Europe 2025 - Scotland
- Tim Madison
- Apr 2
- 49 min read
Updated: Apr 13
Lopez Island to Glasgow
THIS is the 2025 version of Running Away From Home. Welcome to it, whatever it is, inclusive of what it turns out to be. So far, scary. We, personally, have nothing to complain about except, of course, the rate of which our personal selves are dissolving into decrepitude. It’s truly shocking, this getting old business. We have no experience with it. We only remember being young, so every day is some kind of surprise and not the good kind. We spent February and March in the California desert, hiding from the wind, rain, snow, earthquake, and sog of our Lopez Island neighborhood. That’s not totally so. We can’t hide from earthquakes. Southern California is famous for them. We just got lucky and didn’t notice anything when we were there. The scary part is traveling internationally during the Collapse of Western Civilization in general and the devolution of the USA into a rabid Nazified Autocratic Kleptocracy clumsily manipulated by the Kremlin and all of its Russian Mafioso. Under this considerable shadow, we plan to visit four countries: Scotland, Ireland, Germany, and Norway. We’re to cross several borders, American tourists, as Europe settles down on the thought that the USA is no longer an ally, but more like Russia, firmly installed on the enemies list. Will these borders be open to us? Will our bookings be honored? Will people pelt us with eggs or throw paint on us in the street? This was never a question for as long as we’ve been alive, since 1950. As of this writing, it is. That said, the workings of international politics are changing daily. Some random fresh dementia squeezes itself out of Washington DC every day like an infected boil. If there is trouble, we certainly won’t be able to depend on the American Embassy. Most of the diplomats have been fired and those who remain are utterly incompetent. We’re on our own here. Nevertheless, we shall press on with our agenda. These nonsensical politics? We will have to consider them as another unexpected level of adventure because we’re going anyway. You’re welcome to follow along as I try to make things as interesting as I can.
March 31
Today is a transition from Lopez to Seattle. We are preparing to hop an Iceland Air flight on April 1. This is standard procedure because of the unreliability of ferry service from the island to the mainland. We spend a night in Seattle so that we may have an unhurried experience on our way to the airport. Passport checks, security queues, x-ray routines, pat-downs. This is the reverse of “it never gets old”. It does. But we get through it and settle into the aircraft, hoping that competent people are still employed in the airport’s tower. I hate to say it, but this is a legitimate question. Our wills are in order and beneficiaries duly listed. A long flight is coming up if we don’t collide on the runway with an incoming jumbo. We’ll alight briefly in Reykjavik to change planes. In previous years, we took an extra day or two in Iceland to see the sights, float about in the Blue Lagoon, and wear down some jet lag before continuing. Not this time. The Blue Lagoon is under threat of being swallowed by a spanking new volcano, which is mildly ironic since the volcano was the source of heat for the spa. All was well as long as the hot stuff stayed underground. Now there’s fresh lava and basalt all over the neighborhood with a fresh eruption just today. The spa is cut off, a geo-thermal power plant is in trouble, and a whole town has been evacuated. Icelanders have seen this sort of thing before. For them, it’s an annoyance, the cost of living on top of a volcanic outcropping that leaks out of the Atlantic tectonic ridge. Luckily the airport isn’t in the lava path. Yet. We’ve seen much of Reykjavik already, so this time we’ll just have an hour layover before continuing on to Scotland. I may resort to drugs to manage my jet lag. Or not.
Changing planes in Reykjavik is not my favorite thing. It’s not that the terminal is small. It is, but no matter. What it lacks is runway and taxi-way. It has too much traffic for its tarmac. Add to this, the fact that the terminal has no jet-way, you know, that portable tunnel that leads one from the waiting area to the jet’s door. The planes are parked a serious distance away from the terminal. When boarding is announced, passengers are summoned to wait in a kind of a sheep’s pen, a standing room only box at ground level. We’re waiting for buses to swoop in and load us. Loading takes longer than it should and with the bus doors wide open we are all subject to whatever April weather Iceland is offering. Once the bus is uncomfortably crowded with humanity, off it rumbles between rows and rows of jetliners. One would think that this would only be a couple of minutes to find our ride but no. This bus cruises for 10-12 minutes. If I estimate the bus’s speed at 25 mph, we’re being moved 4 miles to find our plane. Once there, we hope for good weather, otherwise we’re in for a cold soaking between the bus and the plane. Reykyavik’s terminal is modern and comfortably appointed but their passenger management is awkward. If we’re still traveling in our 80’s, I’ll lobby to avoid this. There is one other airport in Europe that annoys us, but for different reasons: Berlin Brandenburg. Unfortunately, we can’t avoid it on this trip.
GLASGOW
From Iceland we’re going directly to Glasgow. Lucky this, since just a few days ago, Heathrow, the London airport, was closed due to failing infrastructure. A fire destroyed an electrical substation that served the zone and the airport was closed for days. Lucky, I say, reality check, that’s a presumption that Glasgow’s systems are percolating normally, as intended. In Scotland, that can be a dodgy guess. Who knows what kind of whisky soaked madness lurks in the weeds.
We’re on our way to a country hotel near Fort William for a week of path-wandering but first, CK thought we should spend a few days in Glasgow just to say we did. We’ve been to Edinburgh a couple of times, so it’s only fair we should give Glasgow a look, it being the larger of the two. From our previous experience in Scotland, we’ve found that it isn’t practical to expect much of the Victorian vision of Scotland, the tartans, laced cuffs, kilts, sporran, and patent leather shoes. It does go on display for cultural events and tourist shows but these are relics of the past. Scotland is a cosmopolitan country, these days, peppered with people from all over the world. They bring their art, languages, and other cultures with them. We may see some of the preserved Victorian and art nouveau architecture but that is well hidden amongst the jumble of 20th century concrete hovels of productivity. The Scots are still here, though, and won’t be fading away soon. It’s a gruff nation full of art and science. Their love of language is only matched by love of profanity. The landscape is lovely but full of midges. Scotland is rugged, not pretty. It seems better in mist and snow. The sea can appear aqua blue like a Caribbean paradise until the water touches your crotch. Then, you’ll qualify for the Olympic High Jump. Women were not allowed in pubs until 1989. There are whispers in the streets about a Scot who loved his wife so much he nearly told her.
Getting here is easy if we compare today's transportation to that of 100 years ago. Still, it requires standing in queues, paperwork inspections, physical inspections, and scrunching inside an airborne aluminum tube with way too many other humans. The result is a mild warpage of space and time producing an annoying disorientation: jet lag. We catch up with one of our companions, CK's sister Marie, at the Reykjavic terminal. Barbara, an old friend, finds us at the Glasgow airport. All is going according to CK's master plan. Together we'll bop around Scotland for about 8 days.
Our first cultural experience, if one could call it that, is a ride in a cab to our hotel. Our driver is a Scot with a heavy Glaswegian brogue. We can understand him but it requires focused attention. He looks as if he shaved with kindergarten scissors 9 hours ago. His appearance is like the inside of his cab: rumpled and dusty with bits of unidentified food items imbedded in the carpet. I sit in the front passenger seat, sharing space with an orange trash bag. I want to peek in there to see what qualifies as actual trash. I didn't but should have. He is a friendly, chatty sort playing 20 questions with us as he weaves through traffic, earning some irate klaxons for his trouble. He gets us there in fine order but we all need a shower now.
As tourists we are dedicated to filling our days with idle foolishness, which is, I’m told, a contorted version of the American Dream. Glasgow is a place that has been described to me as a manic-depressive industrial commune of dinginess which gives me to expect that we may fail to fill our time with idle foolishness in which case we will most certainly be idle, and having spent so much money and time to do it, will qualify easily as foolish. We can’t lose!
