Who Do You Think You Are? (Part II)

I’m leaving Scotland temporarily and am on my way to Ireland (on the very swish Stena Line ferry that has free Wi-Fi in the middle of the Irish Sea).  Well, Northern Ireland, but as far as I’m concerned it’s all “Ireland” (I realize I’d probably offend some people in Ulster by saying that, so I’ll keep the opinion to myself while there).  I love travelling pretty much anywhere, but both Ireland and Scotland have special places in my travel heart; it’s an entirely different experience to travel somewhere that you feel some kind of connection to. 

There are other places I’ve been that I’ve loved —Machu Picchu, Morocco, Tuscany, Tikal to name but a few— but they don’t grip me the same way.  There`s more than a few drops of Celtic blood in my veins, so I feel like I`m coming “home” in a very real sense when I come here instead.  It’s not too many generations back that my great-(great)-grandparents left; these are my people.  Hey, they look like me (this is one part of the world where I blend into the crowd completely), and they know how to spell my last name.  I definitely feel at home.

(My karate instructor claims that my Irish/Scots heritage explains my attitude to martial arts; he used to marvel that, no matter how many times I got knocked down while sparring, I’d just get back up and plunge in again.  Whether this is a compliment to the Celts I’m not sure; it could mean we’re valiant and determined not to quit, or just too pigheaded or too stupid to know when we’re beaten.)

I`m most clear about where the MacLellan line of my family came from; I probably feel most like a "MacLellan", too, by virtue of carrying the name.  (Never underestimate the power of your name as part of your identity -- I am as much an O'Neill or Hefferan or King as I am a MacLellan, but what I call myself adds more weight to that name. In the unlikely event I choose to get married, I won't be changing it.)

Ferry from Oban to Mull, in Oban Harbour

I paid a visit to that part of the world after leaving Skye, and spent a few days in and around Oban.  It’s a pretty wee town, set on a snug little harbour on the west coast of Scotland about 3 hours’ journey north of Glasgow.  There’s not a great deal of tourist-y stuff to do, but there are a few ruins to wander around and see, and it’s a lovely place to just go for a walk.  (And I never, not once, had to spell my last name for anyone.)

I took one day to visit the islands off the coast, spending most of the time on Iona; it’s gorgeous and green even in the beginning of winter (warm air from the Gulf Stream, apparently) and has been considered a holy place since the 6^th century, when St. Columba first landed from Ireland with the intent of Christian-izing the savage heathen Scots.  The famous Book of Kells (an illustrated 9^th century Bible, now residing in Dublin’s Trinity College) was probably produced by monks here, but shipped to Ireland when Viking raids became a significant threat.  (The Vikings weren’t stupid; they knew that monasteries and convents had all the wealth in those days.)   The existing Abbey isn’t quite that old (parts of it date back to the 13^th century, but most of it is 15^th century), but it’s magnificent; the man on duty in the gift shop was quite thrilled to see me (I think he’s not seen many tourists for weeks) so he was quite happy to give me a detailed description of the Abbey`s history and architecture.

The MacLellans don`t go back in Oban quite as far as the Abbey, I don`t think; but it’s still pretty cool to walk the streets and think that, some time around the Clearances, three MacLellan brothers decided to leave (or fled for their lives, whichever story you choose to believe) and ended up in Canada.  Further back, however, there is a 12^th or 13^th century “MacLellan’s Castle” in Kirkcudbright (pronounced something like “kirk-COO-bree”) in southern Scotland, which is the ancient stronghold of the Clan Chief.  (I suppose the fact that it’s in ruins now says something about how far the family fortunes have fallen in the centuries since!)

For the O`Neills (maternal grandmother`s family), my parents tell me that great-great-grandfather Dominic O`Neill left when he was a child of 4, in 1841 (presumably with his parents, if they were still alive) —at the height of the Potato Famine as one of the hundreds of thousands who ended up in the New World.  I`d thought he came from County Tyrone in the north, but opinion`s divided (one cousin thinks they came from County Cork).  One day I`ll have to track down more details; in the meantime I`m going to wander around a bit of the North as I haven`t seen anything of it beyond Belfast.  (And I last saw Belfast in 1994, when “the Troubles” were still a reality and paramilitaries on both sides still set off bombs —so I imagine it’s changed quite a bit in the intervening years.)

Of the Hefferans and Kings (paternal grandmother`s and maternal grandfather`s families, respectively), I know not very much at all.  I`m assuming that Hefferan is also irish and they came from over here somewhere as well; King is probably English but I really don`t know.

I think this’ll be my project for next year, when I’m back at work and travel days are but a distant memory.  I don’t want to wonder; I want to know!  But in the meantime, I still feel like I’ve come home.  

P.S.  Glasgow people thought I was crazy for going ALL THAT WAY to Belfast in one day without flying.  Please, it`s only going to take six hours by bus and ferry; in Canadian terms, that`s practically next door.  My mother used to do that length of trip twice in one day (to Ottawa and back to pick up my sister from university.

