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.)

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.