“Well then how in the hell do you expect to get here?”

Before heading off on our big adventure up north we surprised many a native Briton by not renting a car in Scotland and instead depending on public transportation for not one, but two weeks. After returning, I understand their misgivings. Traveling around Scotland without a tiny, European rental car is challenging, and yet I personally would not have wanted it any other way. We would not have detoured and seen York station for the first time, glanced the eastern coastline amidst the northern sunset, seen what Harry Potter saw, or detoured once again through Glencoe and it’s beautiful mountain ranges.

With this being said I would advise those who tend to worry about punctuality and the smooth carrying out of pre-planned plans to please rent a car, especially if your trip falls in those disastrous days before British summer time in the abandoned north (although I cannot for the life of me discern the difference in seasons between March 25th and March 26th, the date of which spring is apparently completely skipped over to blistery “summer,” and now that I think of it, being currently in the throes of actual British summer, March 26th is not that much colder than June 19th for one vacationing once again in the north, but that’s another story.)

All in all, we boarded 7 trains, 6 busses, 2 boats, and one slightly dodgy taxi in order to complete our two week journey. Of our original travel itinerary, only two legs of the trip were accomplished as originally designed, the beautiful journey between the Isle of Skye and Fort William by way of a brisk ferry trip and a ride over the acclaimed stretch of track connecting Malliag to Fort William and a direct train trip from Stirling to Edinburgh. During our two weeks in Scotland we rode both scenic railway lines accessing the remote and mountainous west coast of Scotland. The first, connecting Malliag and Fort William, is part of the West Highland Line, famous not only for its unparalleled views but also for the Glenfinnan Viaduct, overlooking the Glenfinnan memorial and most recognizably used as the route to Hogwarts in the Harry Potter films.

One very drunk, elderly man made part of our journey on this line equally unforgettable when he decided on a mostly empty train car to not only sit right next to us but to also engage us in a stream of dribble, the content of which is still debated today. I can say for certain he told the tale of being unfaithful to his wife, who, upon discovering this, would certainly sick their dogs on him. He also advised Kevin to keep me in line through the use of certain domestic violence. Both fortunately and unfortunately he detrained at Arisaig. Fortunately as it was the second call on the line, thus leaving us earlier rather than later. Unfortunate because as we pulled into Arisaig, a small village placed on the map by poet Alasdiar MacMhaighstir Alasdair (but most likely is now better known in the region due to its having a railway stop and a Spar), I found it to be the most agreeable small village, lost to the beauty of the West Highlands. That is, until Crazy McCrazytown said his goodbyes, asked us to pray for his safety, I’m pretty sure made a racist comment, before detraining at the lovely Arisaig. Sorry, most adorable little town, I will surely never patron you based on this one encounter.

We arrived in Inverness late into the first day of our travels. Our original train journey between Sheffield and our first destination in the north was disrupted by “vandalism,” according to the station authorities, which caused gas leaks on certain vital points along the track. Thus we were delayed and detoured, our first of many travel adjustments made throughout the next two weeks. Besides this hiccup, and the need to hop on and off three trains instead of two, the CrossCountry service to Inverness was perfectly uneventful. We did have to sprint and jump upon an almost-moving train in Edinburgh, but that’s besides the point. The views up the eastern coast were worth the many hours sitting across from a paranoid business man who shuddered and winced each time my knee accidently grazed his own. The staff were friendly, the train was clean, and before we knew it we were sliding into Inverness.

A few days later we were at the station again, which boasts its own old-timey barber parlor, and aboard the Kyle of Lochalsh Line, the second scenic railway, bound for the west coast with plans to reach Armadale on the Isle of Skype by nightfall. Now plans are a funny thing. So are travel advice websites, where one can read in plain, black and white English that traveling from Kyle of Lochalsh to Armadale is as easy as two swift and cheerful bus rides, one across the famous Skye bridge into Kyleakin, and another down Sleat, a peninsula on Skye on which one finds Armadale. Reality is another funny thing. Arriving into Kyle of Lochalsh, a town about the size of my thumb, finding the bus stop was as easy as walking down the only street in Kyle of Lochalsh. Finding the bus was another matter entirely. According to the schedule plastered inside the bus shelter, we had arrived within the only hour that no busses come or go within the village. And then it started pouring. Not any kind of rain with which mere mortals may be experienced, but coastal Scotland rain. We found a chippie, warmed ourselves in our new found fried delicacies, and waiting, and waited.