By my calculations we’ve been in transit 23.5 hours. We’re now at the Malmaison Hotel in Glasgow. This is a boutique-y place. Malmaison is French for brothel, therefore there is a French-ish theme in the lobby. Behind the desk is a very large, very poor copy of a portrait of Napoleon. But the coolest bit is the iron balustrade on the staircase. It depicts Napoleon crowning himself emperor as per the painting by Jacques-Louis David.
Let the jet-lag recovery begin! I always imagine that eating something will cure it. I’m always disappointed with that, then I’m sleepy at precisely the wrong time of day. We all agree that a short nap is in order before we head off to for a pub meal at 5 pm. Our goal is the Butterfly & Pig, three blocks away and one story below street level. The grub is simple and wholesome. They don't carry Innis & Gunn lager, even though Glasgow is its home. Finding this brew will become a quest, I just know it. We hatch our plans for tomorrow over pints and tucker.
Back at the Malmaison, the hotel is buying us a drink in their bar. We take full advantage, topping off the day with a nightcap. I'll leave you with some photos. Cheers!
GLASGOW – April 3
We banish our jet-lag in record time with a solid sleep at the Malmaison. Today will feel less disorienting than yesterday’s mad mechanical dash through the atmosphere, bland food, and ‘B’ movies. A quick breakfast knosh in the hotel’s subterranean parlor and the four of us are afoot for a full day in Glasgow. We have three loosely formed ideas: The Botanic Gardens, the Piping Center, and a proper afternoon tea. CK is lobbying very hard to plunder the local public Lawn Bowling pitch. We may not have time for that today, but I have a feeling that this will carry over to tomorrow. First, the Botanic Gardens.
The hotel desk summons a cab which arrives promptly. And very much like our cabby from the airport, this one is chatty at the tour-guide level. The condition of his cab is far better, in the tidiness department. It is one of those van type vehicles with a generous empty space amidships, suitable for 3 people and massive expedition luggage, or 6 people with carry-ons. The driver is walled completely off with bullet proof Lexan giving the passenger section the character of a police paddy wagon or a drunk tank. We can only imagine what manner of hooliganism and violence prompts this kind of cab design. It is common, however. Our driver is full of advice and soon fills our minds with more options for visiting Harry Potter film sites and plundering museums at the universities. After driving in what seems like a suspicious circle, he lands us at the Botanic Garden gates.
There is no fee. The garden is a public park. The grounds are full of specimens from around the world: trees, shrubs, flowers all with the goal of conservation. Many species are threatened in their original habitat. We have a lovely spring day, blue sky, warm sun. The daffodils are bursting and the tulips are just a few days from doing the same. The Magnolia trees are in full glory. We find a large green house, trying several doors before finding one that yields to us. There we wander for 45 minutes amidst a cornucopia of plant life. There are three sections: a tropical zone, a desert zone, and a mountain zone. It’s nice because there aren’t many folks here, we can take our sweet time. If there was a crowd, we’d be squeezing past one another in a claustrophobic dance fully in violation of social distancing guidelines.
We’re watching the time. We want to catch the 11 am free guided tour. In front of an ornate glass paned hot house called the Kibble Palace, we find our volunteer guide. Ishbel is her name, a native Glaswegian. One other person, a young climate scientist from New Zealand joins us, so that makes 5 tourists and one guide. Again, we’re lucky to have pretty much the equivalent of a private tour.
The gardens began in the early 19th century in a different part of town. By mid 19th century the plant collections were being devastated by pollution from the coal everyone used to heat their homes. By 1867 the gardens were moved to their current location. The Kibble Palace (named for John Kibble, a wealthy eccentric) opened in 1874. It was a private club for many years until it fell on hard times and went broke. The city took it on and made it a park. Among the many conservation projects here they are most proud of their rare begonias, orchids, ferns, and carnivorous plants (pitcher plants and Venus fly traps). The UK national begonia and fern collections are here. I didn’t know that. Fascinating.
At 12:30 pm the plan is to go to the Piping Center where there is a, what do I call it, a café, a bistro, tea room? CK is expecting to get an afternoon tea there, the meal with little salmon and cucumber sandwiches with the crust lopped off, tiny cakes, and confections along with endless pots of tea. Another cab ride from the gardens gets us there. Again, we’re riding in a sterile box with the driver cocooned behind an impenetrable barrier. Nevertheless, he chats us up. Somehow, we understand each other even though that should be unlikely.
Peckishness overtakes the ladies as we arrive at the Piping Center. The tea room is just adjacent, so we opt to get a bite before looking in on the Bagpipe Museum. As we sit, it becomes apparent that a snafu is going to overtake us. CK thought she had booked an afternoon tea but they didn’t have it. They couldn’t make do without lead time, so we bailed out and went to do the bagpipes. CK found time to search another tea room, found one, and made reservations for later.
The Piping Center is quite modest, small but enthusiastic. Honestly, I was expecting a bit more spectacular display from what should be the center of the bagpiping universe. There is a parts, equipment, and trinket shop in the front, looked after by a good looking ginger headed lad. Marie thought to make conversation and asked him what it took to become a piper. She didn’t know it, but she had just plucked his magic twanger. 20 minutes later he was shifting to a higher gear with his non-stop monologue about the virtues and complexities of piping. It is 5 pound and 50 each to see the museum. We used that as a means to change the subject and halt the lecture. The museum is very small but populated with a number of relics. Most interesting is a display of bagpipes from different cultures, some of which were a bit ancient, looking very much like sheep’s stomachs with flutes attached. None of us play, of course, but we have a friend (Helen M. S.) who does. Which quantum entanglement would be required to channel her presence into our midst, imagining what she would be saying if she were here with us?
After our experience with the bagpipe museum, the day is getting on. We find CK’s alternative tea room at about 2:30. The ladies all order the afternoon tea extravaganza. Three towers of treats, each three levels high make our table conspicuous. Even more so because it is in the center of the room. Maximum crazy was not attained because I didn’t order it. If I had there would have been 4 towers of ambitious consumption. Instead, I had steak pie with chips. I knew I’d be getting some of the sweets no matter what because they would not be able to finish. It’s just too much stuff for old folks to manage.
Such decadent culinary splurging impels the ladies to go for a walk. The plan is to use church spires as motivation, that is, spotting a spire, then hiking over to investigate the church it is attached to. I decline, opting for a nap in the hotel. Later, at our evening meeting over drinks and snacks, they reported their findings. The first church was clearly a mess. There were large shrubs growing out of the gutters, erosion had eaten considerable amounts of masonry, doors chained. It was abandoned. The next spire was easily spotted but it too would not yield to their door-pulling. The third spire is spotted very nearby. It looks promising but doors are locked again. The ladies are mildly disappointed and admit defeat. They promise to find the cathedral tomorrow. After this report on the state of religious piety in Glasgow, my esteem for Glaswegian civilization pops upward several notches.
Our evening meal is in the below street level restaurant of the Malmaison. Our appetites are blunted by tea cakes so we go for only appetizers and sides, excepting for Barbara and I who indulge in some single malt. Our server is a university student from Lithuania, a tall young lad who bears a resemblance to Leonardo Di Caprio. He is, as the ladies might say, hawt. Marie chats him up just to keep him engaged and in short range for further inspection. Our food was good but unremarkable. Somehow, we while away the time until far beyond our bedtime, 9:30. Shocking.
Tomorrow we have one more day in Glasgow before we must fold tents and move along.
