Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 9: The Highland Hop

I. Return To The Highlands

The landscape of the Scottish Highlands is one of the most stunning sights your retinas will ever have the honour of processing. At points rough and barren, like the tundra in Northern Canada, at times lush and colorful like summertime in the Rocky Mountains, the Highland area is the natural symbol of Scotland.

How Quaint!

With precious little time (and money) to spend on our excursion, we could only manage a one-day tour of the area. This is criminally brief. If you take a quick look at a map, you can see how lofty a trek that is. We traveled a total of 550 km, enjoying the beauty from the bus windows and listening to our entertaining native Scot guide/driver, Steve, who was wise enough to stop at important photo-ops, lest we experience a bus mutiny. From Edinburgh to Loch Ness and back again, we circled Northern Scotland in about 12 hours of driving.

Start In Edinburgh, Trace Your Chubby Finger NW to Loch Ness, Then Back Down
(Courtesy of Lonely Planet)

From atop the Royal Mile, we began our long day of drive-by, marathon tourism. With the majority of our time spent on our trusty Highland Experience bus, Nessie, I was worried it would be an endurance test for patience and buttock circulation. However, Steve's narration - in native Scottish brogue - was entertaining and educational enough to keep me and my notebook very busy.

How clever! It took me half the day to notice this, to which Steve commented that I was rather slow.

Exiting Edinburgh through the north, we spanned the Firth of Forth to Queensferry and spotted the Forth Road and Rail Bridges. At about 1.5 miles in length, the Forth Road Bridge was once the longest suspension bridge outside the United States. For only a few months in 1964. Then its position was usurped unceremoniously by the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge that connects Brooklyn Zoo to luxurious and noble Staten Island. Nowadays, the Forth Road Bridge is often mistaken for the trapezoidal Forth RAIL Bridge, its much more interesting and attractive sister to the East. Road now stands as only the 20th longest suspension bridge in the world, with chart placement set to plummet even further as China continues its attempts to out-big everyone in the world.

Compare and Contrast: Road vs. Rail. I take the Rail any day...
(to embiggen awesome panorama, click here)

Barreling along the highway, fluffy white clouds lazing about overhead in the blue sky, we entered the Kingdom of Fife, olde mining capital of Scotland and the birthplace of golf. Gee, mining and golf? Zzzzzzz....

Off the road and to the east, we were directed to a distant island at the center of Loch Leven, where there stood a lonely castle. No, Shrek and Donkey were not inside doing perverted ogre things to Fiona. This was home to one of the many dark stories from Scottish history that Steve would animatedly recount (all goddamned day) for our listening pleasure.

In Loch Leven castle, Mary, Queen of Scots - the unfortunately Catholic 6 foot tall giant - was imprisoned and forced to abdicate the throne to her infant son, James, oh he of eponymous-Bible-version fame. One of many ignominious episodes in her dramatic adult life. Despite the fact that her blood flows through the veins of all British royalty to this day, she wasn't given much respect in life and, when she was finally put out of her misery by opposing religious and political forces, it took the reluctant executioner 3 hacks to behead her. The first one supposedly missed her soft goose-like neck, hitting her in the back of the skull; the second mercifully severed most of her head; and the third finished off the final pesky sinew. We should really consider bringing back this time-honoured tradition as an entertaining method to depose current pesky administrations.

Mary, QoS's ivory remains (Head Intact)

When Steve mercifully paused his painfully dramatic narration of tragic Scottish history, popping in a disc of bangin' New Age bagpipe remix joints by the Red Hot Chili Pipers (feat. Timbaland....just kidding, but I totally had you for a minute, admit it), I tried to take in as much of the scenery as possible. Roadside signs heralded the proximity of towns with fantastically absurd names like Killiecrankie and Kingussle, or those with monikers so silly I thought only the Aussies could concoct, like Perth and Dundee. However, as usual, I'm misinformed. Turns out there are a bunch of Scottish place names in Oz that I can only assume were introduced by Scot prisoners. They probably brought the penchant for sheep-shagging to New Zealand as well, for all I know. Luckily for everyone's favourite crocodile-hunting Outback bloke, they decided to use the name they did. No matter how big his knife was, can you imagine how ineffectually intimidating a dude named Crocodile Scone would have been?

Yum! I miss Sally Lunn...

Our first pit stop of the tour was in the tongue-tying ghost town of Pitlochry, which is seemingly kept in existence purely as a coach bus rest area, like that place with the Roy Rogers on the way from Boston to NYC on the Chinatown bus. Once the exclusive home to the area's lawyers, who shook down both criminals and their victims from the rough northern lands, it now scheists suckers of a different sort: tourists and their well-earned pounds. To avoid the dangers of slipping into boredom coma, Steve only gave us a half hour to aimlessly wander about. This was barely enough time to whizz in the pay-per-pee public loos and scarf down some heartburn on a plate (see: English breakfast) before our caravan continued North.

Is it too late to move here?

