Haggis Tours: Day 3

The next day would find us in an even more beautiful surrounding where after a fifteen minute walk, there was nothing to see but green plants climbing up the walls of the glen, and and a river crossing through the bottom. Flowers blossomed, so many shades of purple, and the only sound that could be heard was that of the wind and the insects. Long gone were the traces of betrayal and death brought upon Clans years and years ago.

Sitting on a lone rock, left over by a slow moving glacier during the last ice age, I ate my lunch in seclusion. For the first time at peace.

“We have to go back! Hey! We need to head back!” the group of Americans from our bus started screaming. I stood up, and the world returned with a jolt. This is the only downside of bus tours. I could have stayed there for hours. As I headed back, halfway to the bus I turned. The Americans had not yet moved. It was true that the time was up, and that we should be going back, and they knew enough to give orders to the rest of us. But they didn't move at all. They like giving orders, but they'll be damned to take them. Heh. Americans.


These Castle Walls
Just off the beaten path is a castle ruins – abandoned for seven hundred years. This is a castle as any child would draw one. Four towers, walls between, a moat, and a drawbridge. This was a castle in remarkable shape, with no tourists, and no admission gate. This just happened to be a castle in the middle of nowhere. Because Scotland is like that. Should there be street signs pointing it out? No. Why bother. It's just a castle.

Entering its gates, one must wonder how difficult that would have been to accomplish a thousand years ago. In the inner towers, a metal gate prevented visitors from accessing and climbing the crumbling stone steps all the way to the top. This gate was of little use though, for six feet off the ground, there was a window that could be climbed – with some effort – into. This allowed access to those same stairs, and stairs to an even higher level.

Aside from giving access to the higher window looking inward, I wondered what these stairs would have been for. Undoubtedly some sort of wooden structure, or bridge, long since rotted into the mists of history. As I climbed stairs, millennia old, I was overcome with a sense of history.

And through another window I was presented access to a hallway reeking of urine, and littered with used condoms as well as beer cans. In the corner, on a small rocky shelf, was an odd little shrine that had clearly been set up by these repeat visitors. It held two pictures of Jesus, a shot glass, a larger glass, and a candle.

There's something comforting about knowing that what goes on in the castle to this day, is probably very similar to that which happened when it was first constructed.

I pocketed a rock from the wall.


The Great William Wallis
As you all know, there is a tale about William Wallis made famous by the movie Braveheart. And while most of that story is complete rubbish, there are pieces of truth to it. He was Scotland's defender of freedom, and because of this a great monument was erected in his honour.

But was this erected off the roadside where it could be easily accessed? No. It was built at the top of a sloping hill with far too many switchbacks leading to the top. Each step a painful reminder of all the walking I had done over the last week an a half.

I have always relied on my stamina to get me through anything, but as each step make my calves burn (a sensation I've never truly appreciated before) I thought this might be the first time I was physically unable to do something. But I pressed on. It wasn't so hard of a journey, and was this day one, I'd not have felt it at all. Up at the top, I was rewarded with a spectacular tower, and a view over the city. It was worth the climb, even if some of the best pictures are taken from further down.

And this, it was sad to say, would be the final stop on the third day of our tour.

There was only one story left, and a telling one it is. In Edinburgh there is a street named Cowsgate, which runs just behind the Royal Mile. On it there are a great number of bars. So many that stumbling drunks used to be frequently clipped by cars. We're talking two to three a night here. So what did the city do? Did it take to fining bars for over serving? Did they start to round up the drunks? Start educating their citizens on the dangers of drinking to excess?

Of course not. They simply closed the street to cars between ten at night, and five thirty in the morning.

Scotland.

Haggis Tours: Day 2

The next morning it hit me: Scotland is a country where time has very little meaning. During the summer it can be as light at five in the morning, as at noon, as at ten at night. During the winter it's as dark at nine thirty in the morning, and dark one more at three thirty at night. You can judge nothing by the sun. Even its position in the sky is normally covered by clouds. This excuse, thought, I thought would be of little use as I ran to the tour bus to get on in time.