Soaked and aboard the bus to Kyleakin (which we could see from the bus stop and most likely could have swam there by this point and had been just as wet and cold), and being the only passengers, we discussed our options with the bus driver about getting to Armadale. We were told that without a car there was no way we would reach our destination that night. But, after our 7 minute bus ride across the bridge into Kyleakin, if we wanted to wait another hour or so, the same bus with the same driver would be back to bring passengers the 8 miles to Broadford, not on Sleat but a tiny bit closer.

Sitting in another bus shelter watching the sky pour down now on the other side of Kyle Akin (yes, the strip of water between Kyle of Lochalsh and Kyleakin is called “Kyle Akin”) we phoned the Flora MacDonald Hostel, as camping seemed no longer an option, explaining that we were attempting to get to the accommodation advertised as “just north” of the Aramdale pier (which was in fact a little over 3 miles north), without a car, he replied, “Well how in the hell do you think you’re going to get here?” This simple question summed up our entire carless experience in Scotland.

Understanding now that this task may be a little more difficult than originally perceived, we were instructed by the hostel manager to hitch hike. He assured us that Skye is very friendly and locals are used to hitch hikers. Stuck in Kyleakin, hitch hiking seemed the most viable option, that is if either of us proved themselves able to successfully hitch hike. My predisposition to believe every person passing was a potential homicidal maniac based on the make and model of their vehicle, and Kevin’s indecisive suggestions of, “maybe them…maybe them…maybe them…” lead us to fail in our first ever joined hitch hiking experiment. The empty bus returned prompting me to wonder where it had even gone in the first place and if, as it seemed, we were the only passenger of the entire day, the driver couldn’t take a slight detour onto Sleat and deliver two wet and weary travelers to the unknown hostel awaiting us. Instead, we went to Broadford.

Broadford serves as the metropolitan center of Skye. It has a Co-Op grocery store (from which we bought wine), a gas station (at which I scoped out prospective hitchees, finding none desirable), some restaurants (all of which seemed closed), and a youth hostel (at which we contemplated stopping). Instead we hooked up with Norma, the taxi driving grandmother extraordinaire. Norma showed up in a nondescript four door sedan which had no makings of a taxi. Regardless she shuttled us the 18 or so miles to our hostel, of which she had never heard. She spoke with us candidly of how little she valued England, her belief that Scotland was much more inviting and much less racist than England, and what it takes in someone’s character to live on such a small island, isolated from most of the world. Pulling into the hostel I was a little sad to see Norma go, and even sadder to say goodbye to the car, as the next few days saw us traipsing up and down the A851 (which only took 10 years to build according to prominent signs scattered throughout) towards Armadale and back.

After some days on Skye it was time to catch the Malliag ferry and be on our way. Equipped with our heavy packs and with about a 3 mile hike to the port we made another go of hitch hiking along the A851 (the full bus service along this route started literally the next day, thank you British-Summer-Time). This go around I did not discriminate, I was an equal opportunity hitch hiker, sticking my thumb out for all who crossed my path. There is nothing that inflicts low self esteem more than being turned down with shrug after shrug, (trust me, they all pity-shrugged) of local Skye residents. My yearn for four wheels and regret at packing across Scotland stopped in that moment as we viewed a rare sea eagle taking to the sky, reminding me of all we were able to see on two feet.

The lack of a vehicle also came in handy while boarding the ferry, as pedestrian crossing is much cheaper. The Sound of Sleat must be viewed from the water, don’t let anyone tell you any different. Sailing into Malliag, we quickly boarded the West Highland Line to Fort William.

After two days hiking the Great Glen Way, I was ready for a city break. Next on the agenda was Stirling, then on to Edinburgh. First we had to return to Fort William to board our train to Stirling. We easily caught a bus near Loch Lochy and traveled down the opposite banks of the Loch up which we had just hiked. Once in Fort William, another change of plans. A piece of track was out between Fort William and Crianlarich and we detoured on a bus through Glencoe instead. The winding mountain pass was beautiful. Once in Crianlarich I was reminded once more that such detours were serendipitous as we passed by a small and unique church. The local service into Stirling provided passengers with remarks concerning points of interest along the way, and although the sound system made the mini-speeches unrecognizable, I appreciated the efforts of the elderly porter.