How to Survive a Scottish Winter

I`ve been getting a crash course in the topic over the last couple of weeks, as winter descended very early and quite unexpectedly on the UK.  I was expecting it to be cold, sort of, and I thought there might even be a little bit of snow towards the end of my trip.  What I didn`t expect was a full-scale blizzard descending upon the nation!

 Up until a few days ago, it was still pretty smooth sailing; oh, there were a few occasions when things were closed without notice because of the weather, but mostly, I could carry on more or less as planned.  I just sat back and laughed a little (in my smug Canadian way) at this country that was in a panic about nothing.  It`s just a little snow, and it`s not even that cold!  (Dear BBC, minus 10 degrees Celsius does not constitute sufficient cause for an extreme weather warning.  Talk to me when it hits 40 below — then you can start to worry.)

Canadians tend to be a little scornful of other nationalities (except perhaps for Scandinavians of any type) with regard to their tolerance for weather.  We like to think we’re tough and hardy, and can cope with the worst that a northern winter can throw at us.  I will admit that, say,  Winnipeg in January is a little much, even for an Ontario girl who grew up with real winters (I don’t care what the Prairie people I know try to tell me about “But it’s a dry cold” — 50 below is still bloody well 50 below, and it’s just too damn cold).

People in the UK seem to think this about us, too; most every where I go, as soon as they find out I’m Canadian, they just laugh and say something like, “Well, I guess this weather is nothing for you, then, is it?”  (They never believe me when I say that Toronto rarely gets as cold as it’s been here, and on the one occasion that city got as much snow as has been dumped on Scotland lately, our mayor had to call in the army to dig out the city.  The rest of Canada is still laughing at us for that one.)

But what’s unusual about the UK from a Canadian perspective —and this is the key difference, that makes life potentially more miserable even if it`s not as severe a winter as Winnipeg might get — there`s no central heating, anywhere.  There aren`t always even radiators in every room (at least in some of the places I`ve stayed), but even when there are, you know what?  Radiators DON’T WORK.  Anyone who thinks this is sufficient winter heating in a stone building in Scotland is kidding themselves. 

[ Side note:  I think there’s a money-making opportunity here.  Anyone who decides to start exporting Canadian-style space heaters — you know, the ones with the fans that actually get the heat distributed all around the room and warm it up —could make a mint.  Hey, in a country where you sometimes have to plug in your car (I’ll explain block heaters another time, for the English and Aussie people reading this) so that it doesn’t freeze up overnight, we have heating in every form down to a science. ]

But there are ways around the difficulties, and I thought I’d share them with you all.  Scotland is, if anything, even more beautiful in the snow and ice, so you really should come see it in winter some time; don’t be put off by the chill, as I’m here to teach you how to live through it.  After going as far north as Orkney (into a blizzard) and way out west to the Isle of Lewis, I’ve survived the worst of what this country has thrown at me, weather-wise.

1.  First, bring a really good pair of longjohns.   (For the Brits and Aussies, these are full-length underwear-type things that you wear under trousers, made out of silk or wool or flannel and specifically designed to keep you warm.)  I almost didn’t; I’d packed them away with the rest of my winter stuff and only thought at the last minute that they might be useful.  I’ve been wearing them ever since I got here, more or less, and they keep me from freezing overnight.  (They also roll up really small, so you can easily fit a pair in your bag.)

2.  Drink lots of fluids.  Forget about water, that’s not going to help you (unless you drink it hot with lemon as my mother does, but I can’t abide it that way).  Think tea, coffee, hot chocolate (mmmm, hot chocolate) in large quantities as often as possible.  Note:  it is even possible to get decent coffee here occasionally now (just beware the instant stuff they serve you on trains).  Or just go straight for the whisky (note:  no “e” in the Scottish version, and don’t ever call it “Scotch”) — that stuff’ll burn all the way down but it does spread a lovely warm glow all throughout your body.

3.  Bring a sleeping bag.  I didn’t (again), and I’m regretting it (again).  A duvet in an unheated room in a 17^th century stone building is not enough protection against the night   Failing the sleeping bag, steal as many duvets and blankets as possible from the other beds in your dorm room and pile them all on top of you.  This only really works if there’s no one else in the room, otherwise they’re likely to get a little annoyed and may steal all your blankets in the middle of the night, leaving you to wake up shivering and blue.

4.  Accept that, somewhere, some time, a bus or a train or a ferry (sometimes all three) will be cancelled on you.  Even if it doesn`t look like there`s enough snow to close roads or tracks, transit might still not be running.  I learned from a ScotRail conductor that the trains here have brakes that are only designed to operate down to -5C, and below that they are prone to seizing up (rendering forward motion of said train effectively impossible).  Spectacularly poor planning, if you ask me, since -5C isn`t THAT unusual in some bits of Scotland (but ScotRail, unfortunately, didn`t ask me).  

I`ve had a few mishaps: a bus delayed from Inverness to Ullapool (but still made the ferry connection to Lewis so no harm done); ferries and buses cancelled between Portree on Skye and Oban on the mainland, turning a 100-mile journey into a 15-hour odyssey; a train cancelled from Oban to Glasgow (and the bus brought it to replace it delayed for 3 hours by a late arrival in Oban, and then the driver`s legal requirement for a rest after a set number of hours behind the wheel).  I`m attempting to go from Glasgow to Belfast by bus and ferry tomorrow (I`ll let you know what comes of that).