Winding around the quaint and grassy fields, we passed plot after plot of storybook cottages, lovely little stone abodes covered in ivy, delicate wildflowers and country charm. As we looped further through the hills, we abruptly broke free from the comforting spoon of the lowlands and were suddenly surrounded by gaping flat expanses, scarred by eons of glacial abuse and peppered with towering mountains ejected from the bowels of the Great Glen fault line below. This was the domain of the towering Ben Nevis (from the Gaelic: Beinn Nibheis) - tallest mountain in Britain - and, more importantly, the ancestral homeland to Donald and Scrooge of Clan McDuck.

Rannoch Moor, location of McDuck Castle and birthplace of everyone's favourite Disney Afternoon cheapskate prick (Thanks again, Wiki)

Translation: God, these travelblogs are so bloody awesome.
(Courtesy of Wiki)

II. The Real Highlanders

The Highlands of Scotland. This is what Tolkien envisioned when he imagined Rohan. It must have been, because it's the first thing I thought of when we entered the realm of the Great Glen. Hard, rocky earth. Stingy grasslands with nary enough to feed a herd of sheep. Dark, spooky patches of coniferous forest, no doubt teeming with Ents. Sparse blessings of purple heather wildflowers for the herds of deer frolicking on the plains and causing mayhem for highway drivers. Waves of undulating hilly lumps as far as the eye could see. I think I saw Eowyn flashing me from afar, but it could have been a hallucination brought upon by the blood pudding I had for breakfast.

Gorgeous, even in shite weather.

Lopsided

The vast expanse was overwhelming and claustrophobic in its emptiness. Although there was a healthy presence of hill and mountain, the spacious gap from one to another render those natural wind-blockers impotent. In colder seasons, it must be unforgiving. Even in the middle of summer, it was chilly and blustery. You can understand how more people die atop Ben Nevis of exposure than those claimed by Everest; radical weather and temperature shifts can easily trick a gang of novice backpackers. Fortunately we overpacked clothing layers, sparing us the discomfort of hypothermia and death. As beautiful as the area is, who could possibly live in a climate so capricious? A bunch of hard asses, that's who, and we were on their turf. We had finally arrived in the home of the Highlanders.

Gollum Is In There Somewhere...

The Highlanders, a rough and tumble folk that have come to define the stereotypical view of a Scot, were probably descendants of the Picts, wild tribes of Celtic people who lived in the areas well before the Romans invaded and renamed it Caledonia. I'm pretty sure they weren't immortal sword-slayers who could time travel, but Hollywood has its way of turning fiction to fact. The genuine Highlanders were supposedly warm and welcoming mortals, opening their homes to anyone in need, hence the idea of Highland hospitality.

Filthy Imperial Roman Artwork (beautiful, ain't it?)

Thank God For This: Real Letters for those barbarians

In the Western Highland area of Glencoe, this hospitality was grievously betrayed in a famous act of British imperial terrorism. We've all heard about the shameful practice of sperminating virgin Scottish brides on their wedding nights, which was a way to ensure English genetics would impregnate the Highland women before their poor, emasculated husbands had a go (refer back to Braveheart for a cinematic reenactment). British devils even went so far as to cruelly target overweight Highland warriors in those popular Austin Powers documentaries. However, nothing compared to Glencoe.

Glen Coe - home of Holy Grail's Bridge Of Death and Gorge Of Eternal Peril

During a brutal blizzard in 1692, English soldiers sought refuge in the McDonald clan village. For 10 days, they lived with this Highland family, eating their food, using their homes and sleeping in their beds. After the storm cleared, man-in-charge Robert Campbell was given orders by superiors to exterminate everyone under seventy years of age. Supposedly, they were "rebels" - even the children. In the first few hours, about 50 were slain. Even though many managed to escape, over 70 lost their lives. Centuries later, I can see how some segments of Scottish society still call for independence from England and secession from the United Kingdom. It's still a very sore subject and Steve actually got choked up telling the story. I'm getting a little emotional now too (probably from the chocolate I just ate), so let's return to sunnier subjects, like ancient Highland life.

Yay, pretty flowers to distract from uncomfortable historical atrocities! Whee!

At the risk of sounding like a caveman, the Highland women did as all women should, staying home and tending to the wee little ones, coos ("cows") and meager crops of kale, grain and root vegetables (neeps and tatties), while the men were out doing manly stuff, like hunting and frequenting strip joints. In addition to the abundance of deer in the area, they also dined on smaller animals, such as otter, hare, rabbit and beaver - the only prey conveniently found in both nature and those aforementioned gentlemen's clubs.

A straight-up pimp named Hamish, the Hugh Hefner of Highland coos, who has been used as a stud for 13 years.

Since the terrain was so unforgiving, the Highland dudes needed to protect themselves while hunting in the country on sheep-herding expeditions. Their traditional garb consisted of 9 yards of hard, rough fabric that they wrapped around their mid-sections, which was then attached with a belt. The remaining bit at the end was looped over the shoulder and secured with a brooch. The pleats and folds created by all those layers were perfect pockets and insulation on cold Highland nights without the missus.

This clunky garment was usually pre-treated with animal fat for waterproofing and a good splashing of piss, which combined with the lanolin in the wool and then covered in grass, bracken and dirt to create a perfect camouflage against hillside bandits. But it was more than a pee-soaked toga. The multipurpose cloth could also be used as a tent, sleeping bag, windbreaker and raincoat, used to cover, blanket and wrap. Ingenious. I really wish they sold these things at North Face (or at least some knock-offs at the fake market).