Our last train ride was from Stirling to Edinburgh, and was thankfully uneventful, unlike our means of transportation from Edinburgh back to England. So yes, we packed through Scotland in the cold, frost-bitten March without access to a car. But we reached remote villages of the West Highlands, islands with more sheep than citizens, and journeyed on rail lines renown for their beautiful scenery. We camped along an ancient Loch kissed by a rainbow (OK, that’s going a little overboard, but it DID happen!) I would not recommend this journey to the faint of heart, or to anyone who would rather have a seamless, perfect vacation, but for those who like to get their hands a little dirty, and maybe like to view many, many sheep, leave the car at home and take Scotland by foot.

Among the mist in the Great Glen, Part 1

Some time has passed since Ashley and I were packing our way through the highlands of Scotland, but while our graduate school coursework is over for now, it’s time to fill in some of our adventures in Great Britain this spring.

As part of our two-week jaunt through Scotland over our Easter break, Ashley and I planned to hike a portion of the Great Glen Way. The Great Glen, or An Gleann Mòr in Scots Gaelic, is a long series of lochs in a deep valley formed by the transverse fault of two different tectonic plates. Sparing you, the reader, from what I’ve been told is likely the ‘boring geological details,’ suffice it to say that this long, straight valley cuts Scotland in two, with the Grampian Mountains to the south and the northwest Highlands to the north. It’s been a major travel route for millennia, with fairly easy walking along the rivers and lochs from the southwest to northeast. Myth asserts that Saint Columba (or Calum Cille in Scots Gaelic), the Irish missionary monk, travelled along the Great Glen during his time in Scotland. Various proponents of St Columba suggest during his time evangelising the Picts of Scotland, he walked the Great Glen towards Inverness in the north to meet with the pagan king Bridei.

The Great Glen has long been seen as an important point in controlling the highland clans, with three English-built fortifications along the route. Fort William, at the southwest edge of the River Lochy and Loch Linnhe, Fort Augustus on the south end of Loch Ness, and Fort George at the northeast end of the River Ness, near Inverness. During the Victorian period, the Caledonian Canal was constructed along the whole thing, linking the long, deep lochs and rivers of the Great Glen and allowing commercial and military vessels to move from the Atlantic Ocean to the North Sea without having to move around the dangerous waters to the north. It was also undertaken to help the highlanders out due to all the economic and social issues caused by the Highland Clearances which forced many a Scottish family to America and others, but that’s another story.

We set off from Fort William for a two-day hike with a mind to hit a midpoint along the Glen at South Laggan, where we’d then make our way down to Sterling to continue the tour. Our lovely B&B hosts in Fort William offered to drive us down from their hill-top home near Ben Nevis (the highest peak in the UK) to the ruins of Fort William itself. We then followed the trail through a few suburban paths and across railroad bridges to the ruins of Inverlochy Castle. The castle itself has an interesting history, having likely been built on a Pictish settlement destroyed by Vikings in addition to being an anti- Robert I (the Bruce) stronghold and the site of a 1431 victory for Clan Donald against the army of King James I. But we’re trending back to me and my historical ramblings. Long story short, the castle was unoccupied for a time and is now cared for by Historic Scotland. So, wanting to get at least 12 miles or so in for the day, we left.

When passed through a few of the other small towns that have cropped up along the southern end of the Caledonian Canal, through neighbourhoods with local pipe bands practicing in schools, and out at last to the first locks of the Canal. Here, we joined the old tow-paths on the flat banks of the water and hiked towards Neptune’s Staircase. While most of the Glen doesn’t change too much in elevation and thus never requires more than a lock or two, here at the end of the River Lochy, Neptune’s Staircase is a series of many many locks that spans 60 or so vertical metres and takes boats over an hour to traverse. It was also, for the most part, the steepest incline for us for the day.
It was a chilly, windy, and frequently drizzly morning along the banks of the canal. We passed the occasional canal boat, groups of friendly old Scottish people we made friends with, and even a horse-backed group of tourists. Eventually, a small note on our map indicated we were getting close to the Sheangain Aqueduct. During the construction of the Canal, a few rivers actually have to be crossed over, so the man-made canal flows on bridges over smaller natural streams and rivers. We decided to drop our packs and head down a small footpath to see the base of the aqueduct, the second largest on the canal, for ourselves.

