Not much to say about day eight. There’s only so much to be said about a hour-plus connecting flight and then a ten-hour one that turned into eleven hours. But I did have an interesting breakfast.
Black pudding had danced before my eyes on all sorts of menus all week—lunch, dinner, often combined with steak or lamb in a chef-oriented entrée. I knew I had to taste it before I left, and I resolved to do so that last morning. I thought it was pudding like maybe tapioca, so I asked our host, David, if I could have just a teaspoonful. Well, it didn’t come that way—it was a coarse-textured and very black pattie, like I remember my mom cutting off cans of corned beef hash. I ate my sausage and eyed that pattie. Finally I took a bite: it tasted like oatmeal, maybe a bit saltier, maybe a bit sweeter. I asked David the point of adding the dried pigs blood, and he said he supposed it was simply to make use of every part of the animal. (I must learn to take pictures of food!) I did eat almost all of it, I’m glad I tried it, but I won’t miss it much since it’s not available here.
There is one airplane story on what seemed an interminable flight: a friend who is a wellness counselor had given me a sheet of exercises that you can do in your seat to avoid deep vein thrombosis. They involved turning your feet in small circles, walking in place while sitting, stretching your arms various ways, etc. I did them rather faithfully, and the kids thought it was funny to imitate me, especially when we were sitting in exit aisles and had plenty of leg room. They would swing their feet and legs in wide circles, grinning at me all the time. Passersby—and the attendants—must have thought we were all nuts.
We landed in Houston at 8:40--I don't even want to think about what time that was in Scotland--and Megan caught a flight (barely) to Austin; Colin and I went to his house, and everyone crashed. Next morning I was on a 9:00 a.m. flight to DFW and home before noon. The trip was over before I knew it.
In this series of posts I have referred to my son and daughter, ages 42 and 40 respectively, as “the kids.” They are; they will always be my children. But they are the best traveling companions (and guardians) ever.
If you’ve enjoyed my posts on Scotland, I’m grateful. Writing them was a great way to cement the trip in my mind, just as it feels as if it might flit away in the dailyness of life. It also helped me gain some perspective on all that we saw and did. I surely haven’t seen all of Scotland, let alone a sixteenth of its many castles. I’m glad we went at the pace we did and saw as much as we could. But on another trip—yes, now I’m counting on it—I’d like to stay in one place for several days, probably on Skye.
Showing posts with label Isle of Skye. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Isle of Skye. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Scotland, Day Three: The Isle of Skye
Years ago I saw a British film titled “Tight Little Island,” about a tiny island denied whisky until a cargo ship founders on its shore. Perhaps that shaped my idea of Skye as a remote wilderness, with barren cliffs, cold winds, and more sheep than people. It pretty much is those things—remote, unpredictable weather, craggy rocks, sheep wandering in the roads, but Skye is also much more. The word Skye means “cloudy” in Old Norse, and islanders call it “the Misty Isle.” Outside the two main towns, Kyleakin and Portree, there are occasional clusters of houses, looking almost forlorn in their isolation, and a few small villages. Long-haired sheep indeed wander freely in the road, which is in most places a single lane with every now and again a place to pull off and allow someone to pass. In planning our tour of the island, we followed the advice of Rick Steves and our host, Phillip, who predicted we would be gone all day. We were. We began from Portree, where we were staying, and headed north to the Trotternish Peninsula where, following Steves guidebook, we saw such rock formations as the Old Man of Storr and Kilt Rock. Colin and Megan got out at the overlook at Kilt Rock, but it was far too cold, wet and rainy for me, and they were glad I stayed behind when a sudden heavy shower sent them racing for the car.
Flora MacDonald is a heroine on the Isle—we passed the home where she hid Bonnie Prince Charlie, who had fled to the Outer Hebrides after defeat at Culloden. Disguising him as her maid, she rowed him to Skye and helped him escape. Eventually Charles spent his life in exile in France, and Flora was briefly jailed. But she went on to lead an adventurous life in America where she and her family were involved in the American Revolution, and only returned to Skye in later life. A monument in a small cemetery honors her bravery. I’m sure many books have been written about Flora, but she’s still a tempting subject for someone with my historical interests.