So now that we know how they kept warm while braving the elements, how did they eat? As any mountain climber knows, it's a bitch to carry a lot of food when out on a hike. The Highlanders were no less practical. In those makeshift cloth pockets, they would store bits of cold meat and oatmeal. The cured jerky could have been enjoyed at any time, but what about that uncooked crap?

Well, rising bright and early in the highland sun, Mr. Highlander would stroll down to the nearest body of water - usually a small mountain brook - and soak a handful of oats in the icy stream. But how can you chew, much less digest, a pile of coarse oats soaked in freezing water? By cooking it, silly. But how can you do that without a pot of boiling water or microwave? This is where the true genius reveals itself, for the highlanders used body heat. And what is the warmest place on your body? No, it's not your butt crack (it was my first guess too). It's your armpit.

As you consider just how funk nasty that is, let's continue. The cold oat pie would be packed up into Mr. Highlander's pits and left to slow bake for a bit, softening those oats enough for him to eat. So not only did that oatcake receive an unnecessary garnish of pit hair, it probably didn't smell pretty either. Steve warned us to beware of souvenir shop oatcake tins advertising authentic preparation methods, lest any of us unnecessarily consume those B.O. biscuits.

Those Highland idiots should have just jumped to keep warm. Works for me.

In addition to worrying about the daily dose of oatcake and murderous, sheep-shagging bandits, the Highlanders also had to consider the nasties lurking in the bogs. These lovely creatures liked to steal naughty children and do horrible, horrible things to them. Parents would tell the tales of these bogles in order to keep their children behaved or prevent them from peeing the bed, which I feel is a little counterproductive for inspiring continence in a petrified child. Sound familiar? It probably should, if you were lucky enough to have cruel sadistic parents who liked to tell terrifying bedtime stories to their poor, defenseless children - who would subsequently remain hidden under their covers - just so mom and dad could hurry off and do the nasty: this is where the bogeyman was born.

If snot-covered hobgoblins aren't your cup of spooky tea, there are plenty of other monstrosities lurking about the hills in the Highlands. Approaching the northernmost destination of our tour, we were about to have the chance to glimpse the most famous of them all.

Jump for Joy at Glencoe!

III. In Search Of The Water Horse

In the northern midsection of the Scottish Highlands, there lies an enormous lake. 23 miles long, 1 mile wide and over 700 feet deep, containing more liquid in its hungry belly than all of the natural water formations in England and Wales combined. Supposedly so voluminous it can also contain every single human on Earth. Three times over (according to Steve, anyway). The great Loch Ness, Mecca of our little pilgrimage, home and namesake of that famous beastie I'd waited a better part of my life to have the chance to see with my own squinty eyes.

Behold Her Beauty!!!!!

Ever since I was a wee lad, I've been cripplingly fascinated with dinosaurs. More fittingly, I've been madly in love with them. Even before I sold my young soul to music, those terrible lizards occupied the largest parts of my heart and mind. Still do, to a certain extent. While other kids were off dreaming about becoming gang lords, coked-out Wall Street yuppies, or Ferris Bueller (this was the 80s, after all), I wanted to be a paleontologist. Please note, all you comedians ready with a tired Friends joke: this was also before some asshole named Ross Gellar totally stained the name of this honourable profession. So it should come as no surprise to hear of my obvious interest in the most famous cryptozoological beastie in the world, the Loch Ness Monster.

Don't worry! I know it looks real, but it's actually a cleverly crafted artistic interpretation

The Loch Ness Monster - here on out "Nessie", for the sake of frugal typing - is the closest we'll ever come to a real dinosaur. Crocodiles, Jurassic Park and John McCain be damned, the possibility of an actual living dinosaur (a plesiosaur, to be precise) at the bottom of a gigantic lake is just too overwhelmingly awesome to process. But alas, as scant physical "evidence" and my high school Freshman year term paper have proven thus far, Nessie remains an unsolved mystery. I knew that there was absolutely no chance of being the first person to find conclusive evidence of her existence, but a boy can dream, right?

Monster Hunters, This Way

So why is it so damn hard to catch Nessie? Well, if I knew the answer, I'd be a rich man. Whether you are a believer or not, it's impossible to present a definitive argument without so much as an ounce of proof. The size of the loch can be beneficial or annoyingly daunting, depending on which side you're on. Since it contains a deep underwater valley dotted with tunneling caves, there could be anything down there, monster or not. The gamut of cockamamie ideas has ranged from the ridiculous (a Nazi submarine) to the retarded (an elephant).

On top of that, the lake water is so muddied with peat and particles, visibility is reduced to such a degree that you might as well go searching for Nessie blindfolded. This makes radar and sonar devices pretty useful for monster hunters, except for the fact that the non-monster creatures swimming around in there tend to create troublesome instances of mistaken identity. Maybe it's that pesky elephant.

