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.

SS2:EB, The Solway Coast

[Apologies in advance: this will be a short entry as I have limited access to the interwebs and I still have a good bit of Scotland to sample.]

When most people think of Scotland, they imagine windswept moors covered in bracken and heather, or gently rolling green hills peppered with bleating sheep and fuzzy orange cows. Sure, Scotland has plenty of both, but it also has stretches of white sand beaches reminiscent of the tropics.

I planned a trip down to the Solway Coast to collect from its estuarine soils, as there are a number of halophilic chytrid species. I chose a wetland/shore bird reserve to collect from, because it had several miles of trails for me to explore. The reserve encompassed a large swath of brackish wetlands that resembled the peat bogs of the central region of the country.



Less than half a mile away, however, the path suddenly changed from high grass to dry, white sand.


I was still within the confines of the nature reserve, but had stumbled upon one of the coastal stretches. Crossing the sand dune, I was met with this:



Holy crap. I've mentioned in a previous entry that I prefer rocky, volcanic beaches to the sandy beaches of the islands, but I think I may have to retract that statement (or qualify it, at the very least). This small bit of coastline, at the end of an unmarked country route, was a wee slice of heaven. The air was thick with salt from the sea, and heavy with the perfume of the flowering gorse bushes that dotted the beach. The wind whipped around, a brisk 11 C (52 F), and the calls of the seabirds surrounded me. It. Was. Awesome.



The tide was out, leaving an enormous portion of the low-lying shelf exposed. I puttered around, looking for limpets, barnacles, and bivalves.


The sea creeping in, capped with foam from breaking waves.


In the few hours I spent walking around this site, I saw one other person, no less than 1km away. I took advantage of having the beach all to myself and took hundreds of photos, only a few of which I've uploaded here. I'm not really a photographer, I just play one on tv.


Easily my favorite image from this visit.


Finally, as I began my hike back to my car, I happened cross this illegally parked log.

(Get it? Because there's an orange boot next to it! You know, like a parking boot? I'm funny, damn it!)

SS2:EB, The Galloway Hills

I eagerly anticipated my time in the Galloway hills, a large, heavily forested region that is a favorite among hikers, mountain bikers, and wildlife enthusiasts. Over the past few months, I've been feverishly recording in my field notebook woodlands and nature reserves in Galloway that might offer a wealth of sampling sites. I'm happy to report that I wasn't disappointed.

A large swath of the Galloway hills are managed by the Forestry Commission in Scotland, meaning fells that were once carpeted in broadleaf trees, ferns, and bracken, are now planted with a mix of timber and native trees. Parts of the region have retained more of their wild, uncultivated charm, and it was these areas that I tried to sample most thoroughly.

The further one drives into the region, the more desolate the terrain becomes. This area reminds me of the Highlands, with its granite crags, heather, and grasses.


In the two weeks I had my car, I logged nearly 1,900 miles, many of which were from tooling around this staggeringly gorgeous area, which covers several hundred square miles of mostly uninhabited wildlands. In my explorations, I happened upon a wild goat park. Naturally, I took a crap-ton of photos.


How could you not love a bleating animal with horns and a beard?! It's like a trash-eating dog with antlers.

Not all of the Galloway hills are this stark. Cutting through one of the forests was a sizable burn, littered with the glacial till that is characteristic of the Scottish landscape.


I inherited a love of water from my mom. I see a river, a pond, or a puddle and I can't stay out of it. Unfortunately, the fifty degree temperatures prevented me from frolicking in the cool, clear waters. Instead, I wandered out to the middle of the stream, sampled algae, and snapped pictures.


Along the banks of the burn were some dense mixed conifer-broadleaf forests. In my experience, these types of habitats make for great collecting, with the range of microhabitats available. The mosses that carpet the forest floor are among some of the best site for chytrid sampling.

Scots pine, oak, and birch dominate these mixed forests, while the understory is covered with ferns, mosses, liverworts and other primitive plants.


A gorgeous, sprawling oak. I have a particular affinity for huge, expansive trees. They remind me of summer days spent crawling in the oak trees in New Orleans' City Park. Whenever we get the chance during my visits home, my sister and I traipse off to City Park to play like monkeys.

As much as I love ginormous trees, I'm also a fan of the smaller inhabitants of the forest. I'm that kid who crawls around the forest floor, digging in the dirt, catching bugs, etc. This trip, I found a great little collection of slime molds standing on a felled tree trunk.

After I finished up goofing off in the woods, I hiked up to a viewing point to take in the valley in its entirety. Two waterfalls flanked either side of the hollow between the fells, and a small burn cuts across the length of the corridor. Despite the clouds, the wind, and the rain, it was absolutely stunning.


Too bad I look like I'm abusing barbiturates. Damn that wonky eye.

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.