Glasgow - April 4
As we breakfast in the Hotel Malmaison’s dimly lit underworld we consider our chances for the day. A quick glance at the weather app shows the atmosphere improving beyond our expectations. We’ll have another cloudless day in the mid 60’s. That’s Fahrenheit for you Yanks. Celsius is the scale they use to describe things here in Scotland and that would be 17 or so. In Kelvin, about 291. Kelvin is scary.
Our first stop is the Lawn Bowling Centre. CK is optimistic that we’ll all be chucking a few bowls across the grass and hooting at our age-related lack of agility and resulting inability to hit the target. If you’ve ever played Bocce, lawn bowls is much the same game except the ball you chuck won’t travel in a straight line because the ball is imbalanced. If you need me to draw you a picture, never mind. Just go to You Tube. Anyhoo, Glasgow is something like ground zero for lawn bowling in our current galaxy. There are acres of lawn bowling pitch at this particular location. As we arrive, CK is like a dog being set loose at the beach. She gazes across the yawning expanse of grass, the beckoning acreage of green and claims it all. Just imagine the hundreds of bowlers here on a lovely spring day cavorting in the sun and laying heavy side bets! Lucky us, because it actually IS a lovely spring day. We’re lucky but our luck isn’t that good. We knew before we arrived that this would be an empty scene. The lawn bowling season doesn’t begin until Easter. CK discovered this just before we left the hotel. No matter. Had to show up just to have a look and a photo to prove we were here. To leave Glasgow without visiting the Mecca of The Sport would have been criminal.
A visit to the Lawn Bowling Centre places us near the University of Glasgow. It’s actual title is the Kelvingrove Lawn Bowls and Tennis Centre because it is situated in Kelvingrove Park which is adjacent to Kelvinbridge and Kelvin Way, through which the Kelvin River flows. We can now walk a quarter mile to the east to investigate the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum which is just across the way from Kelvin Hall which features another museum, a library, and sports facilities. It is shut for remodeling. We tug on the door to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery but it is shut as well. Opening at 11 am, says the sign. Never mind, there’s another museum up the hill we can inspect in the meantime. It is the Hunterian Museum. Of course, we must take the footpath across the Kelvin River and pass by the Kelvin Building (an academic institution).
Then we notice that fate has drawn us to this place like some tartan flavored magnetism that belongs particularly to memory infused Scottish relics. A plaque next to a residential door proclaims that Lord Kelvin lived there. His real name was William Thomson (1824-1907), mathematical physicist and engineer. He was professor of Natural Philosophy at the University for 53 years. He was awarded the noble title Baron Kelvin of Largs for his work in thermodynamics and some curious Victorian politics that had to do with angry Irishmen. One might assume that all the Kelvin tagged landmarks here were christened in his honor but no. His title comes from the River Kelvin which flowed next to his lab. This makes sense because 'Lord Kelvin' has a lot more gravitas than 'Lord Willy'. Whatever caused him to attach Kelvin to his temperature scale is a mystery tied to lack of imagination engendered by the habit of naming everything in this neighborhood ‘Kelvin’. I shall name my parrot Kelvin. And my cat, too. I don’t have a parrot or a cat, but if I did…
A block away from Lord Kelvin’s former home is the Hunterian Museum. There we learn that Hadrian’s Wall was not the only wall the Romans built to deal with the pesky, deadly, blue painted Picts (the Scotsmen of their day). Several decades before Hadrian’s Wall was the Antonine Wall. This museum displays pieces of it as well as a fine explanation of what happened way back in the 2nd century. There is plenty of old stuff to look at here and we waste our time most gloriously but my favorite is a reconstruction of Lucy, the famous Australopithecus whose shattered bones were discovered in 1974. What struck me was her tiny stature, 3 ft 7 in. The scientists have concluded that she was like a chimpanzee but with a big difference: she stood upright.
We spent enough time at the Hunterian to allow the Kelvingrove Museum to open for us. A short stroll down the hill and we’re in. This museum has 8,000 objects, 22 themed galleries, and paintings by Monet, Gaugin, and Renoir but the item that made us choose to hang out there for two hours was the organ, a gigantic thing from 1901 consisting of 2,889 pipes. The organist began the recital at 1 pm. 45 minutes later CK was over the moon.
Another late lunch took place at the tea room we plundered yesterday, the Mackintosh at the Willow. The food there is ok but the ladies really wanted another chance to appreciate the art deco interior design. So, we did it again. But this time nobody went for the afternoon tea, sandwiches and cakes extravaganza. One cannot make a habit of that sort of thing. Not decently, that is.
There’s a wee bit of time for a rest before the evening meal. We all take advantage.
Tonight, we’re going to do as we have been repeatedly told: have Indian food in Glasgow. CK made us a reservation at the Masala Twist, a short walk from our hotel. No problem finding it. The street entrance greets us with a spicey, humid steam generated by the small dining space packed with enthusiastic diners and their food. There is no space for us yet even though we have a reservation. Scots have a habit of lingering at table, long after the last course is gone, chatting like magpies in a dialect of English that sounds like they are simultaneously chewing apples. Tables don’t turn over in restaurants like they should, consequently. We are shown to an upstairs location to wait for one to clear. We don’t have to wait too long. As we do, we have a chance to inspect the menu very carefully. Much of it is standard East Indian fare except for the Jaisalmeri Camel Curry and Chambal Ka Maggarmach which features crocodile. I must order one of them or I’ll lose all respect for myself. The ladies select their items, including CK who orders a dish far spicier than anything she’d allow me to make for her at home. I ask for the Camel. Instead of being asked “one hump or two?”, she tells me it is not in season. Neither is Crocodile. What? I might understand how Crocodile might not be but Camel? How does Camel go in and out of season? Some things I’m cursed never to know. Then again, perhaps it’s just better that way. I settle for some spicey, overcooked lamb which is very tasty, making it easy to guzzle a couple bottles of Moretti.
And that’s today’s report. Tomorrow, we have most of the day in Glasgow and a loose plan to go with it. But we must be out of the hotel before 12. At 3:30 we are to be gathered up by some kind of road transportation and whisked out of town toward Fort William where we’ll be booking into a country house for a week.
Glasgow to Ballachulish - April 5
Our Friday evening slumber is punctuated by feral drunks in the street, whose joyful song wafts all the way up to our 5th floor. I strain to understand some of the language but the combination of alcohol poisoning and Scottish brogue makes it indistinguishable from Swahili. At about midnight some young ladies spill out of the lift into the hallway in a cheerfully animated state, chattering noisily. Again, the combination of Scottish slang and booze compares with the Navajo Code Talkers for linguistic opacity. In other words, I have no f----ing clue. I only know I won’t be sleeping for a while.
By morning, Saturday now, I realize I must have passed out in the night because the hands on the clock changed position. It isn’t due to the feeling of being rested. Breakfast is in the hotel dining room. Yesterday’s order of soft poached eggs came back in perfect shape. Today, they arrive as tragic fossils, dry and mirthless, subjects for archaeological study. I don’t send them back because, you know, we shouldn’t waste eggs, which are becoming rare as hen’s teeth. Must be a different cook. My toast, perfect yesterday, emerges from the self-serve toaster with a puff of black smoke. It has acquired an impressively stiff crust of carbon to accompany my billiard ball eggs. Fortified with another cup of tea, I adopt a can-do attitude along with a philosophical acceptance of the reality of road food.
