SS2:EB, Mull of Kintyre

Upon leaving Arran, I took the ferry from Lochranza to Claonaig on the Mull of Kintyre. Kintyre is a narrow peninsula that extends from just below Knapdale and terminates in a bulbous tip. (Snerk.)

Okay, those last two words were carefully chosen, not (only) because I have a ribald sense of humor, but because purportedly there is a defunct broadcasting guideline that used the Mull of Kintyre's shape and orientation to determine whether images of a penis could be broadcast on the BBC. Apparently, if the penis in question was displayed at an angle greater than that shown by the peninsula of Kintyre on a map of Scotland, then said image was too graphic for television. According to the BBC, an actor's penis must never appear more than "slightly tumescent." When I first read this golden nugget of trivia in an issue of The Independent, I came perilously close to wetting myself. "Slightly tumescent." That is a phrase that I am going to incorporate into my vernacular posthaste. In fact, I plan on using it somewhere, somehow in my thesis. Below is a map of Kintyre--Mull and all--for you to make your own assessment of the next slightly tumescent penis that crosses your path.



Now that my mother and Nani will never read this blog again, let's move on to the real photos, shall we?

Kintyre, like much of Scotland, has a varied, patchwork geography. The granite beaches that line both coasts give way to lush oakwood forests before turning into hilly moorland in the interior. Driving through Kintyre is a character building experience: when you're not driving on the edge of steep cliffs, you're slowly climbing up a road with a 14% incline, or navigating hairpin turns in the hills. It's a beautiful, if distracting, journey.



The beaches along the motorway aren't sandy, but rather quite rocky. The water is a beautiful turquoise, clear to the bottom, where you can see the kelp swaying with the waves.

I spent most of my time in Kintyre in and around Lochgilphead and the Taynish peninsula. Much of Taynish is now a protected nature reserve, unique among many Scottish nature parks in that it was only lightly managed. Timber was collected only for use by the laird and the land was never clear cut for commercial planting. As a result, the area gives one a clearer idea of what a pristine Scottish landscape looks like.


On my way to Taynish, I had to take a very small, single track country road. En route, I stopped to chat up some of the locals.


This picture just barely captures the majesty of this slice of Scotland. In the five or so miles of trail that I followed, I was rarely under full sun. Instead, the sunlight filtered through the verdant canopy, flickering as the breeze came in from Loch Sween.

When left to my own devices, I tend to dawdle, picking through the undergrowth looking for bugs, flowers, and salamanders, among other things. Some days I get lucky and find a treasure trove of goodies--from bones and teeth to seed pods and nests--others I find one or two footprints. Either way, I leave happy. If only "naturalist" were still a legitimate scientific profession. Sigh.


This trip was a fruitful one. Shortly after setting out, I was collecting a sample of detritus under some moss. While setting my GPS coordinates, I glanced down and saw a flash of blue:


It was springtime, and all the babies were out in force, including the former resident of this egg (belonging to a robin, for those not so well versed in ornithology). Walking among the oaks, I could hear the urgent peeps from a chorus of hungry chicks all around me.


Digging a little further into the underbrush near a boggy plain in the reserve, I stumbled upon one of the 12 amphibian and reptile species native to the UK. (For comparison, Alabama has 156.) This little guy is a young Bufo bufo, or a common toad. I had hoped to find a Natterjack toad (Bufo calamita), but they are exceedingly rare. There are days that I really miss working with herps, wrangling the huge pythons or feeding the wee frogs. But fungi are cool, too.



Speaking of fungi, this is one of my collection sites. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for some good stuff to come out of these samples. These soils should be fertile and full of detritus without all of the bacteria from agriculture. Lots of detritus - bacteria = bumper crop of chytrids

After walking through the preserve, I took a trail to the top of Barr Mor, which is Gaelic for "bald hill". This site has been inhabited for the past 6,000 years. "Bald hill" is a bit of a misnomer. The hill itself is pretty densely wooded for the first 300 ft. or so, with the trees thinning into a bluebell glen for the last 100 ft. of the ascent.


Just the very top of the hill is cleared of trees, offering absolutely stunning views over the peninsula and the surrounding firths and lochs.