Monster or no monster, Loch Ness is a jaw-dropping vista in its own right. Cut into the face of a lushly verdant valley by Ice Age glaciers, this cigar-shaped lake snakes its way from the Highland capital of Inverness down to a southern tip at Fort Augustus, where it gives way to the Caledonian Canal system and connects with Loch Oich (say "Loch Oich" a few times if you're having issues expectorating). The loch is home to an assortment of critters, such as otter, trout, sturgeon and salmon, all said to be possible explanations of Nessie by naysayers, skeptics and joykills. This idea is utterly ridiculous to me, because the last time I saw an otter, it wasn't the size of a school bus.

Fort Augustus is on the far left

Due to the sheer size of this massive body of water, it would have taken hours to reach the northeastern side. Thus our tour cleverly brought us to the southernmost tip of the loch: Fort Augustus. While the actual Loch Ness Monster epicenter is in Drumnadrochit, I was thrilled just to be close enough to the water to potentially get eaten by Nessie. It's doubtful we'd have had a better chance to see Nessie at that overcrowded tourist trap anyhow. She'd probably prefer the peaceful Fort Augustus environs for the same reason we did: as an escape from the busloads of novice Nessie hunters up north.

Picturesque Fort Augustus' second biggest claim to fame is the canal cutting through its center, which was revolutionary when it was conceived, but took so long to properly complete that it was rendered useless. Nowadays, the Caledonian Canal serves as an attractive tourist distraction, perfect for picnics and watching the sailboats climb by. Turning bridges at both mouths of the canal inconvenience traffic like a railroad crossing, but seeing the road twist in a circle to let a boat pass through is interesting to witness once in your life.

The Caledonian Canal

The River Flows On

From the serene banks of Ness, we watched the loch ripple and enjoyed our deep-fried lunches in the embrace of near-complete silence. The warm rays of the sun protected us from the chilly lakeside breeze while we sat in peace and quiet. Even the noise emanating from a pair of typically obnoxious American girls polluting the lake with their meat-flap frolicking couldn't ruin the mood.

I'm At Loch Ness!!!!!!!

So Neil, nauseatingly sub-par poetic musings aside, did you actually see the damn monster? Well, impatient reader, I'll let you judge for yourself:

You knew this was coming...
Swear on my left nut, it's really Nessie! Or at least her blurry albino cousin.

I'm not quite sure if the Loch Ness society will accept the above groundbreaking photographic evidence of Nessie's existence, but I'm comforted by the fact that I got what I came for. Conclusive proof or not, in that short bit of time we spent at Loch Ness, the satisfaction and joyous wonder I felt in the pit of my stomach was ineffable. It was a perfect slice of time that I'll never forget.

Just chillin.

Sadly, we couldn't abandon our lives beyond the Loch and settle along the lakeside, so we hopped back on the bus and continued along highway A82 for the long drive back to Edinburgh. In the span of a day, even though we were trapped in a bus, we received a swift education in the darker side of Scottish history, passed the natural and geological wonders of the Highlands, had some nips of whisky along the way, and set foot upon the mythical banks of Loch Ness. Whether you have a day or a week, a jaunt into the Highlands is really something you must try at least once in your life.

Bye Bye, Scotland!

Coming up next, the finale your eyes and attention-spans have been waiting for: Episode X - All Good Things Come To London...

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 8: Fàilte gu Dùn Èideann ("Welcome To Edinburgh")

I. Welcome To Scotland

It's time for a little game of free association. Ready? What's the first thing that pops into your head when I say Scotland?

Bagpipes and haggis. Loch Ness monster.
The Highlands. Whisky.
Franz Ferdinand.
Fat Bastard and Scrooge McDuck.
Desmond from Lost, bruddah.

Uncle Scrooge: You Wish You Had This Much Bank

I don't know about you, but that's all I could come up with before arriving in Edinburgh, capital of the land of Scots. Thus, I was hoping to learn much, much more. Especially considering the pesky fact that, in my especially convoluted bloodline, there's some Scot kicking around in there as well. Just doing my part for the Guthrie's in the US, who, judging by the utter lack of Guthrie Clan souvenirs I scoured high and low for, probably only number in the single digits (i.e. my mom's side of the family).

I'm 1/16s related to this street sign!

Sitting on a spanking new Easyjet plane, we listened attentively as the flight attendants gave the safety instructions. As I tried to pay attention to the particularly buxom lass before me, Sandra was busy stifling an insane fit of laughter. She poked my shoulder and motioned for me to turn around. What I saw shocked me to the core.

In stark contrast to the circus that accompanies an average mainland Chinese domestic flight, everyone, and I mean every single person, had stopped what they were doing and were concentrating their undivided attention on the demonstration. There was a complete and unnerving silence. Beady British eyes poked up from behind head rests, their faces rapturously glued forward, listening closely to every last word. It looked exactly like this:

Timon would be proud.

As the plane took off, I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to recall all those Lamaze breathing lessons from my first pregnancy to keep from cramping. We eventually regained our composure and our fellow passengers had already resumed whatever it was they were doing before the safety demonstration meerkat time freeze. Before I even had time to finish listening to Viva La Vida in its entirety, we had landed on Scottish soil.

Blow me!