From here, it was trudging back on, with the shrill wind letting up a bit but more rain (read: it’s the highlands of Scotland in March).


Making good time, we hit upon the Moy Swing Bridge and little town of Gairlochy by mid-afternoon. The Moy Swing Bridge is quite cool, in that it’s the oldest original swing bridge still on the Canal, in which the keeper still lives in a cottage by the canal. When a boat comes, the keeper swings open one side of the bridge, then hops in a little Zodiac raft, boats across the canal, and opens the other side for the boat to pass.
There wasn’t much to Gairlochy, but here our trail diverted off the Canal tow-paths and up the hill slopes as we came southern end of the long, narrow Loch Lochy. For the rest of the day and the entirety of the following day, we’d be keeping the loch on our right as we hiked along its 9 miles. It’s not as deep as Loch Ness (only 230-something feet), but, not to be outdone by its more famous cousin, is home to its own plesiosaur/mythological creature known as “Lizzie.”
Also, I spied the partially sunken hull of a ship along its banks.

We worked our way up and up, along the A82 highway for a while, but always keeping the Loch on our right and in our sights. Unfortunately, we were losing the daylight and had also made better time than we had planned. So, casting about for a place to pitch our tent (in Scotland, you can camp on anyone’s land or fields for a few days legally). However, most of the land for the next foreseeable stretch was owned by the Scottish Forestry Commission, and was posted as off-limits due to logging. So what did we do? Found a quiet, secluded hummock of land, sheltered by the gentle swells of the ground from the ever-persist wind off the loch on one side and view from the highway on the other. With the threat of more rain and the possibility of snow coming on, we sent up camp.

And had this view from our tent:

With the sunlight fading and the chill really coming on, we made ourselves a quick warm dinner and settled into our tent to read by head-torch (headlamp) and warmed ourselves with little sampler bottles of Scotch we had picked up in Fort William a few days before.
Next time, we’ll continue our hike on the shores of Loch Lochy and explore some cool points of interest along the way to our destination of South Laggan.

The Feminist Fiance

Every once in a while during wedding planning the little feminist within me, OK let's be honest, the very large feminist, cringes and/or laughs at certain expected customs loaded with unfortunate symbolism (needless to say I shan't throw a bouquet---the fact that that statement rhymes makes it even more awesome.) Don't get me wrong, I love tradition and heritage and for that I am a very unique feminist (I'm also a liberal, feminist Catholic, figure that one out.) Yesterday while searching around for vintage wedding ephemera for design elements on bits and pieces of wedding-related things, I came across these old rating charts for husbands and wives. Such a discovery leans more towards the laughing than the cringing reaction and we had fun "rating" each other's potential worthiness as a spouse.

Kevin scored a 13, and if you click on the husband rating form to enlarge, you'll see such a low score results in failure. This is most likely due to the fact that he doesn't read aloud to me, or give me any allowance, and because he reads the paper at the table (but again, not aloud to me, shame on him.)

Sadly, I only received a 7, utter failure. This is due to many factors including wearing red nail polish (harlot!!), failing to darn socks regularly, and not dressing for breakfast (or making breakfast?) I would like to point out here that my score would have been a -3 if not for my church attendance, which brought in a staggering 10 points! (Way to go Catholicism!) It's also worth pointing out that the husband's rating form does not mention religion at all, or the ability to play a music instrument (also of vital importance to be a good wife.)

Rate yourself, rate each other, trust me it's a good time. Of course reflect on how far we've come, but don't forget to ponder how far there is yet to go. Visit http://feministing.com/ to see just how much more there is to fight for (wow, more corny rhyming!)

The Wheels on the Bus…

I shall begin the story of our latest trip with its end, specifically the journey home between Edinburgh and Sheffield after two weeks traipsing through beautiful Scotland. An accidental April’s Fools joke, we arrived exactly 24 hours late for our Megabus departure from the Edinburgh bus terminal, which was surprisingly small and unfortunate, due to the poor ticket-reading skills of yours truly. In my defense it was the only blatant travel mistake made after organizing 14 days of trains, buses, failed hitch hikes (OK, so I didn’t really organize that one,) ferry rides, hostels, hotels, bed and breakfasts, and squatting on land presumably owned by a lumber company. With the admittance of my full guilt I can now continue to the haphazard method stumbled upon for getting us home.