After spending part of the afternoon lounging among the bluebells on Barr Mor, lazily thumbing through a book and munching on macadamia nuts, I headed back to my car. On the way out of Taynish, I stumbled upon some of the most charming residents of Scotland: the heilan' coo'.


Is he not cute to the point of absurdity?! Lucky for me, a wee fold of these guys was milling about by a fence near the roadway. (Groups of highland cattle are called folds, not herds.) I stopped to take some photos when one started toward me--equally as curious about me as I was about him.



What. a. DOLL. This charming fellow--who surprisingly smelled of a sweet mix of oats and hay--let me scratch him behind the ears for a few minutes, and tousle the soft, thick locks on his darling bovine forehead. I sent these pictures to my sister later that afternoon, and she went absolutely batty. She vowed to pet one when she got to Scotland (an adventure yet to be posted, but in the queue), a quest that would take the whole of our time in Alba to achieve.

SS2:EB, Isle of Arran

I've been safely back in the States for nearly a week now, and it's been hard to find the motivation to continue posting. I'm having the same struggle with leaving that accompanied my first return from Scotland. Damn, I miss that country.

On this second trip, I managed to explore more of the islands than I did two years ago. One of my stops this go round was the Isle of Arran, a short ferry ride from the small beachside town of Ardrossan. The island has a whopping population of ~5,000, with small villages dotting the coastline. Most of the interior is uninhabited, largely due to the hilly terrain. On my first day in Arran, I set off from my B&B in the village of Blackwaterfoot and headed toward the opposite coast via a country route that bisected the island. On my way, I found some lovely places to go hiking, including this one:


This is representative of how I felt for a good part of the trip. Awww, look at my sad, lonely little car.


One of the burns that cut through the valley that dominates the center of the island.

One evening, I got the urge to go out for a walk along the beach. On my trekking map, I found a site called King's Cave and decided it would make a great place to look for black guillemots, a type of seabird related to the extinct Great Auk.


The trail leading to King's Cave and the beach. I love that you can see the different water currents meeting off the shore.


Heading north along the west coast of Arran, we come to a series of caves flanking King's Cave. These extend back into the rock nearly 100ft and are filled with smooth, rounded stones polished by years of tumbling in the sea.


After exploring the caves, I turned to the south and walked toward this rocky plateau. Along the way, I stopped to collect at the salty, boggy marshes and played in the tide pools.


View from the top of the plateau. The caves are about 3km in the distance.


I was wrapping up my walk at about 8:30 that evening so that I could get back to my guesthouse while there was still some daylight. The sun was slowly making its descent, casting a warm glow upon the beach. I stopped to sit on one of the rocky upheavals and snap photos, like I do.

As much as I was enjoying my trip, I missed my family and friends. I was having all of these incredible experiences, hiking through some of the most beautiful habitats I had ever set eyes upon, and I had no one to share it with. Luckily, later that evening I was adopted by a group of Englishmen at a pub; a group of mountain bikers were holidaying on the island and somehow I got roped into joining them for a few rounds. It was just the sort of awkward socialization I craved.

The next morning, I set out to explore the eastern coast of the island, and happened upon one of my mortal enemies: a mute swan. Now, I couldn't just let this jerkface swan swim around and eat waterweeds in peace. Oh, no. Anyone who knows me knows that I can't make a trip to Scotland without screwing with Her Majesty's massive, ill-tempered waterfowl.


Okay, so I didn't mess with this guy or his girlfriend all that much. In fact, I attempted to share my Nair's oatcakes with them. No dice. Word must have gotten out that I'm not to be trusted.

Finally, a slightly graphic image for the squeamish in the audience. Birds interest me to no end, mostly because they're like tiny, fluffy dinosaurs. One of the most common birds you'll find in Scotland is the common pheasant, which is native to China but was introduced to Europe for hunting. Now, believe me when I say this: pheasants are some of the dumbest birds on the planet. In fact, dumb is a profound understatement. These birds are functionally retarded. They are often found on the side of the road, squashed six ways from Sunday. They are to Scotland what the armadillo is to the Southeastern US. Well, in terms of roadkill anyway.

That's how I stumbled upon this unfortunate sight. Male pheasants usually have a harem of female peahens, but this poor guy seemed to be mourning his girlfriend's recent demise. Aww, bird-love and bird-loss is so heart-rending.


Stupid, stupid birds.