II. Edinburrrrrrgh Castle

Edinburgh - the capital of Scotland, ancient seat of the Scottish throne and current home to the architectural miscarriage that is Parliament - is a marvel of medieval might and modern flair. Streets are lined with bustling bars, charming cafes and restaurants, and a variety of shops that infuriatingly close at 6pm (unless you're lucky enough to shop on a Thursday evening, when closing time clocks in at 8pm). These ordinary buildings hover close to the ground, none climbing too high, lest they exceed any of the numerous architectural wonders that pepper the downtown area. Most impressive of all is Edinburgh Castle, which sits high atop Castle Rock - a dead volcano - and overlooks the entire city. It is indeed a humbling sight to behold.

Edinburgh Castle: Cooler Than You

Parliament: At the Western end of the Royal Mile stands this joke, which took over 5 years and over 400 million pounds to complete. 400 MILLION POUNDS. Have you looked at this thing?! It looks like an undergrad architectural workshop prank. That or a huge joke perpetrated by an English mole to really stick it to the Scots. I've never seen an uglier piece of shit in my entire life, this morning's BM notwithstanding. I side with the locals on this one: it's an embarrassment to the country.

Scott Monument, The Most BADASS Building IN THE WORLD. It's frickin' Mordor!

I Worship You, Victorian Architectural Wonder

The castle itself has never been breached by an invading army. Take that, you filthy English knnnnnn-iggits. Cheeky tour guides make sure to point out the fact that, by even standing at the castle entrance, we tourists have already gotten farther than any foreign enemy ever managed. It makes sense. Perched precariously on the top of an igneous mass, the castle has the enviable position of power and authority simply by locale alone. If I had to venture a guess, the combination of jagged slopes, high walls, whizzing cannonballs and burning hot tar raining down upon witless enemies was probably a very effective deterrent.

View From The Top

View From Below: Prime Real Estate

Inside the castle walls, there is so much to see and do that it may be a little overwhelming to an inexperienced (or lazy) traveler. Behind every turn, up every crumbling stairway, and inside each gate, lies something hidden with an engrossing history attached to it. With our handy audio guides and a very sensibly laid out tourist map, we managed to see everything in barely over 5 hours. Feeling a little overwhelmed (or lazy) at the prospect of writing about every nook and cranny, I'll summarize the highlights. So if you don't have the luxury or patience to commit to an entire day like us, make sure to visit the following:

Detailed Layout Here

-Cemetery For Soldiers' Dogs: For the Scottish troops, most regiments had a pet dog as a mascot. They lived with the soldiers and saw battle as well. So when the loyal pups inevitably died (and went to heaven), the soldiers had enough respect to bury their fallen comrades. Surprisingly touching and much more effective than a movie with talking animals. I'm a sucker for stuff like this.

Doggy Cemetery

This little guy, Greyfriar's Bobby, was not a soldier dog. But since we're on the topic of canines... He was the loyal partner to a monk that lived in Greyfriar's Kirk. When his owner died, Bobby maintained vigilant watch of his master's grave for 14 years. FOURTEEN YEARS. Blimey! Getting a woman to do the same would require a ring, unwavering fidelity and lots of handbags. If you're lucky... Locals were so touched that Bobby has his own statue (and pub!) on George IV Bridge, while his master's rotted corpse has already been consumed by creepy crawlies in the graveyard soil. Scots and their pups...

-One 'O Clock Gun: As its name clearly states, the One 'O Clock Gun is a big old beauty perched high atop a turret on the Northwestern corner of the castle. It is fired every day at 1PM - to help you keep track of time, of course - to a crowd of happy onlookers that aren't aware of the impending terror they are about to experience. Pictures and words cannot convey the power of this thing. When it went off, I think half of us ducked for cover. I could feel the puncturing blast deep in the pit of my gut, like someone punched me directly in the chest. A guy holding his toddler daughter on his shoulders almost chucked her off the castle walls. A nearby employee captured the sentiment nicely:

Me: "So is it this bad every day?"

Employee girl: "Yes... Everytime I see the clock close to one..."

At which point, her sentence actually drifted off and she turned her head away into the distance with closed eyes and an uncomfortable cringe. The unmistakeable look of conditioned fear scarred into her consciousness, like an escaped POW.

BOOM

-Honours of Scotland: I know what you're thinking; at first I was confused too - "What the hell are these so-called Honours?" The sword, crown and sceptre of Scotland. The story of their turbulent history is something ganked from a medieval quest. Either that or the exhibition curator is an excellent storyteller. Over the years, transported, hidden (under a mattress in Kinneff, for a stint), stolen and nearly lost forever, the Honours are marks of Scottish sovereignty, a clear symbol that they were not always tied to the English throne. They are housed at the top of a David's Tower, within an industrial-sized vault and protected by enough security to make balding Prince William seethe with repressed envy.

Jump For Honours!

-National War Museum of Scotland: Not as boring as it sounds and more interesting than it seems, the Scottish War Museum is an in-depth, enthralling, and highly entertaining look into the history of the Scottish military. From the early days of kilt-wearing barbarians and warring tribesmen to the modern pride of the land sent to help clean up the mess that Bush started in the Middle East, this modest museum provides a great deal of multimedia and a bevy of artifacts and weaponry to inspire an erection in even the most pussified pacifist.