5.  Make sure you don’t drink any of the hot liquids immediately before going to bed, and make sure you visit the toilet (yes, you`re allowed to call it that here —they look at you funny if you refer to the “washroom” or “bathroom”) before burying yourself under all of those blankets.  Otherwise it’s a very rude shock when you have to emerge from your cocoon in the middle of the night and race, goose-pimpled, down the hall to the facilities.

6.  Wear all of your clothes all at once, or as many as you can actually get on.  This works particularly well if you are out hiking for a day, when the weather is likely to veer wildly between four seasons in the space of an hour.  It’s also useful, however, on buses and trains and ferries, which are not necessarily any warmer than being outside.  You may wish to wear several layers to sleep, as well, even if you have managed to acquire 15 or 20 blankets to cover yourself with.  (Side note:  don’t worry about having to do a lot of laundry from wearing all of your clothes all the time.  It’s too damn cold to sweat and your clothes will still smell fine at the end of the day.)

7.  Related to #6, pack lots of fleeces.  MEC sells some good ones, as does the Running Room; you can even (as I did, under duress) get an excellent combination Goretex/fleece jacket from NorthFace that is very versatile and warm.  (And it’s saving me from dying of exposure here, just as it did in the northern Chile desert. So I`m not even bitter any more -- well, not much -- about how much I had to spend on it.)  It helps enormously if the fleeces all have hoods; don’t be afraid to wear three or four fleeces at a time and put all of the hoods up.  It looks very goofy but it is incredibly warm.  (Just be prepared for small children pointing and laughing.)

8.  Don’t wear Australian boots in a Scottish winter.  The two countries couldn’t have more different kinds of weather if they tried, and their respective footwear isn’t compatible with the other’s weather.  I brought a pair of Blundstones (which I love) and they were okay for getting around London and Edinburgh.  But from Inverness onwards, they’ve just been carried uselessly around in my backpack.  Go figure, boots designed for the desert of the Australian outback aren’t good in snow and cold!  (Note:  I do seem to remember seeing, last time I was in the Australian Boot Company store in Toronto, that they now have a sheepskin-lined version.  That might be okay for warmth, but you’d probably still have difficulty clambering up wet or icy Scottish rock.)

9.   Find a pub or cafe with a cozy fireplace, and plunk yourself there for the entire day.  Peat fires are especially delightful (my hostel on the Isle of Lewis had one), but any kind of fire will do.  In a pinch, knock on someone’s door and ask if you can camp out in their front room for a while; Scottish folk appear reserved when you first encounter them, but they’re actually a pretty hospitable bunch and they’d more than likely welcome you in.  (Bonus:  you’ll probably also get tea, or whisky.)  If you can arrange to fall asleep “accidentally”, you might even be left in peace and thereby avoid having to go home to sleep in your cold dorm room.

10.  Finally, find a good-looking person of your preferred gender and snuggle up next to them.  It is extra enjoyable if said person has a delightful accent, such as a Scottish one (even Glaswegian will do, although you may not be able to understand a word that said person utters).   This is particularly easy in Scotland if you happen to appreciate redheads, as there seem to be an awful lot of them about.  (I’m not at all special here.  It’s very deflating, especially after being a tall Amazon-like exotic flame-haired goddess in Peru and Bolivia.)

That should do it.  If you’re now feeling well prepared, very brave and in possession of a large enough number of fleeces, I’ll be here for another three weeks or so — c’mon over and join me!  I swear it’s worth it.

Speed, bonny boat ...

You know the rest, don't you?

... Like a bird on the wing,

Onward, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,

Thunderclaps rend the air.

Baffled, our foes stand by the shore –

Follow they will not dare.

Et cetera.  Is it stuck in your head now?  Will you be singing it for the next three days?  (I probably will.  Thanks a lot!)

Yes, I’ve been to Skye.  Make that back to Skye —most of you know that I lived over in the UK for a while after university, and out of all the mini-trips my sister Julie and I did around the UK and Ireland, I think the trip to Skye was probably my favourite.  I was curious to go back; until this year, I’ve always been going somewhere “new” instead of revisiting places that I’ve been and loved.

It’s been a while, but Skye is just as I remembered.  It’s still breathtakingly lovely, the weather is still maddenly capricious and the sheep still as utterly stupid as that visit years ago.  I came at things from a different angle this time —taking the ferry across from the Isle of Harris in the outer Hebrides, instead of across from the mainland at Kyle of Lochalsh, and staying in Portree instead of Kyleakin —but I went back to some of the same spots and fell in love with some new ones, too.