Lunch Time of Hitchcock (or The Birds 2: The Scottish Sequel)
My fish and chips, in their Styrofoam container nearly fall over a retaining wall, into the ocean. This is the story of my lunch. But this, it would seem, is a story best served with context:

“Can we go now?!” I shouted, as the food was knocked out of my hands, only to be re-grasped before the entire motion caused me, as well, to go sailing over the wall. I cursed my luck, and the grease stains that now appeared on my shirt.

No, that wasn't far enough back. Lets try again:

“If ye are going ta be getting lunch, make sure ye watch for the seagulls.” came the warning from our driver. It was hard to know what he meant. Living where I have, I'm used to the pests trying to take food, and waiting for scraps to be tossed out to them. They were annoying, but watch out?

Perhaps that's too far back. We'll try one more time:

I was sitting on the retaining wall, overlooking the ocean, reminising about eastern Canada. A bird landed beside me. But I would not be shaken from my spot, for this truly was a place of beauty. A bird landed behind me. No, I would perservere. This was my spot, not some foolish flying creatures. Three birds circled overhead.

Remembering the words from the driver, I was ready to go. “Alright, lets leave.” I said to my lunch time partner, who had been and chatting along with me throughout the setup of this avian invasion.

“No, I don't want to go. Think of this as a cultural experience.” My demand that anything remotely cultural was to be sucked in had hit home. But what a terrible time for that to happen. The birds were still gathering, and in far greater numbers than I could imagine.

“No.” I insisted, “this is not a cultural experience. Do you see any locals here? This is a stupid tourist experience. We are fools, and the locals know it. That's why they're not here.”

“I want to stay. Look, there's a bird, take a picture of it.” There was another bird. I could see into its obsidian eyes an almost hatred of our kind. I was not about to let down my guard for a moment. I had resented to staying to placate my mealtime partner, far against my better judgment, but I was not fool enough to reach into my bag to grab my camera. As if on cue the bird started to hop, as if that would entice me. But no, I sat strong. And that's when it happened.

The attack came not from the one in front of me, but from the side, for the ones I didn't even know where there. They dived bombed me from above, slamming, with their full weight, into my chips and fish, tearing pieces when they could. Within seconds it had happened, and within seconds I had shoved myself away from the wall, recapturing my falling meal box, and moving away from the edge. The force behind them would be enough to upset anyones balance. And they had beat, on the head, with their wings she who sat beside me.

“There! Can we go now?! I shouted. And we did.


Skye High
The Isle of Skye is a place of beauty beyond expression. Now in my days of travelling, there has only been one time when the beauty of a natural location took my breath, literally away from me. It was not the majestic Lake Louise, or even Moraine Lake (both in Alberta Canada.) It was not the mountains of British Columbia, or even the vast wilderness of Newfoundland. No, it was Dinosaur National Park where, as I crested a hill, I was met with a landscape that seemed as if it shouldn't have existed. Not only was this a great cache for fossil hunters, but the grounds themselves seemed as if they should have only existed sixty five million years ago.

The same feeling came over me, as we toured through Skye Island. Unlike the beautiful desert and shrub lands that Dinosaur Park provided, this was a land before time where trees, and plants grew in abundance. Where great forests would be populated with monsters, and the sides of all mountains were not barren, but rather green covered in moss and vegetation. This was the most beautiful place I'd ever seen.


Hairy Coos
From our many stops around the island, I was able to see roads snaking off into an unending horizon, sheep playing down by the oceans edge, and Hairy Coos (better known, perhaps, as Highland Cattle) wandering roadside with their calves.

This was Scotland as I had not imagined it. And though Bill Bryson once wrote – to paraphrase here – I don't know why people always send you to the most remote locations where no one would ever live when they want you to see the “real country” it becomes obvious when standing out on the lands, taking in everything around you as it really is, void of human interference.

This was Scotland, this was the world – a far as my experience goes – at its best.

Haggis Tours: Day 1

A Three Day Tour
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a Scottish approach, to seeing an entire country in a tiny little coach. It started from the Royal Mile, the price didn't make me poor. It went to the highlands, and then to Skye: a three day tour. A three – day – tour.