WWII Close-Range Gutting Blades

HOT.

Check out dude reclining on the hill, staring at his buddy's ass. The life indeed.

However, past the piles of guns, sexy uniforms, and don't-ask-don't-tell soldier drafting propaganda, there is a bleeding heart that lends an emotional undercurrent to it all. Most especially, in the WWI and WWII area.

My two favorite pieces in the museum were personal letters to/from soldiers on the front lines. In one postcard (1899-1900), a soldier named Harry has lost all hope and writes an optimistic note to his friend, who I imagine didn't feel any better about his buddy's predicament after receiving this lovely bit of inspiration:

"God knows when will be the end of this deplorable business. I'm half starved. Goodbye."

Next to the postcard, there is a letter from Gladys to her brother Douglas Cox. It is a lengthy one, filled with words of hope and reminders of the life and family that patiently wait for his return. Unfortunately, Douglas was killed the day before she wrote the letter (Feb. 8, 1945), so it was returned to sender with a stamp that read:

"It is regretful that this item could not be delivered because the addressee is reported deceased."


While antique swords, tattered flags and paintings of war scenes may affect most people, small human connections like this drive the point home for me, inspiring more than nationalistic propaganda ever could. For an even graver reminder of the cost of war, visit the Scottish National War Memorial up the hill in Crown Square.

Real Men Fight In Skirts

-Castle Prison: In a more hokey attempt at pleasing tourists, the castle houses an entertaining "peek" into the life of a foreign prisoner of war. Deep in the bowels of the ancient fortification, these POWs were locked up and forced to carry out unspeakable acts. Like moving big balls.

This picture never gets old...

Great way to earn money: get arrested for being French.

Just like camping!

Though exhibit looks more Disney than Prison Break, there are some interesting bits, such as prison doors dotted with graffiti carved by French and American captives. Since the Americans were considered traitors at the time, they were given half the rations allotted to the other prisoners. When a Frenchman receives better treatment in the UK than your Yankee ass, you know you've done something very, very naughty.

Frenchy wuz here

Between points of interest on our overwhelming tour of the castle grounds, we were nearly blown off the friggin' building by the insane wind gusts pounding us from all directions. The middle of June and yet still cold as balls. Frostbite was delayed by a quick stop for hot soup, but that was only short repose. By the time we exited the castle, my hair was blown into a Jew-fro and Sandra looked like Elvira.

On that note... During the trip, it was generally colder than expected. On the first day, I was actually shocked. It felt like winter in Australia or New Zealand. Perhaps something to do with latitude? Even in London - relatively more landlocked than Edinburgh - I wore thick jeans and had a jumper handy for whenever the sun suddenly disappeared behind the clouds. In Edinburgh, at some points, we had on 3 to 4 layers to protect from the sudden and jarring cold spells. And that was before the rainstorms. Hilariously enough, Edinburgh hoochie mammas live life with the same disregard as the ones in the US, wearing barely nothing for a night of hard clubbing, lips turning blue while waiting for the bus. Utterly hilarious. Shivering in June was an entirely new experience for me. It actually was quite enjoyable, but next time I need to pack warmer clothing. Especially if I plan on spending more time underground.

II. Underburgh

Edinburgh is world-renowned for its abundance of ghosts and ghouls. The supernatural and paranormal play an important part in the city's complicated history and, nowadays, the tourist trade. Those with an insatiable curiosity for the spooky, such as myself, can find dark and terrible tales, unexplained events, unsolved mysteries, traces of catastrophic plagues and deadly diseases, and a haunted underbelly that lend to the ominous aura that creeps throughout the entire old town atop the Royal Mile.

The close goes down

During the late 1600s, with old Edinburgh's population booming, overcrowding caused the city's inhabitants to cramp into what little space was available in the city on the hill. Towering housing blocks rose upward along the spine of Castle Rock, with underground basement levels digging deeper and deeper into the earth. These precariously hulking tenements - 3 to 4 levels above ground level and 3 to 4 levels below - were demarcated by alleyways called closes, which formed a system of veins amongst the clutter.

Close Ghost!

Each close usually served a specific purpose, often market related. They were bustling corridors where townspeople handled their daily business in very close and stinky quarters, probably like the Shanghai fake markets on a weekend. With a comparable stench. So you had the Fishmarket Close, the Butcher's Close, the Lacy Knicker Close and so on. Some closes, however, were named after people. The most famous being Mary King's Close, which we had the great fortune to visit.

Mary King's Close
Across from Mercat Cross and St. Giles Cathedral (Royal Mile)

In the close system, the richer you were, the higher you lived, with the poorest of the poor relegated to the pits at the bottom, where sunlight barely ventured and stink and disease could fester. The poorest residences were cramped rooms with bare stone walls and dirt floors, sometimes housing multiple families and their animals, with ceiling height barely high enough for a 6 foot man to have headspace. Claustrophic, to say the least. Without windows or ventilation to filter the stale, fetid air, the impoverished close housing must have been a jolly place to go about your daily business. Proper training for any ancient Scottish expats moving to China.

