Basking in the Orcadian Sun

In honor of my return to Scotland in, oh, say, 18 25 hours (thanks, Philadelphia...), I've decided to pick up this flagging travel blog with a celebratory post commemorating my final--and favorite--trip on the island of Alba. For as long as I can remember being obsessed with Scotland, I'd always had some grand plans for backpacking across Orkney, a group of 70 mostly uninhabited islands a mere six miles off the northern coast of the mainland.

Unfortunately, I waited until the middle of December to make the sojourn to Orkney, because I'm a complete and utter dolt. Any of you in the audience have an idea what happens to the sun in Scotland come the winter time?

IT DISAPPEARS. Like any reasonably intelligent person, it high-tails it the hell out of the bone-chilling cold of the UK, skips on over to the Azores and sips fruity drinks out of coconuts while wedging its stellar heiny deep into the sand. (Can you blame it?)

Seriously, though, I'm talking six hours a day of sunlight, MAX. Sunrise, 9:30. Sunset, 3:30. Not a whole lot of sightseeing to be done when the better part of the day is spent in pitch darkness. Consequently, me hoofing around the islands for a long weekend sans motorized transportation was out of the question. However, I still wanted to experience the freedom of the open air, the little bit of danger, adventure, and unpredictability that only backpacking can provide. I reviewed my options and decided that I'd ultimately have to hire a car, but not just any ol' car. Allow me to introduce you to my trusty steed, Magnus:



Those of you who collected Hot Wheels as a kid are probably saying, "I totally had one of those." You'd probably be right. This lavender beauty is the sporty, zippy, and frighteningly small Ford Ka. I'm only slightly exaggerating when I tell people it had the chassis of a Matchbox Chevy and the motor of a hotel mini-hairdryer. Those tires look like they were stripped off some poor kid's Radio Flyer. I was, for all intents and purposes, behind the wheel of a rolling Easter egg.

Honestly, I'm being a little hard on old man Magnus. After all, he was barrels of fun to drive, almost like a go-kart with the added strength of a small pony. With his help, I managed to cover the bulk of the Orkney mainland and some of the surrounding islands, a trip that has left an indelible impression on me. I haven't a clue as to why it has taken me so long to make this post. Perhaps I just don't want to share. Good thing you guys caught me in a generous mood, eh?

One of the first stops I made was as the sun started breaking over the countryside. I had been forewarned that the weather on Orkney could be dreary and often unpredictable, but I was lucky enough to have three glorious days of the most beautiful weather I have enjoyed almost anywhere, let alone the UK.



Lochside on the way to Maes Howe, an ancient cairn in the heart of Mainland, the largest of the Orkney islands. I stopped to do a little soil collecting, as I tend to do, and ended up lingering here for the better part of an hour, snapping pictures, smelling the salt air blowing in from the Atlantic, and listening to the crunch of frosted grass under my feet.



Near the lochan was a walking trail that pointed toward the island of Hoy, notable for its twin peaks featured here. I was tempted to go for a wander, but I had a date with a World Heritage representative that I had to make. Next time, Orkney, next time.


I know I've posted no fewer than ten rainbows in this blog in the past, but damn it, I can't help it. They're freakin' everywhere. Not that I'm complaining. (And neither should you.)



Practically the whole of Orkney is a World Heritage site. Across the island there are vestiges of an ancient, Neolithic culture that inhabited this remote location over 5,000 years ago. This verdant mound is Maes Howe, a chambered cairn or burial mound that is constructed of 30 tons of sandstone mined from the surrounding countryside. From the inside, the mound looks like an turned-out ziggurat, the layers of sandstone forming steps along the walls. Looking closely, one can see the runic carvings of a band of Vikings that broke in sometime during the 12th century. My guide told me the vandals carved such profound messages as "Leif wuz here...lulz" and "Orly? No wai!" into the ancient walls. (Well, whatever the 12th-century equivalent would have been.)

Although the architecture of the tomb is striking given the age of the culture that designed it, the most amazing aspect of the tomb was its celestial function. At the front of the cairn lies a low-ceilinged passageway that extends 10 meters into the mound before opening up to a domed central chamber. Looking out of this entrance, one sees the twin peaks of Hoy, the twin lochs of Stenness and Harray, and, flanking them, twin standing stone circles. (Noticing a pattern?) During the winter solstice, as the sun dips below the peaks of Hoy, a ray of light escapes, passing between the sandstone mountains directly into the cairn, illuminating the interior. According to the guide, the weather during the winter solstice is usually not conducive to such a spectacle, but on the years that it does occur, a sense of magic settles on the region.

Making my way from Maes Howe, I stopped next at the Ring of Brodgar, an ancient standing stone circle that rivals Stonehenge in size and age.



The Ring, which sits on a small strip of land slap-bang in the middle of the two lochs, originally was home to 60 standing stones, though only 27 stones remain standing today.


The Watchtower stone surveying the Ring with the peaks of Hoy behind it.


Although the true function of the Ring remains unknown, archaeologists speculate that it was used as a celestial guide. The stone in the foreground of the preceding image is called the Comet Stone, and sits apart from the Ring itself.



The stone lying on the ground was felled in the 1980s after being struck by lightning. Fragments of the base remain firmly lodged in the Ring.



Looking toward the ritual burial ground from the rear flank of the Ring.



Finally, a parting shot of the lichens growing on the stones of the Ring. For those of you who are interested (perhaps all one of you), those are crustose lichens, among the hardiest (and slowest growing) organisms on the planet. Man, I loves me some fungal symbioses.

Stay tuned, everyone! Still to come: Sampling Scotland II, Electric Boogaloo!

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.)