Our first castle of the day was Duntulm, abandoned around 1730 after, so says the legend, a nursemaid dropped the infant heir on to the rocks on the coast below. My children said I don’t get to count that as a castle because once again I didn’t get out of the car—the wind on Skye threatens to take the car door off its hinges. We drove around the Skye Museum of Island Life, where I was fascinated by the thatch-roofed stone cabins, once occupied by crofters (tenant farmers). One of these residences was occupied until 1957, which amazes me. It offered three rooms—a kitchen, with a peat-burning fireplace, the parents’ bedroom in the middle, and a bedroom for the twelve children!
Steves recommended the sandwiches at a service station in the western coastal town of Uig, from which a ferry departs for the Outer Hebrides. My sandwich, filled with red salmon salad, was delicious but would have been better on something other than ordinary white bread. Megan had a scone, and Colin, a ham and cheese sandwich which was ordinary. Rick Steves was a bit off on this prediction on this one.
Our real castle for the day was Dunvegan, home to the McLeod (say McLoud) clan for centuries. Although it is billed as continually occupied, it looks a lot like a museum to me, unless there are private apartments we didn’t see. I believe it is administered by the late chief’s sister in a trust, so I can’t figure out who would live there. Portraits of various McLeod nobles hang everywhere, including one of Dame Flora McLeod of McLeod who became the 28th clan chief in the absence of a male heir. The castle is somewhat in disrepair and its once-manicured grounds are now in need of a lot of attention, though we did see gardeners at work, particularly in the walled garden. The castle offers a striking view of a loch and the sea beyond. The other prominent clan on Skye is the MacDonalds (yes, Flora’s clan) but we didn’t see their castle if there is one.
We visited the first of three distilleries we’d see, arriving at Talisker in the late afternoon just as the last tour, already filled, was taking off. We contented ourselves with studying the artifacts in the tasting room. It was easy for me to get lost in the clan history—seems the MacDonalds attacked the McLeods from the sea, but a third clan served as coastal watchdogs for the McLeods, who were able to slaughter the MacDonalds. Tasting was another matter: I am not a Scotch drinker--the first sip was burning hot to me and left a medicinal aftertaste. Megan’s husband is a big Scotch drinker, so she bought a bottle for him. I kept silent about my worries about getting it back to Austin, Texas.
On the way back to Portree, we passed a bit of the Cullin Hills, tall, conical mountains on the south coast of the island. With their tops shrouded in clouds, the hills are favorites of climbers and hikers—no, we didn’t do that.
Back in Portree we finished our day with dinner at a restaurant called The Lower Deck on, uh, the lower deck, a small stretch of buildings on a level almost with the water in the harbor. You reach it either by walking down a steep hill or down an incredibly long staircase. (As Megan observed, Scotland is not a flat land!) I’d tried the staircase in our search for a restaurant the night before and got winded, so this time I preferred the road, even coming back uphill. The kids wanted seafood, but I had haggis on my mind, so I ordered a chicken breast stuffed with haggis (actually laid on top of it) and served with that roast onion whiskey gravy. Really liked it, though Colin said, after one bite, it reminded him of liver and Megan declined a taste. We started the meal with mussels—I know many people love them, but I had never tried them. Now I’m a fan. And we ended with sticky toffee pudding. A really good meal, as we sat and rehashed all we’d seen and done that day.
A long post but it was a long day—and as usual, it wore us out, even my much younger traveling companions. We slept soundly every night we were in Scotland.
Flora MacDonald is a heroine on the Isle—we passed the home where she hid Bonnie Prince Charlie, who had fled to the Outer Hebrides after defeat at Culloden. Disguising him as her maid, she rowed him to Skye and helped him escape. Eventually Charles spent his life in exile in France, and Flora was briefly jailed. But she went on to lead an adventurous life in America where she and her family were involved in the American Revolution, and only returned to Skye in later life. A monument in a small cemetery honors her bravery. I’m sure many books have been written about Flora, but she’s still a tempting subject for someone with my historical interests.