From The Bottom Of The Close

In those days, all the garbage and refuse were just dumped outside your stoop. Subterranean slaughterhouses would also join the party, adding blood and guts to the cocktail. But it gets so much better: without proper plumbing, your buckets of shit, piss and vomit were also hurled out the door. With a warning holler of "gardy loo," all the family's leavings made their aerial exit without any regard for passing pedestrians.

Chambers? Maid? Har har har, I get it!

Trivia tangent: the first loo in Mary King's Close was owned by a wealthier resident who was so proud of his toilet that he put it in direct sight of his front door for all jealous onlookers to gaze upon. He affectionately named this mighty throne his Thunderbox. One of the first Real Men Of Genius.

I know you've nearly lost your lunch at the thought of getting ambushed by a bucket of hot, fresh feces, but let's keep going. You can imagine the wonderful stew that formed as the accumulated waste slowly slopped downwards along the cobblestones of the close, level by level, collecting at the bottom of the close in a stinking swamp of filth, and completing its long and heroic journey downhill into the Nor'Loch ("North Lake"). I've never heard of a better incentive for upward economic mobility.

1830 view of Edinburgh: Castle at the bottom left, Prices Street Gardens where Nor'Loch used to be. Can you imagine that ENTIRE area filled with crap?

Current View of the area (courtesy of Edinphoto)

The Nor' Loch, formerly located north of Castle Rock at the site of the current Princes Gardens, was basically Edinburgh's toilet and garbage disposal. The modestly sized lake was a natural separation between the old town on the hill and the new town below, the current shopping mecca of Princes Street. Imagine this: in addition to all the trash and fecal matter hurtling down the hillsides into the lake, there would also be fish and animal remains from the meat closes tossed in as well. Maybe some corpses. They even used to drown suspected witches into this fetid cocktail, the cruel cruel Christian bastards. That stink must have been horrendous, something no amount of witchcraft could combat. It is said that when the lake was drained, you could actually walk across to the other side, atop centuries of raw sewage. Holy Lord, that is fucking nasty. The locals attribute the modern Garden's extremely lush and ripe condition to all those miles of free, top-grade fertilizer.

Back in the closes, which probably didn't smell any better than Nor' Loch, the Black Plague also had some fun times with the folk of Edinburgh. Ticks from rats brought to port ravaged the city and I imagine the lack of circulation in the closes didn't help matters much, especially in Mary King's, which officials locked up, quarantined, and built the Royal Exchange over. Doctors treating their bubo-covered patients - which involved popping the swollen lymph nodes to drain fluid - wore full leather trench coats, hats, and face masks with frightening raven beaks poking through. Ravens were thought to be good luck, a sentiment the Scots interestingly shared with their brothers in Northeast Asia, the Manchus. Go figure. Must be a Dongbei thing. Anyway, the raven beaks were filled with herbs and sweet smelling stuff, anything to mask the stench of death and decay. Interestingly, these beaked masks are said to be the origin of the term "quack," because they looked like duck bills. As if the people on their deathbeds didn't have enough to be scared of, check out what this entire get-up looked like:

Scaaaary! Dude looks like a maniacal demon from a Dali painting. Bird Flu has nothing on this...

While the full tour through Mary King's Close remains fairly grounded in true life stories that are disturbing enough on their own, it is also a purported hotbed for supernatural activity. In the most famous case, a Japanese paranormal psychic investigating the close "discovered" a very strong presence in a stuffy and claustrophobic back room of the lowest level. To her surprise, it was a young girl named Annie, who was very sad to have lost her favourite doll. Boo-hoo, cry me a river. I think being dead should be more of a concern than a stupid doll. True or not, the story registered with overly sentimental visitors and now there is a huge pile of dolls in Annie's room, left behind to ease the child's pain.

For a brilliant full tour (including Annie's room) with UK television show, Most Haunted, check out parts one, two, three, four and five, ghost hunters.

Dolls freak me out already - with their unblinking eyes and evil smiles - so I was glad that little rotten Annie didn't find a need to play any tricks on us. Being slightly superstitious, we did worry about possibly offending her by forgetting to bring a gift (an Olympic Friendly would have been nice), but luckily she'd already been appeased that day. Frankly, I'd like to see her try and find me in Shanghai. Stupid brat.

The Royal Exchange, built on top of Mary King's buried close

In a city with such a healthy supernatural tourist trade, ghost tours abound like kilt shops on the Royal Mile or boils on a plague victim. The most famous, City of the Dead, run by Blackhart ghost tours, is billed as one of the most terrifying and dangerous of them all, with confirmed sightings, paranormal presences and unexplained phenomenon documented in newspapers around the world. After reading about the growing list of attacks on tour participants that leave them physically injured, how could we resist?

The tour's biggest selling point is the MacKenzie Poltergeist. Responsible for hundreds of attacks, this famous spirit is said to be of the late George "Bluidy" ("Bloody") MacKenzie, ruthless persecuter of the Covenanters, a Presbyterian sect who opposed the state-sanctioned Episcopal church in the 17th century. His ghost dwells within Greyfriar's Kirkyard, in a looming mausoleum adjacent to the former prison grounds where MacKenzie tossed his naked Covenanter prisoners to freeze to death in the Scottish winter. Pleasant fellow, this MacKenzie.