I remember the first trip vividly.  We’d met another Canadian girl named Elizabeth, aged about 18, on the train over from Inverness and we all opted to stay at a wee hostel in Kyleakin, which had no phone, no TV and (in those days) definitely no Wi-Fi or internet.  So we chatted to the other travellers (it was a time of year when other people WERE travelling, too, not just crazy people like me), and one of the group of Italian students also staying there had a guitar.  So she played, and we all sang; I think “Te Amo” was the most successful attempt, as they sang in Italian and we sang in English.

Oh, and there was a cute Aussie guy named Rob staying there as well, and the four of us (Julie, me, Elizabeth and Rob) rented a car one day for a tour of the island.  And I think later that night Rob hit on me, but as my fetish for Aussie backpackers hadn’t yet developed (and, of course, because I had a boyfriend back in London), I didn’t take him up on it.  (Huh.  Damn, with hindsight, I might have chosen to act differently, seeing as that other relationship didn’t work out so well.)

The only change that’s happened in the intervening years that I DON'T like is the bridge across from the mainland at Kyle of Lochalsh.  It’s not a bad bridge, as bridges go (it’s even kind of pretty), but the short little ferry ride was so much more enjoyable —probably mostly because Julie and I could sing several choruses of the Skye Boat Song (there, it’s stuck in your head again, isn’t it?).

But the rest is lovely.  Portree is the “big” town on Skye, but even so it’s only a few streets big.  And I can vouch for the fact that it’s a quiet, quiet place in the off-season —even the pubs were pretty empty, and I got there on a Saturday night!  Needless to say, I spent a lot of quality time with myself (but I’m good with that).

It’s pretty, though, and there’s a agreeable little hike you can take near the town that gives you some spectacular views of the area.  In summer, it would be a doddle, as it’s quite short; in the winter, however, with the paths coated in ice (the temperature hovered around zero and snow had melted and re-frozen) and in some places taking you steeply up- and downhill, it’s a fairly challenging undertaking.  I resorted to sliding down on my bum for the steeper downhill bits —I did remember to wear the good hiking boots, but even they couldn’t get any purchase on the slick trail.  (Plus it was fun regressing temporarily to a five-year-old state.)

My pictures are all up on Shutterfly, so go have a look —I can’t begin to do justice to the views in mere words.  Suffice to say it’s gorgeous, and the weather was clear and sunny as I toiled up and down slopes, so when I wasn’t busy watching my footing I had ample chance to enjoy the scenery.  This being Scotland, however, the weather turned as I neared the top of the wee mountain; I made my way back down to town in snow and hail and clouds that rolled in, seemingly in the blink of an eye.  (Rule of thumb for dressing in Scottish winter:  wear as many layers of clothing as you possess, with at least one waterproof.  That way you can strip down or add more as the season changes from summer to winter and everything in between.  And if you don`t like the current weather, wait it out and it`ll be fine again in five minutes.)

Sunday, I resorted to renting a car (trying very hard not to think about what the bill for rental and gas was costing me in Canadian dollars —it was fairly shocking), as there is no bus service at all on the island save the long-distance coaches that go on to the mainland.  So if I didn’t want to be holed up in the hostel or a deserted pub, I had to drive myself around.

Started out quite cautiously, as the weather was a bit dicey and the condition of the roads unpredictable, but as I worked my way around the peninsulas and over to the west side of the island, it got sunny and warm, and the roads were dry as a bone.  So I was able to take a detour to Neist Point after all; it’s probably my favourite spot on this, my favourite island (and if you’ve been in my living room, you’ll have seen a picture of it, as it’s up on my wall).  I had the spot pretty much to myself (save for the sheep who seemed to like throwing themselves in front of my car), and I could have happily stayed there for hours, just drinking in the view.

Neist Point, Isle of Skye

But, mindful of the early nightfall and the changeable weather, I started heading back to town as it neared 3 p.m.  Heavy snow rolled in again as I made it back to the main road, so it was a slow and torturous drive back; the views of the Cuillins, though, shrouded in mist and snow, made it all worthwhile.  (I didn't dare try driving up on some of the tiny side roads, so I just admired them from afar.)

Getting off the island again was not quite as enjoyable — I couldn’t get the ferry to Mallaig because of the weather, so had to take a long detour round by bus via Kyle of Lochalsh to Fort William before I could finally get a train that evening to Oban.  (Oh, and I lost my very expensive glasses somewhere along the way, which annoys me immensely because they’re brand-new, almost.  And because my eyes are so screwed up, the lenses alone cost about $600, which means that, until I have health insurance again, I won`t be spending the cash to replace them.  My backup pair, circa 1999, are horrible but at least I can still see when I’m not wearing contacts.) 

Getting of the island the first time around didn`t go exactly as planned either — I think we`d planned to take the ferry to Mallaig and the train from there, but the ferry wasn`t running then, either.  (Unexpected snow in late March.)   But I do remember we took the sleeper train from Fort William back to London, and giggled like five-year-olds as we played with all the buttons and switches in our wee little compartment.  (Hey, I think it was the first time either of us had taken a night train.  We got pretty used to it as we started travelling around Europe.)

But, however I get there and however I leave, being on Skye, itself, is still one of my favourite ways to spend my travel time.  Can’t think why I waited so long to come back!

