upon a knicker tree. Now, in the few hours I wandered around these woods, I didn't see another soul. Not a person for miles. And yet, there are no fewer than six pair of men's underoos--in various sizes and style--decorating this tree. And these weren't just any underpants. These were pretty pricey, as suggested by the names emblazoned on their waistbands.
Again, what the hell, Scotland? What a way to set the tone for the rest of this trip.
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