Our first castle of the day was Duntulm, abandoned around 1730 after, so says the legend, a nursemaid dropped the infant heir on to the rocks on the coast below. My children said I don’t get to count that as a castle because once again I didn’t get out of the car—the wind on Skye threatens to take the car door off its hinges. We drove around the Skye Museum of Island Life, where I was fascinated by the thatch-roofed stone cabins, once occupied by crofters (tenant farmers). One of these residences was occupied until 1957, which amazes me. It offered three rooms—a kitchen, with a peat-burning fireplace, the parents’ bedroom in the middle, and a bedroom for the twelve children!
Steves recommended the sandwiches at a service station in the western coastal town of Uig, from which a ferry departs for the Outer Hebrides. My sandwich, filled with red salmon salad, was delicious but would have been better on something other than ordinary white bread. Megan had a scone, and Colin, a ham and cheese sandwich which was ordinary. Rick Steves was a bit off on this prediction on this one.
Our real castle for the day was Dunvegan, home to the McLeod (say McLoud) clan for centuries. Although it is billed as continually occupied, it looks a lot like a museum to me, unless there are private apartments we didn’t see. I believe it is administered by the late chief’s sister in a trust, so I can’t figure out who would live there. Portraits of various McLeod nobles hang everywhere, including one of Dame Flora McLeod of McLeod who became the 28th clan chief in the absence of a male heir. The castle is somewhat in disrepair and its once-manicured grounds are now in need of a lot of attention, though we did see gardeners at work, particularly in the walled garden. The castle offers a striking view of a loch and the sea beyond. The other prominent clan on Skye is the MacDonalds (yes, Flora’s clan) but we didn’t see their castle if there is one.
We visited the first of three distilleries we’d see, arriving at Talisker in the late afternoon just as the last tour, already filled, was taking off. We contented ourselves with studying the artifacts in the tasting room. It was easy for me to get lost in the clan history—seems the MacDonalds attacked the McLeods from the sea, but a third clan served as coastal watchdogs for the McLeods, who were able to slaughter the MacDonalds. Tasting was another matter: I am not a Scotch drinker--the first sip was burning hot to me and left a medicinal aftertaste. Megan’s husband is a big Scotch drinker, so she bought a bottle for him. I kept silent about my worries about getting it back to Austin, Texas.
On the way back to Portree, we passed a bit of the Cullin Hills, tall, conical mountains on the south coast of the island. With their tops shrouded in clouds, the hills are favorites of climbers and hikers—no, we didn’t do that.
Back in Portree we finished our day with dinner at a restaurant called The Lower Deck on, uh, the lower deck, a small stretch of buildings on a level almost with the water in the harbor. You reach it either by walking down a steep hill or down an incredibly long staircase. (As Megan observed, Scotland is not a flat land!) I’d tried the staircase in our search for a restaurant the night before and got winded, so this time I preferred the road, even coming back uphill. The kids wanted seafood, but I had haggis on my mind, so I ordered a chicken breast stuffed with haggis (actually laid on top of it) and served with that roast onion whiskey gravy. Really liked it, though Colin said, after one bite, it reminded him of liver and Megan declined a taste. We started the meal with mussels—I know many people love them, but I had never tried them. Now I’m a fan. And we ended with sticky toffee pudding. A really good meal, as we sat and rehashed all we’d seen and done that day.
A long post but it was a long day—and as usual, it wore us out, even my much younger traveling companions. We slept soundly every night we were in Scotland.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Day Two: Stirling Castle and driving through the Highlands
Colin has sent pictures, wonderful ones, and I've tried loading them, plus tried loading ones I took. Blogger rejects them all. We'll keep working on that problem, and maybe do a photo album blog or two. You really do have to see Scotland to believe it.
Day Two began with breakfast at our Edinburgh BandB, Dunedin. Menus waited on the table--in all the other BandBs you had to order the night before. The Dunedin menu offered eggs with bacon, which is what we'd call back bacon or Canadian bacon, or with sausage and black pudding. I asked what black pudding was: oatmeal with dried pigs blood. I decided to stick with bacon, which made our host giggle. But black pudding haunted me all week.