Our plan is to hike across town to the ancient cathedral, see what we can see, then loop back toward the center of town to lunch at the Innis & Gunn Taproom. From there we return to the hotel, grab our bags, load up a taxi to the bus station, and proceed on a mini-bus to the Fort William area. Today's route takes us through the bustling heart of Glasgow, past St George’s Square and at least two more university campuses. This town is overrun with students. Perhaps that is the reason for so many bars. The architecture seems uninspiring, though. It looks to me like a hodgepodge of buildings from different eras, some of them well designed and sturdy, some just utilitarian and ugly, and some that are abandoned altogether. There are pockets of brilliance in the form of structures from the art deco period, but they are hiding amidst the jumble. One must know where they are.
The High Kirk of Glasgow, aka Glasgow Cathedral, aka St Mungo’s Cathedral is CK’s prime directive today. There is potential of quiet but pressurized steam production from CK’s ears if she finds the doors locked. They aren’t. Some sections date to the 12th century. Legend says that it lies over the site of St Mungo’s original 6th century structure. Whatever the case, anyone who navigated life on Earth with a name like Mungo was a tough bugger and a Scot by definition, well deserving of sainthood. The notes say it is a stunning example of Gothic architecture, the only medieval cathedral on the Scottish mainland to survive Henry VIII’s reformation of 1560 which reveals that sometimes revenge simply isn’t worth the bother. The reformers did strip the place of its decoration, allowing the dingy color of gray stone to prevail. It has been that way since the 16th century. The bones of St Mungo are said to be resting somewhere in a box in the crypt. May they stay there. Speaking of bones, this church definitely has that dusty, creepy smell of multiple dry cadavers. I suppose I must be thankful that the odor is not fresh. I’m on the hunt for Greenman, that woodland spirit that masons usually include in medieval Gothic churches. And I find him! He's part of a display of broken masonry pieces in a corner of the crypt. He’s not in very good shape but still recognizable. As you can tell, my examination of churches is overlaid by a bullet proof blanket of irreverence. My highest respect goes to the anonymous designers, builders, and laborers who spent the equivalent of lifetimes creating buildings like these.
Leaving the church, we spend some time wandering in a building devoted to religious propaganda and iconography. I think this happened because we had to go there to find the loo. We would have peed and left immediately except for the strategic presence of a young devotee of the Xtian superstition who urged us to look upstairs at the displays. The ladies obey, just to be polite, and, being in their company, I am doing the same. Soon we make our escape, though, and hurry across the street to investigate “The Oldest House in Glasgow”. It’s a stone and timber structure from 1451. Entrance is free. Inside, guides are busy explaining things. The ceiling beams are low and the door frames lower. I grab some photos and escape as soon as I notice that all the chairs have a “do not sit” sign on them.
The day is getting on and we must move to our next stop, the Innis & Gunn Tap Room. Luckily there is only a 20 minute walk between the cathedral zone and the pub. I discovered their lager when we were in Edinburgh a few years ago. Whenever I’m in the UK, I search the tap labels for it. Glasgow is its home. Here is where they make it, so I expect to get my share. The pub is a new-ish kind of joint, the interior deco is industrial but spacious and pleasant. It is bustling with customers anxious for their mid-day meal. There aren’t enough servers, so things go a bit slowly. Our food and pints arrive in good order and in time for us to get started back to the hotel. We are in full ‘moving day’ mode now. We don’t want to be late to catch that bus out to the HF country house in North Ballachulish.
A taxi brings us to the bus station where we meet our driver, originally from Romania although I would never have guessed he wasn’t a native Glaswegian. The mini tour bus looks nice and clean but it is built for midgets and children. I select a window seat and find it impossible. My knees are absolutely never going to fit in that space. Sitting sideways isn’t an option, either. Luckily, CK is looking out for me. She captures a space in the front row that allows my legs to dangle comfortably. If the bus had been packed, I don’t know how I would have managed. Two hours and change later, we arrive in Ballachulish. The drive is quite scenic, as the road weaves between barren hills and dormant scrub vegetation. These are the Scottish Highlands. We followed this road before when we ventured to the Isle of Skye some years ago.
At the country house we are given our instructions, our keys, fill out some paper work, and hit the bar for a bit of a nip before dinner. Dinner is a group affair for more than 30. We get three courses and three choices for each course. The dining room is well populated with new arrivals, like ourselves. The level of conversation, as it bounces off the walls and ceiling achieves the quality of white noise. We must shout to speak to our neighbor sitting next to us. Breakfast will be a combination of buffet and a la carte, just like many hotels. Lunch is a picnic bag of selected sandwiches and snacks. Unless we escape to the local villages, this is our culinary fate through April 11.
Tomorrow we’re off for a short walk through the Scottish Highland morning. CK and Barbara are plotting the way. Weather looks like it couldn’t be better! Lucky us!
Ballachulish – April 6
I try to keep a journal every day when we travel. Some days that isn’t a challenge, other days it is. Today, there’s not so much to report. After being overfed at breakfast here in this walker’s hotel, we went out with our walking sticks for a 5 mile stroll around the neighborhood. We went nowhere in particular and did nothing of note. We interacted with 4 living creatures: A cheerful, middle aged Scottish gent who was cooking out of his food truck. A very shy teenage lad and his dog Snow. Lastly, a young lass keeping bar in a hotel.
We meet the teenager and his dog first. The boy has the dog on a lead, clearly out for the pet’s constitutional. The dog (we learn its name, Snow) seems to want to check me out, giving me a sniff and tasting the back of my hand. That’s good enough, I guess, because it then leans on me like an affectionate cat, asking for a scratch. I half expect it to purr. The boy does not want to engage in conversation. He seems to regard us with suspicion, as if we are about to savagely demand some particular behavior from him. Perhaps that’s what old people do to teenagers here. And we do look like old coots. Old coots with funny accents. Very suspicious.
A small golf course is part of our little route. It offers picnic tables and a loo stop. Surprisingly, a small food truck is in full operation, a Scottish gentleman of a certain age at the helm. His brogue is thick but he’s full of friendly gestures and cheer. I purchase a cup of tea to go with the snacks in my pack. He sees our walking sticks and correctly guesses that we’re staying at the Altshellach. I’ve neglected to mention that our hotel / country house has a name. That’s it. Altshellach. It has to do with some bluestocking with wagonloads of cash who built it in the 19th century. I might chat the fellow up a bit more but he has a lineup of hungry customers causing him to be one-armed-paper-hanger busy. I fail to snap a photo of him. I am sleep deprived, therefore not making good decisions. Grrr.
Our last human contact comes at the Ballachulish Hotel. This is a rather posh boutique hotel next door to the golf course. We check it out with an idea to escape the mob feeding at Altshellach one night. Actually, I’m the one pushing for that. The sun is over the yard-arm so we grab a seat in the bar, each with an adult beverage ordered from the barkeep, a young Scots lass who probably wishes she was elsewhere on a brilliant spring day like the one that’s passing her by. She’s all business as she pours whisky for Barbara and me, ginger beer for CK, Irish coffee for Marie.
What we're having is brilliant weather and clear vistas of this territory. We see a lot of blue water and brown hills together with daffodils and birdsong.
We stumble back along the boot path to our hotel, each of us ready to collapse into a nap. That’s all there is to report, actually. The social activity here will consist of tea time and the evening meal which is done in group format for obvious reasons. CK and Barbara will carefully plan our movements for tomorrow. Maybe.