Islands at the Edge of the Sea

Scotland, I’m coming to believe, is all about the islands.  I didn’t see nearly enough of them when I lived in the UK, but even then one of ‘em (Skye) ranked as one of my favourite places on earth.  Now that I’ve seen a bit more, I think that’s even more true – I’m adding a few more islands to my “favourite places” list. 

There’s an enormously long coastline for such a wee country – it twists and turns and bends back on itself for thousands of miles – and the coast on any side is spectacular.  (Well, not south, since there’s no south coast.  But every other direction.)  But the islands are even more incredible, whichever ones you hit.  When you go north, to Shetland and Orkney, or west to the Hebrides, some of them feel so palpably remote and otherworldly that you can easily believe that you’re at the very edge of the world; there’s just you, and the sea, and the wind, and the mountains.  (Oh, and some sheep.  Always sheep.)

I’ve visited a few now, starting with the far northern islands of Orkney – utterly beautiful in that bleak and windswept way that I find so much more compelling than palm trees and miles of white sandy beach.  (There are beaches on Orkney, actually, but as I was there just when a blizzard decided to ravage the country, I wasn`t inclined to visit any of them.)  I have to go back in the summer – when more things are open and I won`t be at risk of dying of exposure by hiking around – and have a proper look around.  I`ll head even further north to the Shetlands, too – I am determined to get to Unst, the most northerly inhabited place in the UK.  But I`ll save that for slightly warmer weather, and more daylight:  the sun was setting by 3 p.m. in Orkney, and it was absolutely black by 4, with no sun to be seen again until after 8 a.m. the next morning.  That`s a little too much darkness; think of the wonderful long hours of daylight in the summer, though!

From Orkney, I`d planned to work my way across the north coast to Durness, and then down to Ullapool to head over to the Western Isles.  Well, the weather had other plans for me; since I didn`t fancy driving a car on the wrong side of the road in the midst of a blizzard (and there was no other way of getting across to Durness, except for one bus on Saturdays IF it ran, and then no way at all to Ullapool from there, I opted to abandon the original plan and headed back to Inverness.  Stopped just for a night, and then caught the early bus over to Ullapool, the ferry port for the Isle of Lewis.

Lewis – the northernmost of the Hebrides (the Western Isles) – is incredible.  Again, if your taste runs more to palm trees and lush rainforests, it wouldn`t be for you, probably; but if, instead, you are more dazzled by dramatic rocky cliffs and wide open spaces and craggy wee mountains (as I am), then you`d love the place.  I stayed in Stornoway, in what is possibly the best hostel I have ever seen – in a converted house, the “female” dorm is in the former master bedroom, complete with attached master bathroom and its deep clawfoot tub.  Downstairs, there’s a cozy common room with squashy couches and a lovely woodstove; the peat fire burning all night finally allowed me to get warm indoors, probably for the first time since arriving in Scotland.  And because it`s such a slow time of year for tourists, I had the place almost to myself (aside from a very shy French backpacker boy who just about jumped out of his skin every time I talked to him). 

My whole reason for going to Lewis was the Standing Stones of Callanais (pronounced “Callanish”), and they didn’t disappoint.  It’s a henge similar in concept to Stonehenge (but even older), and pre-dates the Egyptian pyramids; this is an ancient place we’re talking about.  No one knows exactly why or how it was constructed, but because the shadows line up perfect once every 18.6 years in tune with a slow lunar cycle, it’s thought that it was built for astronomical observation and religious ceremonies.

Callanais Standing Stones, Isle of Lewis

If this was down south, as Stonehenge is, within easy reach of London, it would have the millions of visitors a year that its more famous cousin sees.  As it is, even in summer you wouldn’t be overwhelmed by hordes; and in the winter, when I visited, you can stand in the circle (they let you go right up to the stones, unlike Stonehenge where you have to keep your distance) and marvel at it, and wonder about its significance, and just drink in the physical beauty of its setting on a hilltop in Lewis.  The only onlookers I shared my view with were sheep – and they’re not a rambunctious bunch, generally.

And it’s a lovely trip just getting there and back —there’s a very handy public bus that runs in a big circle around centre of Lewis from Stornoway, and stops at a few of the sights including the Callanais stones.  (There are a couple more I’d have liked to see, but the winter bus schedule did not lend itself to visiting more than one in a day.)   I shared my bus on the way back with junior-high-age kids who’d just got out of school; it’s been a while since I hung out with 13/14-year-olds and they’re pretty amusing.  I eavesdropped on one boy making a prank call to a youth helpline —he told the counsellor at the other end that he was on the bus and was getting “the eye” from a girl aged about 20 whom he thought was pretty, and wondered if he ought to go talk to her.  Apparently, the counsellor urged him on (really?) because as soon as he ended his call on his cell phone, he came down the aisle and plunked himself in the seat next to me, and started to chat.

Apparently *I* was the “20-year-old” in question.  (But, just for the record, I was NOT eyeing up a 14-year-old!  I see nothing wrong with younger, but there’s a definite limit on HOW MUCH younger. 14’s way past that particular line.)  I had to laugh.  He was a cheeky little git, I’ll give him that, and I’m sure in a few years he’ll be breaking hearts all over town.  Just hope he aims a little bit closer to his own age next time.