After the bus terminal employee explained to me that our tickets were for the day before, in an unnecessarily gloating tone, we sat in bitter disbelief. While I continued to have a mini-freak out, Kevin calmly approached the ticket counter where he was informed that not only was the next bus to Sheffield not until the next day, but that there were in fact no busses going south anywhere near Yorkshire. A quick call to the train station delivered similarly depressing news as the cheapest train tickets ran about 200 pounds. As we sat and I glared at the unhelpful attendant, who, in that same tone, refused to hold our ill-fated Megabus five minutes to allow us to run to the nearest cash point for the on-the-stop demanded further payment, “LEEDS” in large letters reflected on the smudged terminal window. It was a sign, literal not figurative, on a bus pulling into the terminal. I ran to the closest helpful employee pleading our case in desperate hopes to get us on that bus. That bus, as it turned out, was a planned tour.

The terminal employee and I approached the large, bearded bus driver with caution. Planned tours do not offer seats to non-tour passengers. The Santa-like bus driver said no at least a dozen times. However after some skillful negotiation (and/or the batting of some lashes over tear-welled eyes) he relented. Kevin and I waited in anticipation as the driver, Ben, the terminal employee, and the tour guide (a middle aged woman sporting a pursed upper lip and, I sensed, a distaste for the current situation,) held a meeting of minds deciding our fate. The terminal employee broke from the group and walked passed me with a look and nod inviting me to follow. Far away from the bus he informed me, in whispered tones and with twitchy, cautious eyes like a bad TV spy, that we could indeed catch a ride with this planned tour, who’s name I shall not give away to, um, protect our rescuers. However, this was a Scottish tour. We had to remain silent les we be found out as, well, obviously not Scottish. Also this was a singles-only tour. We could sit together, but we shouldn't like it.

We could do this, I thought as Ben loaded our ragged packs and my walking stick under the bus. We’re young, we’re fun, we could totally be mute singles on a planned tour to Yorkshire. As we boarded the bus we saw widows, widowers, spinsters, and playboys…all over 65. That’s right, this was not the young, twenty-something singles tour, or even the middle aged divorcee “Stella Got Her Groove Back” kind of tour, but a hey-could-you-pass-the-Bengay kind of singles tour. They seemed as shocked to see us as we were to see them and we scrambled to sit and melt quietly into the seats, invisible. I’m pretty sure “blending in” was no longer an option.

In order to keep from giving away our Americaness and “keep a low profile” as nervously, and far too often, instructed by our smugglers, we employed an age-old method practiced throughout the Animal Kingdom when threatened. We played dead. Each tea stop brought the curious grandparents from their slumber towards our position behind enemy lines. Each time we feigned sleep. It seems the only way to keep a bus full of potentially inquisitive elderly folk at bay is to literally play dead. Once or twice they did tempt us to abandon our strategy with offers of “sweeties” but to no avail.

Our rescuers, the tour guide and the bus driver, were noticeably on edge the entire six hour trip. Yes, we were on this bus for six hours without talking to others or each other. Each time she passed our hideout the tour guide winked, making the already interested “ladies who bus” even more curious as to our identity. Ben had previously asked us for some money, which turned out was a bribe we were more than willing to pay. The tour guide asked us to slide the cash in a brochure and slip it to her, as if she were living out some long-dead espionage fantasy. If anything we were happy to provide the tour guide and Ben some much deserved drinks in the hotel bar after they spent their Easter weekend on a 65+ singles caravan tour.

As we finally rolled through Leeds I was relieved that we’d would get to break radio silence and relax after an entire day evading conversation and even eye contact with a caravan full of gossiping biddies. But first we had to sit through a lengthy speech by the official hotel welcome wagon as the ladies “ooooh”ed and “ahhhh”ed when informed of their welcome drink and dinner times. (The men taking part of this singles tour kept mainly to themselves at the front of the bus, obviously not what the vixens in the back had in mind for a hot weekend away.)