We set out for Skye, which I think Colin calculated would be a five-hour drive. It was clear across Scotland, and I reminded him that we wouldn't make the kind of time on twisting, curvy two-lane roads as we would on a Texas freeway. He was confident, so we began the day at Stirling Castle in Stirling. Our guide told us that Stirling is the most romantic castle--other sources says it is also one of the largest and most important architecturally and historically. I'd say it is one of the most frequently attacked. At least seven seiges of the castle are recorded. In 1297 William Wallace, "Braveheart," defeated the British at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, and in 1314 Robert the Bruce won the battle at nearby Bannockburn. The castle became the primary residence of the Stuart monarchs and a symbol of Scotland's independence from England. Mary Queen of Scots was born and crowned at Stirling. But by the Jacobite Rising of the 1740s (an attempt to recapture the throne of Scotland for the Stuarts), the English again occupied the castle. In 1746 Bonnie Prince Charlie tried to take it and was defeated.
Our tour took us up on the battlements and into the outer and inner cobblestone courtyards. The apartments of royalty are being rennovated and are closed until early June--darn, we just missed that. But we went to the chapel, and while the kids went to the gardens, I sat quietly in the chapel which looked more like a huge reception room to me. Then we visited the kitchen with its dioramas of cooking as it would have been. The castle and its history were so fascinating that we lingered. I was pondering the thought that if we saw the intellectual history of Scotland in Edinburg, we saw it's war-like past at Stirling Castle.
Lunch at a chain restaurant called The Filling Station, sort of a Scottish equivalent of T.G.I.F. or Chili's. I had fish and chips, which of course we get here, but these were exceptionally good, doused with the traditional malt vinegar. Colin and Megan had distinctively non-Scottish lunches--margarita pizzas! Suddenly, it was three o'clock, and we knew we should be on the road to Skye.
With Colin driving and Megan navigating I sat in the back and pinched myself, saying over and over, "I'm in Scotland. I'm actually in Scotland." The land is lush and green--all that rain!--and hillsides are covered with broom, that ubiquitous plant with deep yellow blooms. We saw shaggy cows, their thick long coats designed to protect them from Scottish winters, and sheep covered every field and hillside, their coats equally thick and long. We drove along streams with rapids--great trout fishing, no doubt--and through mountain valleys. And we drove . . . and drove . . . and drove. Portree, our destination on Skye, never seemed to get any closer.
At last about nine, we drove into Portree and found the Braeside Inn, finally figured out how to navigate one-way streets and get there. Our host, Phillip, was not at all surprised by the lateness of our arrival. He said he could make the drive from Stirling in 4-1/2 hours but he knew it would take us longer. I'd noticed that Scots tend to drive with the same fierce abandon with which they went to war in earlier generations, passing us at high speeds on blind curves and hills. A bit scary.
Phillip warned us restaurants were about to stop serving, gave us a few recommendations, and we went in search of dinner. At almost 9:30, it was still light out. Several restaurants turned us away--they had already stopped serving; one offered no entrees but fish 'n chips or mussels. I vetoed because I'd had fish 'n chips for lunch and Megan had mussels twice the day before--a veto they didn't soon let me forget. We ended up at Harbor View, where they offered us entrees but no side dishes. The three of us split two very good entrees--scallops with bacon and haddock with mashed potatoes. The kids unloaded the car, I made my daily notes, and we fell into bed.
A note about traveling with grown kids: they took really good care of me. I never unloaded the car nor pulled a suitcase. When they wanted to do an extensive tour of gardens and my back was hurting, they found a place for me to sit. They made sure I was alright after steep stairs and hills, and they watched I didn't stumble on curbs and uneven walkways--something I'm prone to do. Knowing they were there, I never even got my walking stick out of the suitcase. Every time I ordered a glass of wine and the waitress asked "Large or small," they chorused, "Give her a large." But sometimes I felt like one of their children: "Get in the car, Mom." "Watch the puddle, Mom!" "Do you have your passport? Are you sure?" At one point, they even reorganized my purse so that I wouldn't mix British and American currencies (which I hadn't done). I giggled and enjoyed it.
Day Two began with breakfast at our Edinburgh BandB, Dunedin. Menus waited on the table--in all the other BandBs you had to order the night before. The Dunedin menu offered eggs with bacon, which is what we'd call back bacon or Canadian bacon, or with sausage and black pudding. I asked what black pudding was: oatmeal with dried pigs blood. I decided to stick with bacon, which made our host giggle. But black pudding haunted me all week.
