SS2:EB, Grey Mare's Tail

My trip through the Borders continued as I wound my way through the hills between Galashiels and Moffat. Few people live in this short stretch of Scotland, as the hills make for poor pastureland for all but the hardiest of sheep. The sky was threatening for the better part of the morning, and I was bracing for a wet, windy hike up to the Grey Mare's Tail waterfall.




The lone motorway between my ports of call, so to speak. It was a beautiful drive, one punctuated by numerous stops along the shoulder as I whipped out my camera.

As lovely as the hills were, they were of secondary interest. No, I was a woman possessed. I had a mission and my sights were set on this spectacular plot of land:




I honestly haven't the foggiest notion how this photo came out as well as it did. Pure dumb luck, this one. Here we see the Grey Mare's Tail waterfall in all her glory. Standing at a smidge over 200ft. high, the falls are sourced by the waters of Loch Skeen. There's a 4km trail to the top of the falls, so I set out for a wee walk.



The view up the fell from the trail. One patch of early morning clouds had burned away in the sunshine, but there were a few lingering rain clouds slowly coasting toward the falls. I was eager to miss the rain, so I quickened my pace up the trail. I was making fantastic time and was all set to reach the top of the falls while there was still a skoch of blue sky.

Then I came across this:




Damn it, National Trust of Scotland, I'm a very important person with many important things to do. Seriously, though, I gave little thought to the above warning. After all, I'm an out-of-shape, mediocre hiker who's spent so much time living below sea level that I'd benefit from a set of gills. Surely I could handle a sub-par trail leading to this wee trickle of water. Carefully, I made my way around the gate and continued my trek. Until I came to a gaping hole in the path where the side of the fell had completely collapsed into the stream below, that is...

So, this is as close to the falls as I could get before the rain began falling in earnest. It's not a great picture--it's not even a good picture--but it's all I got.

I made my descent and happened upon a ewe and her lamb, happily tramping up and down the sides of the fell, mocking me. "Oh, look at me...I'm an ungulate with ankles specially adapted for rocky outcroppings."



As I watched them dither about, I lamented my own inferior human ankles. As far as synovial joints go, human ankles are pretty crap, and mine are even worse thanks to an unlucky encounter with a trampoline in high school. (Ask me about the Louisiana summer I spent either hobbling on crutches or plodding around in an immobilizer boot.) In any case, my envy quickly melted as I got a better look at this charming little face:







After nearly three weeks in Scotland looking at lambs, bunnies, calves, and human bairns, my ovaries are threatening to go on strike. Apparently they're overworked and under-appreciated. I just hope they don't unionize.

SS2:EB, The Scottish Borders

After a series of delays in New Orleans, Philadelphia and Manchester, I finally arrived in Glasgow--my home away from home--a full 27 hours after I began traveling. And as if touching down eight hours later than I should have weren't inconvenient enough, US Airways and BMI misplaced my hiking pack, the same bag that got lost for three days the first time I came to Scotland. Call me a cynic, but I think some idiot TSA agents saw my trekking poles and decided I was a threat. Buffoons.

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.

Delays

I'm sitting in a wee post office, twenty feet from the turquoise waters and white sand beaches that lead to the holy island of Iona, posting to my blog. That's devotion, people.

Apologies for the absence these past several days. Scotland, it seems, has a dearth of internet portals (which made sending in my last paper of the term especially fun, believe you me!). In the next few days, when I make it back to Glasgow, I'll have regular access to the interwebs and I'll recommence with the bloggage.

I just wanted to take a moment to congratulate those of you who are graduating in the coming days. Both members of Team Glasgow '06 and friends from Bama will be strutting their stuff on their respective school stages, accepting diplomas or getting hooded. Mama K is proud of you all.

Basking in the Orcadian Sun II, Yesnaby

Yes, yes, I know, Orkney is ancient news, but I have a few more pictures from that trip to share before busting out the new material. So, let's get on with it.

My second day in Orkney, I made my way to the western coast of Mainland to take a gander at the Yesnaby Sea Castle, a rock formation carved from the coastline by the crashing waves of the North Sea.



After hearing so much about the sea stack, I was pretty pumped to see it up close. It was, well... a little underwhelming. Don't get me wrong, it was insanely cool that waves and wind had systematically severed this one pillar of rock from the motherland. But let's face it, unless you know anything about the rock itself, it's just another flipping rock. Turns out I was woefully ill-informed as to just how incredible the Yesnaby coastline is. Once I got there, the sea stack was but a minor afterthought, relegated to a distant corner of my mind as I geeked out over the sandstone cliffs under my feet.

Here's the story on Yesnaby: In the late Silurian/early Devonian--approximately 440-415 million years ago, give or take a couple millenia here and there--what is now the Orkney islands was once the bottom of a shallow, freshwater sea on the supercontinent of Pangaea. Around this time, jawed fishes, mostly heavily armored placoderms, began to radiate across the globe. The sandy, silted sea bed at Orkney saw millions of generations of thick-skulled fishies through life, received their remains upon death, and when the conditions were just right, preserved their scaly bodies sandwiched between layers of sand, silt, and detritus. Over the course of time, the red sandstone beds of Orkney were moved in a violent upheaval as the supercontinent dismantled, creating the sandstone cliffs we see today at Yesnaby.



Sandstone cliffs at Yesnaby with individual layers of the rock clearly exposed, washed away by a multi-million-year onslaught of water and wind.



Don't let this picture fool you. The waves crashing against the coastline were a good 120 ft. below this little outcropping. A local man saw me angling for this photo and told me it was a good thing the winds were relatively calm, else my camera would likely be capturing my death. Eep.



He wasn't kidding about the wind, either. On your average day in Orkney, the winds whip about you at a brisk 30 mph, and gales are a common occurrence in the fall when the weather gets a bit nasty. As you can see, the constant wind and rain have conspired together to form these ripples in the grass carpeting the cliffs.



Armed with the knowledge that I could easily be swept to my end, I quickly made for the patch of grass farthest from the cliff edge and crawled the two miles back to my car...

Shyeah, right. Because I'm young, convinced of my own immortality, and reckless to a fault, I decided I wanted to walk out onto this sea arch (a sea stack in the making) and take pictures from that wee little ledge.

When I got onto said wee little ledge, I found it to be approximately the size of a bar of soap. (Okay, so it was really about three feet wide, but when you're standing on the damn thing and the wind is swirling your hair about, and you have five pounds of soil samples strapped to your back, it feels a bit smaller.)

However, safely back on level ground, I took a peek at the photos I had managed to take while half-frozen with fear, half-delirious with norepinephrine.



The view down. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.




Me perched precariously atop my little ledge, a shit-eating grin plastered across my face. I've taken several similar photos thus far on my return trip.



Finally, the photo that my grandfather said was evidence that I had a great eye for composition. (Coming from a photographer as talented as my Paw-Paw, that's something.) Naturally, I had this professionally printed and framed for him.

As I was walking back to my car, I called my mom to tell her what I had done, assured she wouldn't flip out too much, seeing as I was, you know, alive. No such luck. She sputtered, then heaved that sigh to which I have become all too accustomed to hearing. "When are you coming back from Orkney?" she asks. "I fly back in two days," I replied. "Oh, goodie."

Well, guess what, Mom! I got to play on more cliffs today...and yesterday! And I'm not scheduled to come for three more weeks! Bwahahahaha!

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.