As we left the bus and retrieved our packs, the entire group of hovering elderly watched us depart as if it were a scene from The Sound of Music (So Long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, goodbye…goodbye…goodbye!). Running free through the streets of Leeds, speaking to each other for the first time since we re-boarded the bus after lunch at a garden center in northern England, we found the train station and jumped on the next train bound to Sheffield. Over the next hour of travel I almost missed the surprisingly crude talk of “scoring” men at the hotel bar, the constant passing around of unappetizing hard candy, singing along to music from the 1940s, discussions of grandchildren who have not yet reached their full potential (don’t worry woman-sitting-in-front-of-me-with-oxygen-tank, I’m sure he’s just going through a phase,) more frequent bathroom breaks than I’ve experienced in my life (although I’m almost certain that the majority of these were more for tea and cigarettes than to use the facilities,) and the waves of ooooooo’s and ahhhhhh’s as Ben announced factoids such as “To our left as we drive around Newcastle you’ll see the MetroCentre, the largest mall in Europe.”

A Night of Spoken Word; or Ode to Jonny Donut

Last week Kevin and I journeyed passed the confines of our self-created local Sheffield bubble in which we have been living and playing since September and crossed Ecclesall Road, passed London Road, and onto Abbeydale Road, far from Crookes and familiar surroundings. The purpose of this exploratory dip into new territory was to visit a much recommended cafe, In the Rude Shipyard Beneath my Window (Rude Shipyard for short). As well as being a small house-turned-cafe, the Rude Shipyard is also a book shop and generally chill place to have a cup of tea and some homemade Guinness cake (hail the chocolaty goodness). Described by its owners as “a living room where money changes hands,” a trip to this two-storied cafe is indeed reminiscent of visiting the home of an old friend, at least the home you imagine your old friends having. The decor is eclectic, rows of bookshelves line the walls and antique furniture is weary and welcoming.

This particular evening the cafe was hosting “The Wrote & The Writ” which featured local writers, poets, and musicians. I arrived far too early, as is my new custom, ordered a cup of tea which was delivered in one of the cafe’s mismatched mugs (scoring huge points and further creating a sense of hominess), and nestled myself into a corner with a book trying to figure out why I was given an empty eggcup (eventually discovering it was a repository for my used teabag). The only customer in the cafe at a point too late for teatime and too early for that night’s festivities, I attempted to be as invisible as possible as staff went about their business and eventually faces familiar to them arrived. As Kevin arrived the small building filled up quickly and even quicker the group of us who crowded into the upstairs room became a mini community, experiencing each separate performance together.

The first reader was Jep reading from Turn the Lights Out, a travel novel based on the author’s own experiences and also his love of cannabis. Next came Andrew Costa, a singer/songwriter whose songs do not follow the typical formula. The very small venue provided the best surrounding for his intimate guitar performance. Rachel Ingrams arrived and read from her novel Blood Tender. Her writing style was very poetic in nature, emotive and rhythmic. An evocative reader, after the one chapter I wanted to know more about her characters and their stories. Matt Black, a poet and also an activist who, during the course of his performance, urged the audience to vote (a call for active citizenship accompanied by cupcakes and an original poem mocking reasons people choose not to vote), was the most amusing of the evening. His spoken word was set to live guitar and told the story of Jonny Donut, a character inspired by an ice cream van parked in Cleethropes, an old seaside resort not far from Sheffield. Poor Jonny Donut was having some sort of existential crisis which was responsible for his hearing voices (predominantly the voice of a god of pistachio) and creating ice cream “lolly” molds of Dolly Parton among others. The only thing I regret about this performance is I did not record it in its entirety and I have been searching since for any such recording.

After chatting with the proprietor and leaving the Rude Shipyard we did what all twenty-somethings do when their Friday nights end and they emerge onto the streets in the early morning hours, we found a restaurant opened passed midnight and enjoyed a late (or early?) dinner of Turkish meze, deep in discussion of that evening’s enlightening entertainment.

Scotland in Images: Churches

We visited some beautiful churches while in Scotland with St. Andrews' in Fort William being my favorite. We'll be sure to discuss each church in further detail in upcoming blogs.

Scotland in Images: Castles

Although I'm sure we'll soon get around to providing all with many delicious blog posts related to our lengthy trip in Scotland, I thought I'd first try out yet another editing software while also sharing some of our photos from the trip. Please enjoy this series of images from our time in Scotland.