We set out for Skye, which I think Colin calculated would be a five-hour drive. It was clear across Scotland, and I reminded him that we wouldn't make the kind of time on twisting, curvy two-lane roads as we would on a Texas freeway. He was confident, so we began the day at Stirling Castle in Stirling. Our guide told us that Stirling is the most romantic castle--other sources says it is also one of the largest and most important architecturally and historically. I'd say it is one of the most frequently attacked. At least seven seiges of the castle are recorded. In 1297 William Wallace, "Braveheart," defeated the British at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, and in 1314 Robert the Bruce won the battle at nearby Bannockburn. The castle became the primary residence of the Stuart monarchs and a symbol of Scotland's independence from England. Mary Queen of Scots was born and crowned at Stirling. But by the Jacobite Rising of the 1740s (an attempt to recapture the throne of Scotland for the Stuarts), the English again occupied the castle. In 1746 Bonnie Prince Charlie tried to take it and was defeated.
Our tour took us up on the battlements and into the outer and inner cobblestone courtyards. The apartments of royalty are being rennovated and are closed until early June--darn, we just missed that. But we went to the chapel, and while the kids went to the gardens, I sat quietly in the chapel which looked more like a huge reception room to me. Then we visited the kitchen with its dioramas of cooking as it would have been. The castle and its history were so fascinating that we lingered. I was pondering the thought that if we saw the intellectual history of Scotland in Edinburg, we saw it's war-like past at Stirling Castle.
Lunch at a chain restaurant called The Filling Station, sort of a Scottish equivalent of T.G.I.F. or Chili's. I had fish and chips, which of course we get here, but these were exceptionally good, doused with the traditional malt vinegar. Colin and Megan had distinctively non-Scottish lunches--margarita pizzas! Suddenly, it was three o'clock, and we knew we should be on the road to Skye.
With Colin driving and Megan navigating I sat in the back and pinched myself, saying over and over, "I'm in Scotland. I'm actually in Scotland." The land is lush and green--all that rain!--and hillsides are covered with broom, that ubiquitous plant with deep yellow blooms. We saw shaggy cows, their thick long coats designed to protect them from Scottish winters, and sheep covered every field and hillside, their coats equally thick and long. We drove along streams with rapids--great trout fishing, no doubt--and through mountain valleys. And we drove . . . and drove . . . and drove. Portree, our destination on Skye, never seemed to get any closer.
At last about nine, we drove into Portree and found the Braeside Inn, finally figured out how to navigate one-way streets and get there. Our host, Phillip, was not at all surprised by the lateness of our arrival. He said he could make the drive from Stirling in 4-1/2 hours but he knew it would take us longer. I'd noticed that Scots tend to drive with the same fierce abandon with which they went to war in earlier generations, passing us at high speeds on blind curves and hills. A bit scary.
Phillip warned us restaurants were about to stop serving, gave us a few recommendations, and we went in search of dinner. At almost 9:30, it was still light out. Several restaurants turned us away--they had already stopped serving; one offered no entrees but fish 'n chips or mussels. I vetoed because I'd had fish 'n chips for lunch and Megan had mussels twice the day before--a veto they didn't soon let me forget. We ended up at Harbor View, where they offered us entrees but no side dishes. The three of us split two very good entrees--scallops with bacon and haddock with mashed potatoes. The kids unloaded the car, I made my daily notes, and we fell into bed.
A note about traveling with grown kids: they took really good care of me. I never unloaded the car nor pulled a suitcase. When they wanted to do an extensive tour of gardens and my back was hurting, they found a place for me to sit. They made sure I was alright after steep stairs and hills, and they watched I didn't stumble on curbs and uneven walkways--something I'm prone to do. Knowing they were there, I never even got my walking stick out of the suitcase. Every time I ordered a glass of wine and the waitress asked "Large or small," they chorused, "Give her a large." But sometimes I felt like one of their children: "Get in the car, Mom." "Watch the puddle, Mom!" "Do you have your passport? Are you sure?" At one point, they even reorganized my purse so that I wouldn't mix British and American currencies (which I hadn't done). I giggled and enjoyed it.
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