Ballachulish – April 7
Breakfast in the dining room is accompanied by cacophonous chatter again as thirty or so elderly folks get powered up for another spring day in the highlands. At table this morning we meet Ed and Susan, a couple of retired Brits who have a habit of booking into these HF walking tours. They can’t admire our luck with the weather any more than we do but they try. Really, it could be pissing sleet sideways this time of year, not deep blue skies and 17C. We expected to be needing raincoats, gloves, and gaiters. Instead, we’re draining our supply of sun block.
CK, Barbara, and Marie are going to catch a ferry across the Loch to Ardgour Estate. There isn’t a lot there, a church maybe and a lighthouse. Certainly no pub. Mostly, I expect some new paths to walk on a brilliant day. Turns out there is no pub but there is a brewery. Even better! Amazingly, they fail to find it. They turned left instead of right. Whisky Tango Foxtrot. Rather, they find a church the doors of which they pull upon only to find them locked. Again. I think the only church CK has found open was St. Mungo’s in Glasgow. CK reports that she acquired some geological wisdom: Lachan are large ponds left over from the ice age. The Laird has a few of them on his estate to be admired as they stroll in the Scottish sunshine. Not too shabby.
My plan is to skip all that and go back to the golf course. I shall rent some clubs and jump into my very first experience swatting golf balls in the birthplace of the game. A short walk from Altshellach (our country house) across the Loch Leven bridge brings me back to Woodlands Golf Course, a 9 holer, a bit dog eared about the edges, but generally serviceable. The putting greens are basically low spots in the fairway. One must take a hefty swipe at the ball to get it to roll toward the hole. They had also just punched and sanded the greens, so they were quite rough. But that was no matter. These things cause the ball to take a more direct route, removing a lot of the influence of terrain. Never mind. That’s too much golf talk for sure. Most importantly, I revisited the food truck there. The fellow who operates it is Jimmy, a most friendly chap who, when learning I was planning to play the course, offered me his practice set for the round: four irons, a gritty looking Ping driver, and a putter.
I can work with that. He told me about the bucket of free-to-nab rescue balls from the pond just inside the door. “Go ahead and help yerseff,” says he in a heavy brogue, “ye might be needin’ them.” He serves me a hot tea from his truck. We exchange some friendly chat as he fixes breakfast for some other customers. After soaking up my tea, I’m out to hit the course. ‘Not having played for a couple of weeks’ is my excuse for struggling over the first few holes. By about the 5th hole, I’m beginning to get my rhythm. The place seems like it’s all mine. Often, when I look around I don’t see anyone else on the course although there are a few. I play around twice to make 18. I’m finished by 1:30 pm. My watch says 18,000 steps. Back at the clubhouse, I return Jimmy’s clubs and leave him a tip. Another couple on the patio inquire where I’m from since they don’t recognize my accent. Turns out that they’re from Medicine Hat, Alberta. Tyler and Melanie. He works for the power company and she’s an accountant at a college. Lovely folks.
I’m back at the country house in time for a wee nap before the evening meal. Tonight, I’m dining on a tuna steak surfing on a bed of orzo. It looks strange and colorless like a fish that has been traveling too long. The flavor is much like its appearance: flat and gray with no hint of the ocean. Strange. Tomorrow, I think I ordered Haggis. I believe that is a dish a little closer to home than tuna. We’ll see about that.
Ballachulish – April 8
Sometimes, traveling as we do, I wake up in a foggy state knowing that I’m not at home but also not quite sure where I am. Just for a moment or two I’m not certain which side of the bed is the correct way to turn or where the toilet is. Luckily, this queer feeling doesn’t last long and I get my bearings again. Sometimes I’m a little disappointed to realize where I am and wish I were back in the fog. Not this time. We may have the best room in the house. And the weather. I’ve mentioned it every day because we’re having Scottish summer in April, I think.
Another breakfast of ‘whatever-you-like-and-plenty-of-it’ surrounded by giddy old people who can’t wait to bounce around among the bushes with their gaiters and walking sticks, trudging themselves to partial dehydrated exhaustion only for an excuse to congratulate themselves for being able to move at all and gin up justification to eat another meal --- like US. And communing with nature, of course. Barbara will be one of those but Marie, CK, and I are going for a day of mechanical transit and ‘getting high’. We’re out for the Nevis Range Mountain Resort near Fort William. No, we aren’t going skiing because there’s no snow. We aren’t doing mountain bikes because we’re not daft. Yet. There’s a gondola there that promises to take us to about 3,000 feet. On a day like this there will be views as far as geriatric vision and atmospheric pollution will allow. We mean to get our share of it.
After brekky, we hoof it to the bus stop about ¼ mile from Altshellach (our hotel). CK is having fits trying to decipher the timetable. There’s a bus at a certain time when it’s a Highland School Day and not when it isn’t. Is today a Highland School Day? Who knows that? The schedule doesn’t say. A spirited debate between CK and two locals at the bus halt ensues. Will there be a bus at 9:15 or will it be 10? I stay the heck out of it because what do I know? Turns out they were all wrong. A shiny bus with a cracked wind screen sweeps in at 9:25. For $10 US each, the driver is willing to carry us to Fort William. Again, there’s no leg room in these bus seats. Now I’m only 6’ 0’’. Not short but also, not considered ‘tall’ by 21st century comparisons. I cannot fit into these seats. There’s no way. I’d like to see a 6’ 4” person get aboard a bus like this and watch as he/she struggles into a seat. I’ll wager they can’t do it. I’m only able to sit because of the availability of a seat next to the loo in the back, right at the end of the aisle-way.
The ride is only 25 minutes. It would be shorter if not for a delay for road work. We’re out and loose at the bus station / train station. This is a fair rehearsal for Thursday when we return here to take the Jacobite train to Mallaig. I’ll save this story for later. Our goal, for now, is to get to the mountain center. A quick assessment of the bus timetable reveals that this mode of transport will ask us to wait another 1.5 hours. It would also cost just about as much as a taxi. We nix the bus idea and grab a driver at the taxi stand. 15 minutes later, we’re there. There are plenty of cars in the lot but no lines at the ticket office. Soon we’re in a gondola car and getting high.
As I have mentioned repeatedly, the weather is sunny, bright, summertime, etc. The gondola car quickly begins to feel like a solar powered sauna. There are only two vent flaps at the top of the car, the windows are not made for opening. We must grin and bear it. This morning, at breakfast, an HF guide was giving us advice about how to equip ourselves for the experience. He warned that the temp at the top might be 50F or so, with freezing windchill and to dress accordingly. Therefore, as we sit in this gondola flavored greenhouse effect in our overdressed condition, we all silently blame him. Except Marie. She is not silent. LOL.
At the top there is no windchill, no low temps. It is t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flop weather up there. The only things missing are bikinis, sandy beaches, and the smell of Coppertone lotion. There’s a half mile walk along a rocky path to a viewpoint populated with other tourists and their toddlers and dogs. Air is taken, photos are snapped, chats are initiated, and weather discussed. Our walking sticks are put to practical use. Along the path we spy a mob of college students freshly off the gondola. They are chattering in an undecipherable eastern European tongue. “We are from the Czech Republic”, chirps a young lass in perfect English. Suddenly I feel inadequate. This reminds me that I must rehearse my magic phrase. I need to memorize “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Czech” in Czech. We’re going there on the 21st. “Omlouvam se. Nemluvim cesky.”
Lunch is out of our paper bags, the picnics prepared by the hotel. Marie finds a worthy IPA at the cantina. CK and I go for the softy drinks. Our sun block is working overtime as we dine in the high altitude radiation, gazing over the valley.