“Rule number one, lads an lassies,” came the booming voice over the tiny coach's pa system, from a terrifying man who looked like Simon Pegg, if Simon Pegg were to have spent the last five months at the gym constantly working out rather than voicing the part for a CG mammal with an eye patch, “my name is Jonathan, or Jon. But don't you ever – EVER – call me Jonny.”

We had met our tour guide, and while slightly terrifying, there was a perceived comfort in knowing that if any of us got into any problems, he'd probably be able to sort them out right fast with a stern look, or glancing blow. As we set out, his nature began to show, as he quite calmly talked to the cars in front of us: “what does this idiot think he's doing, my god. Get out of the way man!” Every word dripping with Scottish brogue. You could see he was holding himself back, like a fifteen year old meeting his girlfriend's parents for the first time. Every off hand comment they directed towards him endured – every perceived slight taken in stride. Yes our tour guide, with simply a, “you sir, are an idiot, simply an idiot,” narrowly avoided being hit by oncoming traffic in our lane. There was, I must admit, a great sense of fun in being privy to these comments played over the loud speaker for all to enjoy.

Initial impressions aside, when he began telling his stories, well rehearsed after five years running tours, he had all twenty five people on the bus engaged. No longer were they listening to their iPods, or reading magazines. Instead they were looking out their window, and trying to take in the stories of death, betrayal, love, and despair that covered the highland. Each time he reached the punch line of one of his jokes, or the climax of a tale, perfectly lining up with the scenery around us, it seemed as if he was telling it for the first time. He had won us over, and though we were a less than chatty bunch, rarely shouting out, “aye!” on cue, we were all taking his words in. I thought, perhaps, I should try teaching with this style – lock all students on a bus, and keep talking and talking, it's not like they've any place to go! – perhaps there is something to it.


Robert the Bruce: Good Games for All
For some time I had heard the tales of Robert the Bruce. In fact, it's rumoured that Batman was partially named after him. But, as I stood in a church, looking over the tomb of one of his sons, I really had to question why. Oh sure, it was his son alright, in that he impregnated the mother – but he impregnated lots of mothers, you see. Some of them already mothers before he got to the too. It's said that he would simply knock on the door of a house (being royalty and all) and demand to sleep with the woman inside. If he was refused entry he would kill the men, and rape her. If he was allowed access, than he would only rape her. What a lovely gentleman, certainly someone worth of naming the Dark Knight after. But that was not all. As he had impregnated so many women, it was only a matter of time before one of them came to him claiming they needed money. That they couldn't raise the child, and wasn't it part his anyway? What did he do? Well, in a very king Solomon way, he simply sliced the baby's head off, and placed it on a stake outside his castle. There, the woman's financial crisis was over! Ahh, good games he played.

The cometary surrounding this tomb looked like one out of a Halloween display trying, but failing to emulate a real cemetery. The tombstones were rounded, squared, or crossed, bearing skulls and bones on them. They were placed in a church courtyard, the walls of which had been battered, and partially fallen over the last few hundred years. Were we only a few hours earlier, while the mist was still on the ground, it would have been a sight to see.


Haggis Adventures at Loch Ness
Just outside of town we stopped at a pub where I was to have my first haggis experience. I had pictured it to be a cultural experience like none other, worked up in my mind to be a moment of devouring such strange foods, and distressing parts of animals as I'd never had before. I waited, baited breath, for it to appear. Other people were delivered their cheeseburgers (which tasted like beef jerky, and were phenomenal!) but still no haggis for me. When it finally arrived I thought, well what is this? Where's the haggis? On my plate rested what looked like a Shepard's pie before it's put together. Leeks and potatoes were on one side, and what looked like ground beef was on the other. As I bit into it, it was not distressing or strange at all. It tasted familiar, and delicious. Something I would definitely have again. But not now, for Loch Ness awaited.

I had pictured Loch Ness to be something you could views from a concrete bridge, taking in the entire loch. I'm not sure where this idea came from, but my goodness what a foolish one it was. Loch Ness holds the most volume of water of all the lake in Great Brittan. And looking out at its black waters it becomes obvious why no one has every been able to prove conclusively that there is something mysterious out there or not. It's, simply put, just too big.