Anyway, I’ll definitely go back to Lewis —in a slightly warmer season next time when more things will be open and more people will be around (I like having a dorm room to myself, but hostels are a lot more fun with other backpackers around to chat to.  Especially if they’re cute Aussie boys.)  But, even in winter – when it is, without doubt, spectacularly beautiful and even more dramatic -- I’m so very, very glad I got a wee taste of the Hebrides; I think this is going to become one of my favourite places on earth as well.  (I have another couple of isles on that list, that I’ll tell you about next.)

And, hey, if anyone’s up for it, there’s a big “Hebridean Celtic Festival” every July on Lewis – kind of the northern version of Glastonbury.  Anyone fancy coming along?

What Day is It, Again?

(Funny how days of the week don't mean much when you don't have to trundle off to an office Monday through Friday.)

You`d think with all the travel I`ve done, I wouldn`t make elementary mistakes any more.  But apparently I do, as I discovered today.

I thought I was being terribly organized last night, double-checking my bus times from Stornoway on Lewis to Tarbert on Harris, where the ferries leave to Skye ... then the ferry time from Tarbert to Uig (pronounced "oo-IGG") on Skye ... then the bus from Uig to Portree, the largest town on Skye and where I plan to stay tonight.  "Remember it's Saturday tomorrow," I kept reminding myself, "so don't read the Monday-Friday schedules."

Well, I turn up at the bus station in Stornoway this morning for the 12:30 bus to Tarbert, which (I think) will get me to the Tarbert ferry pier just in time for the 13:50 ferry to Skye.  Bus shows up at 12:30 as it is supposed to, arrives at the pier exactly on schedule (no snow today, only rain), so all seems well.

Until I look around, and realize that there is no ferry in sight anywhere.  It`s about 1:30 pm, the ferry is due to leave in 20 minutes, so you'd think it would be in dock by now.  After 10 minutes I go over to the desk and enquire if it's running behind.

"No, it's right on schedule," says the pleasant and smiling ferry lady with the lovely Scots accent.  (Note:  SKED-ule.)  "It'll be here at 15:40, leaving on time at 16:00."

I pause.  Er, what?  I must look as perplexed as I feel, as she opens up the ferry timetable to me and points out the relevant trip.  On the "Monday to Friday" table, not the "Saturday" one.

I look at my watch (which tells me date and day of the week as well as time).  Display clearly says "Fri 12-03".  Oops.

So I hoist my backpack again (after learning there's nowhere to leave it in the terminal), and go out to have a walk around Tarbert. It's only quarter to 2 at this point and I won't be able to board the ferry for 2 hours, so I have some time to kill.

Well, it's raining, and grey, and quite cinematic in that melancholy Scots way, but Tarbert is a very, very, VERY small town and there's nowhere to go.  Not a friendly local pub, not a cafe, not a store to browse in.  Nothing.  So I give up (walking in the rain with a backpack is not that fun, anyway) and go back to the ferry terminal.

I eat my lunch (packed in my frenzy of organization the night before, since I expected to be eating on the ferry and didn't want to pay exorbitant ferry prices), walk around and look at all the posters, browse through all the leaflets.  Finally I get the bright idea of booting up my netbook, discover that's there's free Wi-Fi here and I'm away to the races.  I've been surfing ever since.

Ferry has just pulled in so I expect I'll be boarding soon.  I get to Uig about 17:40, so will be profoundly dark out by then and I won't see anything.  But the very handy and well-organized Traveline Scotland website (it's quite brilliant -- you just put in starting and ending points and it tells you all your options for the trip, by bus, ferry, train, or whatever) tells me there's a Scottish Citylink bus that meets the ferry and will take me on to Portree by 6:30 pm.

La-di-da, not so bad after all.  And I have a whole other day left that I thought was already over, since it's actually only Friday.

Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful ...

(But peat fires are delightful.  I can attest to this, as I’m sitting in front of one in my hostel in Stornoway, on the Isle of Lewis.  It’s minus-something outside, but toasty warm inside at last.)

You might’ve caught the news recently about the weather over here in the UK.  Yes, winter has arrived with a vengeance; I wasn’t expecting sunshine and hot temperatures by coming over here this time of year, but I wasn’t banking on blizzards either!  A little bit of rain, some grey skies ... now that I was prepared for, and that’s what I got for the first few days.

But overnight, it seems, things went from cool-ish fall weather to the depths of winter; I woke up one morning in Inverness, thinking how pretty it was with a few flakes falling from the sky.  A day or two later, there were metres of snow blanketing the hills, ice coating the bare tree branches and the mercury plummeting well below zero.  It’s a national state of emergency, practically, and BBC news has warned me repeatedly not to go outside or travel anywhere unless strictly necessary; yes, it’s that bad, apparently.