The gondola takes us down again. By now, we’ve stripped a layer or two. The greenhouse effect isn’t as intense. A debate ensues regarding our motorized method back to the hotel: bus or taxi. It is a short debate. Taxi wins. I make an attempt to call for it but there is no cell service. I find a wifi connection which gives me VOI call capability. The taxi’s office phone rings but no answer. There is a hotel here. Surely they have a hotline to a taxi. CK makes the inquiry and sure enough, a taxi is summoned directly. We are whisked back to our neighborhood in Ballachulish in no time flat but not fast enough for Marie and I. We conk out like toddlers after a day at the fair and too many corn dogs. It was an expensive ride but I’m grateful to not be challenged by bus seats designed for Hobbits and Dwarves.
Dinner at the hotel is another mass feeding. I think I ordered Haggis, neeps, tatties. Yes, and here’s a photo of it, minus two bites.
Tomorrow I’m out on another short road trip to visit a whisky still.
Ballachulish – April 9
Breakfast: the overfeeding continues. I present a nominal resistance by consuming only tea, toast, and a chocolate croissant. I must be present for the mini tour bus. It departs at 9-ish for the settlement of Oban, pronounced ‘oh-bin’. Marie, Barbara, and CK are out in a different direction, the misty isle of Lismore.
With 16 tourists on the bus there is a chance for me to get that one seat that has a bit of leg room. Yes. It’s that one in the very back. I’m relieved because this is a 45 minute ride, much too long for my fake knees to be jammed against a piece of hard plastic. All is well, and we arrive in Oban on schedule.
Everyone else is going for a tour of some Laird’s castle and a stroll back to the town center. I’m the oddball. I have a booking at the Oban Distillery at noon. That’s the only thing on my dance card. I have two hours to kill. I spy a church. St John’s Episcopal Cathedral to be exact. It is an ancient looking thing. I need to look in and collect some photos for CK. It’s only fair as she would certainly do so if she were here. Inside, I get a gruff but friendly greeting from a middle aged gent sorting brochures near the door. The church organ is in operation. A fellow is wafting out some kind of melancholy hymn on it. The architecture is a hodgepodge of construction from different decades. It looks like half of the original church, begun in 1846, is missing or unfinished, the rest of it is being supported by heavy steel braces. Another bit is covered over by construction from later in the 19th century. The 1846 bit looks like it was designed to be a copy of a 12th century building. Had me fooled for a second.
There’s time to shop for a new beret, flat cap, newsboy, driving cap, whatever it is. I find some but I don’t fancy any. Interestingly, I find the very same tweed cap in 4 different shops with tags ranging from £12 to £49. When shopping in tourist zones, watch it.
I pass a sign proclaiming MUSEUM >. Why not? Located a block beyond the restaurant zone, it is a dusty little space full of knick-knacks, tchotchkes, uniformed mannikins, and equipment from World War II. Much of it is decaying, discolored, or in some other stage of rot but, nonetheless, carefully arranged. A friendly fellow, Lester I learn later, leaps from his desk in the center of the room, pulls me in, and chats me up. He tells me that the whole place is dedicated to the contribution Oban made to the war. He is an elderly gent but too young to be a veteran, of course. There are very few of those folks still alive. He is carrying on the memory of the struggle. It seems to be his calling. He has a companion to keep him company, I think his name is Rich. He didn’t say much. I am the only other person there.
I have time for a tea on the square next to the harbor. I indulge in some people watching and photo hunting. My booking for the distillery is at noon. I arrive at 11:50. A lad with the name tag of Marty greets me and calls me by name. “That’s a good trick”, I puzzle. “You’re the last to check in.” Turns out there are 16 in the booking and they all arrived before me. The tasting bar is on the 2nd floor. A group of cheerful tourists are getting a sampling from the barman. I lean in and they ask me to join them. I would but there’s only 3 minutes until our tour. I regret not popping in earlier.
Marty is our tour guide. He is from Aberdeen. "Has anyone been to Aberdeen? Don't go", he warns, "It's dull, grey, and grim." Thanks for the advice, I think. That was my first impression of Glasgow although my opinion improved once I got behind the facades.
He has a set script and it is a little dry but he keeps it moving with two important features: #1 lots of interesting facts and science, #2 cleverly spaced distributions of different versions of whisky. We get 4 of them. Oban is a small distillery, only 2 million bottles per year. Large producers make up to 50 million. Therefore, all of their processes, except the malting of the barley, are done in the building. He takes us through every production space where we get to experience the smells and the heat. In some spaces photos are forbidden. Other tours will show you a distillery no longer in use, a kind of museum. This one is nice because it is in full operation.
Bonus! We get to keep our little sample glass. Now, my challenge is to get the thing home without breaking it in my stuffed tight bag. In the gift shop I asked if they would ship a bottle of their best back home for me. Nopers. Too much trouble, for sure. They will sell it anyway without any of that bother. Drat.
All that’s left now is to count away some time with a lunch, a pint, and a walk around town again. I must meet the bus at 4:15. I discover a fish & chips joint. People are walking away with what looks like some terrific food but it’s a massive portion. I’d need CK’s help to manage it. Instead, I hunt down a chicken wrap. All the while I’m thinking about that battered fish.
The ride back is thankfully uneventful. This is followed by dinner with CK and the ladies. We have a lark exchanging tales of the day. I need to stop writing and post this or I’ll be getting no sleep.
Here is CK’s report of the ladies’ trip to Lismore:
Early morning phone calls to the only two local taxi services came up with “unavailable” for the desired 10am pick-up for the longish trip to the ferry that would take us to our walk on the Island of Lismore. A bit of consternation, but we pivoted. We have no choice but to summon a taxi from 20 minutes away, Fort William. It cost more but that’s the way it goes. Taxi gets us to Port Appin in good order, early for the ferry. At the convenient hotel café we ordered tea, coffee, scone. We all like scones with clotted cream and jam. Score.
The boat was late so the wait on the narrow pier was a bit chilly and windy. Finally, arrival on the Island of Lismore. This is a pleasant, quiet, rural place. A narrow single lane road is our path along the loch. Our first contact with a resident was a woman taking the pins down from her front yard clothesline. She wanted us to know that there are plenty of tourists coming to the island, but the tourists never buy anything! In her view there was no economic value from walkers and other tourists. We noted to ourselves that the ferry landing had no café, inn or gift shop of any size, and that the most likely retail and hospitality venue was about 3 miles along the road; not a situation conducive to spending money by the casual wanderer!
Along the shore we found escaped sheep perched on the shore rocks, looking like they owned the place. And of course, sheep in rocky pastures. Sheep! Lambs! Hungry, bleating, lambs! Mothering instincts are triggered! There were occasional cars, motorcycles and bikes careening along the road, which required quick retreats onto the narrow verge to let them pass. We tried for the Cultural Heritage Center and small hamlet inland on the island, but it was too distant. The ferry schedule demanded an abandonment of the goal of the Center and we turned around to retrace the walk. Sheep were still there on the path back. Bleating. At the ferry dock we did note a vintage red British telephone booth, filled with souvenirs, and an “Honesty Box” for payment. A small service to Tourists, it seems. In sum, it was a pleasant, quiet walk of about 4 miles in a bucolic setting, but we were tired!
Ballachulish – April 10
Our plan today has not much to do with physical exertion. It is entirely based upon modes of mechanized travel. Our HF house here at Ballachulish is pretty much out in the boondocks, meaning to say that there isn’t much around us for miles except a few scattered inns, homes, and cottages. The nearby village doesn’t even have a pub or a high street. The Ballachulish Hotel has a fine restaurant and bar, about a 20 minute walk from here. Another nearby joint, the Loch Leven Inn, has some services but it is wrong way funky, extremely dog-eared, with layers of grime that took years to acquire. To go in search of any other civilization will require a bus ride or the services of a taxi and there are no local taxis.
Back to our plan. We must summon a taxi from Fort William, 25 minutes away, to take us back to Fort William. The driver drops us at the train station where we will board the Jacobite Train. This name is attached to the train because of where it goes, through the village of Glenfinnan which was ground zero for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s attempt to restore the Stuart clan to the British crown in 1745. This is known as the Jacobite Uprising. Jacob=James, for James I of England, aka James VI of Scotland, who ascended the British throne in 1603 after the death of Elizabeth I. James I was the connection and the excuse for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s claim to the throne 142 years later. Whew. That’s why they call it the Jacobite Train. I suppose it could have been the Jimmy Train. It would roll off the tongue better, in my opinion, which carries no water. But in more popular reference it is known as the Hogwart’s Express because it was used as a prop in the movie ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’. It is now a mecca for Potter fans, young and old.
Of course, CK and I have read the books and seen the movies, in some cases multiple times. When in this part of the world we simply must ride this train. We booked it months ago. The weather is very good. Yeah. And in this case it is too good. It is so dry here in April that the officials are declaring extreme wildfire risk. This means that the principal iconic feature of this train, the steam locomotive, is taken out of service and replaced with a common diesel contraption. There is a little nostalgic flavor in the carriages as they date from the 1950s, restored to serviceable conditions. But this means we get no chugging, puffing, or photos of the colorful old machine and our little fantasy of sporting about in Harry Potter’s world takes a considerable hit.
Harry Potter is everywhere. At the station souvenir shop, on the train there’s a souvenir trolley that a young lass rolls down the aisle. Kids come dressed in their Hogwart’s house robes and scarves. Custom Harry Potter tours often arrive with scads of fans in tow and take over entire carriages. Luckily today is rather laid back. There are only a few kids on board. The ride is quiet, especially in our 1st class car. The ladies with the beverage trolley bring us tea and biscuits. We plunder the souvenir trolley for a Chocolate Frog because why not? After discovering that it comes with a 3D trading card featuring a Hogwart’s Professor, we buy another. We must have two cards for young Helene and Wille in Leipzig (we’ll be there for Easter Week).
The journey is about 2 hours through scenic Scottish Highlands with plenty of water in view. As it passes through Glenfinnan we approach the viaduct, the one providing the famous shot of the Hogwart’s Express steaming gloriously across it. Crowds of people are waiting to snap photos on the hillside above and from the glen down below the viaduct. They probably expect the steam engine, too. A diesel engine will never be as photogenic. Sorry guys.
The train ends at a village called Mallaig. There are a few tourist services and shops here but not much. It was once a hotspot for herring fishery. It may still be for all we know. We’re taking a short 1 hour ‘wildlife cruise’ on a local boat with 25 other tourists. The mild weather makes it all very pleasant. For wildlife we see only seabirds and two startled harbor seals whose naps we interrupted. As if to make up for the lack of porpoises and whales, a crewman stalks the crowd with a bottle of cheap scotch. He shares it out in wee plastic cups. Barbara is sipping hers when a 4 year old boy asks her what she is drinking. “It’s an adult drink”, goes the answer. “Oh,” he snaps, “whisky.” This is Scotland. Even toddlers know what’s what.
The hour at sea passes quickly and we’re back in the village for only 30 minutes, not even long enough to find the public loo. We managed to get an ice cream cone, though. It was a quickie. We have to be on the train again and on our way. The Hogwart’s Express carries us back the way we came, again with tea and biscuits, happy conversation, involuntary snoozing, and lovely scenery.
We’re out in Fort William again after the train discharges us. We take a few minutes to walk around. We discover Fort William’s High Street. I didn’t know it had one, so there you have it. CK finds a church with locked doors again. Marie and I go a little further up High Street until we feel that CK is missing us. Sure enough, my phone rings. It is CK, urging us to hurry the heck up or we’ll miss our taxi, which we pre-booked to get us back to Ballachulish.
Our driver is the same driver we had on Tuesday, the day we went up the gondola. Miss Victoria Macneil, aka Becky. Now I remember her. She is youngish and friendly. On Tuesday we got to chatting, she learned that we were going to Dublin on Sunday. We asked if she had been and had any recommendations. She had been, once, but didn’t have any advice because it was with a hen party and spent the whole time smashed. Perhaps she forgot she was our driver and this story, though colorful, didn’t help to boost our sense of security much. Just jokin'. She was perfectly sober. We're sure of it.
And this, sparing you a strained description of a noisy dinner in this country house dining room, is about it for the day. Meals are decent here, much improved over our last two HF experiences, one in the Peak District, the other in Whitby. I think we tend to overeat when meals are prepared for us. That’s why these extended travels are so dangerous. CK and Barbara take a constitutional after dinner in an attempt to neutralize some of the effects. Good luck to them, I say.
Ballachulish – April 11
Yesterday at pre-dinner drinks the ladies and I had a very lazy discussion about what we would do today. Since nobody offered an inspired suggestion, I declared that I would take myself back to Woodlands Golf Course for another go at Ye Olde Scottish Game of Honor. Surprise! Both CK and Marie offered to accompany me to lend moral support and provide caregiver services as needed. Golf spelled backward is Flog. For this reason, I suspect the game was invented by a masochistic sailor. This took place long ago and if that sailor isn’t dead by now, he probably wishes he was.
All joking temporarily (!) aside, the weather is loverly again for being out in the air, beating a round lump of plastic with a stick. A quick breakfast of tea and toast, for me, and the three of us are hoofing it to the course, a 30-minute walk across the Loch Leven bridge. This is the main road and busy, too. That makes walking over slightly unpleasant as large vehicles roar past at speed. At the far end of the bridge, I notice a hefty stone monument just above us on the stairs. It reads:
Erected 1911
To the memory of
James Stewart
Of Appin (the inscription says “Acharii”?)
Or
“James of the Glens”
Executed on this spot
November 8th 1752,
For a crime of which
He was not guilty
It’s a tale of murder, politics, and clan grudges which would strain my patience to make interesting in this blog. For an entertaining re-telling of it, I recommend Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel “Kidnapped” since it was based on this event. Local lore has it that poor James was hanged from the limb of a tree, near the monument, and left for the crows to feast upon. After birds and weather had reduced him to nothing but a pile of bones, the wretched Campbells gathered them up, lashed them together, and hanged them again from the same tree.
Freshly fortified by a bit of local history, we’re ready to proceed to the golf course at which we arrive in three shakes of a lamb’s tail. Jimmy is there in his food truck, serving out breakfast to the guests who stay in glamping pods over by the brook. Or is it beck? Or is it burn? I say creek but I’m just a Yank. Jimmy offers the use of his clubs again and I happily accept. The ladies can use my clubs if they want to chip and putt around the greens. So, off we all trudge on our last full day in the Scottish Highlands lurching around a golf track by the edge of Loch Leven, as sunlight plays through the mist wafting around the fells. A fine day. It is made even finer as my flogging results in one under par scores on the 5th and 6th holes. The ladies very kindly admire the feat and reserve any mocking behavior for more private moments. On the 5th hole, as I drain the putt for a 3, a gust of wind comes off the loch strong enough to dislodge party balloons from one of the glamping sites. It was in the shape of the number 3. A 2 shaped balloon was also being carried away on the wind so it must have been a birthday for someone who was 23 or 32. But the 3-shaped balloon seemed to float over the green just as I holed out. CK was quick enough with her I-phone to get a shot. The photo here has been touched up a little but seriously, the number 3 floated over my birdie in real time. HA!