Well, it’s not, really.  Oh, it’s cold, yes (minus 11 Celsius this afternoon), and there is snow everywhere, but that’s just normal winter.  Trouble is, it came here much earlier than it usually does, and appears to have caught the country quite unprepared.  Gatwick airport, at least, was closed today (not sure about the rest).

Scottish buses and ferries, however, still seem to be running just fine, so I’m still managing to get around.  I left Inverness after visiting Culloden and spending another day touring around Loch Ness (alas, no sign of Nessie — perhaps she goes south for the winter), and made my way by train up to Thurso, the jumping-off point on the north coast for the Orkney Islands. 

Thurso is a tiny little town and was quite dead even on a Saturday, so I hopped on a ferry the next day for Stromness, over on Orkney.  Stromness is, if it`s possible, even smaller than Thurso, but very charming with its stone buildings and winding streets.  Only trouble was, I arrived on a Sunday, when the whole of Orkneys essentially hibernates.  Not to worry, I thought, and I spent a quiet night tucked up in my hostel in anticipation of lots of historical sight-seeing the next day; there are remnants of Neolithic communities on Orkney with some sites dating back 5,000 years.  These little islands have been a hive of activity for millennia, and evidence of their past is all around; place names remind you that this was Viking land, as they mostly sound Scandinavian.

Well, the weather had other ideas; I woke up on Monday morning and headed out to catch the bus to Skara Brae, the largest Neolithic site on the islands, only to discover that it never showed up.  Called for a taxi next (there`s no way I was driving, when I haven`t driven in snow for years and never on the wrong side of the road), only to be told by the guy at the taxi firm that the site was probably closed on account of the weather.  Kind soul that he was, he rang them for me and called me back to tell me the bad news: nothing open on Orkney that day, I`d have to try again the next day.  Or whenever the winds and the snow decided to stop.

Ring of Brodgar, Orkney Islands

Not to be deterred, I decided to go visit the open-air sites; there are the “Standing Stones of Stenness”, with 4 stones out of original 12 remaining, and the much larger Ring of Brodgar, a henge like its more famous English cousin at Stonehenge (but older).  The Orkney Museum in Kirkwall (the islands’ capital) puts things in perspective with a timeline showing Orkney events in parallel with world events; the sites on Orkney pre-date the pyramids in Egypt by about one thousand years.

The open-air sites are fascinating, and worth the hike; on a fine day, it would have been a lovely walk.  As it was ... well, add snow, and freezing wind that changes direction every minute, and it became significantly less fun.  But it’s beautiful landscape, very stark and rocky and dramatic — rendered even more so when windswept and icy.

Going indoors in Kirkwall to check out the 12^th century cathedral of St. Magnus was better suited to the weather, and I got a kick especially out of reading the melodramatic inscriptions on the 16^th century gravestones lining the walls. (Here’s a sample:  “Corps rest in peace in this wormie clay, / til Christ sal raise thee to a glorious day.”)  There’s a tapestry hanging on one of the Cathedral walls that reminds you just how much history is here; it was presented by the Queen Mother on the occasion of the Cathedral’s 850^th anniversary.  (Yes, eight-five-zero ... there is a long, long history here.)

I warmed up later that night with some of the local wine; like Newfoundland, they make wine out of every conceivable thing EXCEPT for grapes.  In this case, it was made from gorse flowers; not really wine-like, particularly, but oddly good.  I`d have gone for a local ale, but the fact that one of them was called “Skull-Splitter” worried me just a little.  (They’re descended from Vikings here, after all, so their ale may be a bit too much for the modern girl.)

I tried again the next day, but the other sites were still closed.  I debated briefly whether to stick around a bit longer, and hope for something to open soon; in the end, though, I opted to jump back on a ferry to the mainland and catch a bus straightaway back to Inverness.  (Winter bus schedules across the north coast didn’t fit into my original plan of working my way over to Durness and down to Ullapool on the west coast.)  I abandoned any idea of going further north to the Shetlands when I realized just how early it would get dark; I’ll save that for a later, summer visit.

One night in Inverness, then an early morning bus over to Ullapool, where I caught the ferry to Lewis; by then, it seemed, Scotland had got to grips with the weather as the only hitch was a short delay leaving Inverness.    We still made the ferry connection, though, so no harm done, and it’s been gorgeous and sunny here on the Isle of Lewis since I arrived.  Cold, but with my three layers of fleece and a couple of pairs of socks, I can cope quite well.

I spent today travelling by bus around the island and visiting the site of Callanais (pronounced and sometimes spelled “Callanish”), another ancient stone henge which, by rights, should get the kind of traffic that Stonehenge does.  But as it’s tucked away in a remote corner of Scotland, you can have the site pretty much to yourself (particularly if you arrive in winter, like a crazy person) — I’ll tell you all about it in a future post.  

For now, I’ve got to go find some dinner (I just realized how late it is!) and plan my travel for tomorrow.  I’m heading onward to Tarbert on the Isle of Harris (really part of the same island as Lewis, but for some reason has a different name), to catch the ferry to Skye.  It won’t be quite the same journey as Bonnie Prince Charlie’s all those years ago, but I’ll sing a chorus or two of the Skye Boat Song anyway.

One April Day on a Scottish Moor

Picture this.  You’re a soldier with the government’s forces, lined up in your comrades in ranks across a bleak northern moor.  It’s a cold, grey April day in 1746, and the ground underfoot is treacherous and soggy bogland.  You’re about to face an enemy notorious for their ferocious and terrifying charge, as they race across the ground wielding broadswords and battleaxes, screaming like banshees in Gaelic.  Every time your army has faced this enemy since the Rising began in 1745, you’ve been defeated.

You might be a hired mercenary, brought in from foreign shores, or English or Irish or even a Scot.  You might even be facing your blood relatives across the moor.  You might be terrified.  You might wish, as has happened in battles with this enemy before, to turn tail and run instead of holding your ground to meet the onslaught of the Highlander charge.   You might die that day.

As it happens, if you’d been that government soldier on that battlefield at Culloden Moor long ago, you probably wouldn’t have had much to worry about in the end.  There were only 50 casualties on the government`s side, so your odds would`ve been good that you weren`t one of them.

On the Jacobite side?  1500 men died, there on the moor — 700 of those within the first 2 or 3 minutes of hand-to-hand combat.  Severe reprisals followed across the country, as the government sought to stamp out any last remaining flicker of rebellion.  The young prince the Jacobites had followed into battle fled west to the islands, a journey that would live on in the words of the Skye Boat Song.  You know the one:  Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing / Onward, the sailors cry. / Carry the lad who’s born to be king / Over the sea to Skye.

I went to Culloden Moor (just outside Inverness on the Scottish east coast) one November day in 2010.  It’s bleak and windswept and boggy, and the atmosphere still and silent.  Signs remind you to approach the site respectfully:  as they note, it is a war grave.  Those 1500 Jacobites — and 50 Government soldiers — are buried there, on the moor.

It’s a thought-provoking place.  The National Trust of Scotland has done an excellent and thorough job of laying out the background, leading up to the battle itself and ultimately the aftermath of the massacre.  (Not intended to be a provocative word — what else can it be called, when the death toll was so lopsided?)  A video display in the Visitor Centre lets you stand in the midst of the battlefield as a recreation of the fighting unfolds on the screens around you.  You can walk through the real-life battlefield with an audio guide and hear its history unfold.  Flags mark the ground where the respective lines of fighters stood, before the battle; stone slabs and a memorial cairn mark the places where they died.

There’s a lot I didn’t know about Culloden.  I knew that it had something to do with Bonnie Prince Charlie, and that hundreds had died.  But there’s a lot else I’d have gotten wrong, had anyone quizzed me on the place before I visited.  I’d have said, for example, that the lines of battle were much simpler than they actually were:  English against Scottish.  The reality was more complicated.   

The Jacobites’ King James was descended from the Royal House of Stuart, and his ancestors had held the thrones of both Scotland and England; the governing King George (of the German House of Hanover) was descended from those same ancestors, making him a 3^rd or 4^th cousin to James.  The Jacobite side (supporters of the Bonnie Prince and his father James as the “rightful” heirs to the Scottish throne) had Irish and French soldiers as well as Scots, while the Government side (or Hanoverian, supporters of the current German occupant of the English throne as the rightful king of Scotland as well) included Highlanders as well.  In some Highland families, sons were sent to fight for both sides; hedging their bets, I suppose, to safeguard the family no matter what the outcome of the Rising.

The Rising began in 1745 (and you’ll still hear it referred to simply as “the ‘45”), as Prince Charlie’s forces won one decisive victory after another on their march south towards London.  They made it as far as Derby before going back north, and hadn`t lost a single fight.   The Government`s forces couldn`t seem to hold their ground when confronted with the reality of the infamous “charge of the Highlanders”.

Until Culloden, that is.

Mass grave on Culloden field -- where 700 Jacobites fell

Then it became a bloodbath.  Government forces, better trained and disciplined this time around, stood their ground and returned musket fire in orderly fashion.  Their cannons cut down the opposing line with merciless precision.  The Jacobites, on the other hand, found their fearsome charge slowed to a difficult slog over the wet, uneven ground and through thick vegetation; their cannons missed their marks more often than they hit.   When the two sides met, 700 Jacobites were cut down in a few minutes; more than twice that number died in all, Irish and French as well as Scots.  The rest fled for their lives, along with their Bonnie Prince.

The Visitor Centre presents a balanced picture of the Rising’s history, but I find it hard not to pick a side; perhaps it’s because I’ve always had a thing for supporting the underdogs.  The outcome was so terribly one-sided it’s hard not to be affected (at least, it is for me), and the stone markers on the field —delineating where each Clan’s fighters died —are very moving.

I have no idea if my MacLellan ancestors were involved, and, if so, on what side they fought.  But it’s likely they were —it would’ve been hard to stay neutral in Scotland then, and they hadn’t yet migrated to Canada —and I think that’s also why I found Culloden so interesting, and so very poignant.  As the sign at the entrance to Culloden Moor says, “Our blood is still our fathers, and ours the valour of their hearts.”