The rest of the round was not as inspiring. I made some good swings and others of a decidedly geriatric nature of which I am totally guilty and should be hanged, thereof, on a sturdy branch. The ladies left me at the 9. I played the rest solo. Luckily I had no glorious scores that required witnessing.
After the round I thank Jimmy again for his kindness. The ladies and I retire to the Ballachulish Hotel Bar for a 19th hole meditation over ginger beer, espresso martini, and a Guinness. A fine day it was.
Barbara opted for what she calls ‘Robe & Slippers Day’. It is exactly what it sounds like, a day of lazing about. Reading, writing, looking for bumblebees. Later in the afternoon CK joins her to enjoy some Bluebells which just began to bloom.
This is the part of the blog where I muddle my narrative with some observations that didn’t conveniently segue from anything else:
First: I want to acknowledge our barkeep here at this country house, Imadae. Originally from Nigeria. He was very kind to us and a fine fellow.
Second: There’s a good electric kettle I used in our room to make tea for myself. Next to it is a tray with all the tea, sugar packets, coffee packets, etc. Also, there are these packets of milk. They are meant to be opened by tearing them across the top. I learned quickly that if I'm not particularly precise with my thumb placement, an eruption of milk flies about 3 feet in random directions creating an annoying mess. My next thought is more disturbing. How can this even exist? These ‘milk sticks’ are not refrigerated. They don’t even have a ‘sell-by’ date. How am I not being poisoned? Very curious.
Third: Here is a door with what looks like firm instructions that MUST be obeyed. Not. LOL
Fourth: Midges. We’re in the western part of Scotland and these little blighters are part of the landscape, they tell us. The season runs from early May to late September. They are tiny and they swarm. They are famous for being a hellacious annoyance. Like a mosquito, the female bites to obtain blood for egg development. When she is successful, she
broadcasts a pheromone which attracts more midges. One or two bites aren’t much of a bother. It’s the swarming, the bites of hundreds of them that becomes agonizing. One of our taxi drivers, Peter, told me of a daft dare the Scottish lads sometimes get up to called The Midgy Challenge. Strip off the hat, mask, net, whatever and let a cloud of the festering buggers have at you for 60 seconds. Can you take the punishment? I ask Peter if there’s
drinking involved and he says no. I shoot him a puzzled look. “Look it up on You Tube”, sez he. I do. The poor lad is whining 20 seconds in. He lasts the entire 60 but it isn’t pretty. The suffering is real. Fortunately, this is April and they have not hatched out yet. Our luck holds for now.
Tomorrow we are making a run back to Glasgow.
Ballachulish to Glasgow – April 12
Our time at the HF country house is done. This means we are now transitioning from there toward Dublin but not yet. We are stopping for the night in Glasgow before grabbing a flight to Ireland tomorrow afternoon. We don’t have time to do much in Glasgow except check in to the hotel, hunt down our meals, and get some sleep.
From Ballachulish to Glasgow is a two hour plus ride in a mini-coach. Again, I don’t fit in the seats. I must claim that one seat in the last row with no seat in front of it. This is fine except for the bounce effect. Scottish roads aren’t the smoothest. Each pothole launches the buses frame onto the rear springs making the back of the bus feel like a fat kid belly flopped on to the other end of the teeter-totter. It was so bumpy, my watch was counting steps.
Our rooms are at the Hotel Indigo, in the middle of town, more or less. We stash our gear and dash out directly toward our lunch date, a 45 minute walk which is ok with us having spent all morning on our keisters doing nothing but sitting and hoping our bus driver was sober. It is a fine, warm Spring day again. It’s Saturday so everyone seems to be out enjoying it. Our route takes us through Kelvingrove Park and the University campus, all very picturesque with blooming cherry trees, daffodils, tulips, and daisies in the lawn.
Ashton Lane is our goal, a second location for an Innis & Gunn Taproom. Quite unexpectedly we find that this little side street is a Glaswegian social hotspot. There’s a beer garden, a couple of boutique hotels, and several restaurants and bars. All of it is tarted up for good times and conspicuous consumption. Our lunch is burgers and beer and we’re hungry for it. As we exit the pub there’s a bridal hen party in full tilt boogie occupying the first floor of the neighboring hotel. The bride is cheerfully lit, accompanied by her bridesmaid. They pose for some pix.
We taxi back to the hotel because we’re too tired to walk and we all need a nap, being old farts and all. We’re already planning our next meal, which is at ‘The Ivy’ at 7 pm. So, let’s just say that the naps happen and we're ready to start out toward our dinner rez. Our restaurant is a 20 minute walk. Along our way we discover that we’ve again found one of Glasgow’s throbbing social hotspots, Buchanan Street. This is another bar and restaurant zone. Plenty of young people are out and about looking for something approximating a good time. By the look of some of them, especially the scantily clad ladies, they are going clubbing, that is, to a dance joint. These clubs must be hidden from easy view because they weren't obvious to us.
I was told that Glasgow features a number of examples of art deco architecture and design. The Ivy is one place to find it. If you are ever in Glasgow, try to stop in here just to admire the interior décor and the atmosphere. From the two island bars and the liveried servers to the art prints and light fixtures, it is outstanding, radiating a charming balance of relaxed elegance and style. Hercule Poirot might waddle through and I wouldn’t blink.
Our meals were small but tasty. Nobody was very hungry after our hefty pub lunch. Our server, Ryan, was chatty and entertaining. Lots of friendly smiles and joking, no snobbery at all. A top class act, The Ivy.
For some reason, we’re all weary and ready for a reset. Tomorrow Barbara goes to the airport at 5 am or so for her flight back to the US, so we won’t see her until next time. It was lovely to have her company again. CK, Marie, and I will have some time to squander before our flight to Ireland, but I think we’ll manage somehow.
Today, I have more photos than prose. Cheers!
Glasgow Addendum
Although we wandered some distance in various directions in Glasgow we were, sadly, never within shouting distance of The Saracen Head. This pub (The Sarry Heed) was one of Billy Connolly’s favorite haunts. He is the most famous of all modern Glaswegian entertainers of the past 40 years or so. He’s 82 now and suffers from Parkinsons but in his day he was a beauty. You may not know who he is, but I’ll help you. If you saw the movie, The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies, you would see him as Dain Ironfoot, threatening to split the Elf King’s pretty head open like a grapefruit. He’s a legend in Scotland and the UK in general. And despite his profligate use of the F word in his standup comedy (Lenny Bruce would blush) he was dubbed a Knight of the Realm. Sir Billy Connolly. Go to YouTube and look up “The Crucifixion” for 15 minutes of savage comedy.
As this bar was Billy’s go-to hang out, I was simply curious to see it. There won’t be any art deco elegancia here. I expect it to be a rugged place, well worn and shabby right down to the nails but also, a genuine bit of Glaswegian working man’s culture. Billy said that the Saracen is the only pub he knows of that has its own song:
The girl that I marry will have to be
Able to swallow more wine than me
And Carlsberg Special Brew
And Newcastle Brown Ale, too.
The girl that I marry will drink in the Sarry with me.
The girl that I marry will have to be
Heiress to a pub or a brewery
I hope that she comes on soon
‘cuz on our honeymoon
The girl that I marry will drink in the Sarry with me.
Women were not allowed in pubs like this until 1989. I would have asked the barkeep if he knew when the song was made. If it was before that date, I would have had more questions.
Hooray, more Timalogs! We loved Glasgow, even though we were told it was all those depressing things you describe. It wasn't.