MacKenzie's Mausoleum

In the 90s, a filthy hobo seeking shelter from a blizzard broke into the mausoleum. Falling through a grate in the floor, he ended up in the crypt surrounded by 5 coffins (one including MacKenzie). Enterprising bugger as he was, he decided to make a quick buck and grave rob. As he banged and smashed on the coffins, the groundskepper heard the racket and went to investigate. Meanwhile, as the bum opened a coffin to see the horrifying skeleton within, he freaked out and clamored up to ground level to escape the crypt. What did he expect, the bleedin' idiot? Just as the groundskeeper opened the creaking doors and peered into the rank and dusty abyss, the terrified vagrant crawled through a hole in the floor.

Interior shot: that's the hole (back wall) the bum crawled through

Now, I don't know about you, but if I opened a crypt in the dead of night and saw someone vaguely resembling a ZOMBIE crawling through the floor, I'd have opened fire on his undead ass like Ash, Army of Darkness style. Unfortunately for entertaining storytelling, nothing came of the encounter, save for a near-miss heart attack. If you want colourful, fast forward to 2004, when some dumbass teenagers stole MacKenzie's head, raped the shiny orifices, then propped it atop a spike on the Kirkyard's gate. Those slightly disturbed chaps were swiftly hurled into the slammer, where their asses probably met a fate similar to the ones experienced by MacKenzie's eye sockets. As they duly deserved.

Lucky for you, dear reader, I wasn't arrested for grave-robbing or skull-fucking. Winding from Mercat Cross, the former close market on the Royal Mile, to Greyfriar's Kirkyard, a graveyard filled with over 5 layers of illegally dumped corpses, we arrived at the gates of the Covenanter's prison, which was chained shut with a huge, rusted lock. Until recently, this area had been closed by the local government because of the amount of unexplained attacks occuring on the site. In the late 90s, a deal was struck with Blackhart, who have the exclusive rights to conduct their controlled tours on a nightly basis. Luckily, we joined the 8:30 tour and there were still traces of light in the night sky. The 10:15 tour would have given me a heart attack.

Greyfriar's Kirkyard ("Church yard")

Standing in the graveyard, air chilled with mist and the hard ground cold and damp, we remained nervously silent as the guide gave us some precautions. She advised that if our feet started to feel a change in temperature, such as a sudden freeze or intense heat, to quickly shift positions, lest we fall victim to the poltergeist. Literally. On past tours, participants have been known to feel nauseous, get light-headed, or even pass out from whatever supernatural (or psychological) force haunts this place. We were also advised not freak out if we heard or saw anything unnatural. Like a queue of quiet and orderly mainlanders waiting at a bus stop. Zing!

Despite a little anxiety, I honestly was more curious than scared, since most of the guide's stories sounded believable enough. Suspicious that she would try to pull a fast one on us, I tried my best to remain composed and absorb everything with a healthy dose of skepticism, channeling my inner Dana Scully. But once we entered the first mausoleum, it was hard to ignore the sheer creepiness of our surroundings.

I'm not quite sure when you last visited a crypt at nighttime, so let me refresh your memory. The walls, covered in centuries of grit and growth, dark and damp with age, stained black from years in darkness. The smell, moldy and fetid, intensified by the closed quarters and wet earth below. The cold air, stale and still, home to what may or may not be a malicious spirit with intentions to harm silly tourists. Haunted or not, sharing an enclosed space with corpses inches below your feet won't help you sleep easy.

The second mausoleum was worse. The ceiling crept uncomfortably close to our heads, the walls were black as tar, and the smell was increasingly more overpowering. The group's anxiety was palpable, a perfect opportunity for the guide's inevitable bait and switch.

As I mentioned before, this tour is actually world-famous for the documented attacks. Scare tactics aside, the case investigations have been aired on numerous television shows and tracked in newspapers around the globe. Huge bruises, deep slashes, scratches and cuts. Even puncture marks. Our guide was quick to point out that not all tours guarantee an attack, but that the percentage of people who are either attacked on site or discover a wound on their body after returning home is high enough to warrant the attention. Enough said. So for the sake of deeper connections, she decided to share her most frightening encounter...

Months back, conveniently in the *very same* mausoleum, she began to tell a group the story of that crypt's recurring haunt. About the ghost of a young shirtless boy who was frequently sighted standing near the doorway, back to the crowd, face in the corner, Blair Witch-style. Next to him stood a tall man, who was unidentifiable. As she told the tale to that group, the Zippo lighter she had been flicking on and off suddenly jerked, as if someone had grabbed it. The force would not let go and the guide began to panic. As she looked down, she swore she could see the boy pulling her hand.

Our group listened intently to her account, leaning forward and frozen in place, huddled together as the guide wove her tale and flicked the very same lighter by the mausoleum entrance. We all focused intently on that lighter, waiting breathlessly for the story to continue, perhaps catching our own glimpse of the young phantom. Then, out of thin air, a towering masked figure, over 6 feet tall and the size of a healthy linebacker, came barreling through the doorway at a sprinter's pace, screaming like a banshee and inspiring an immediate flood of incontinence that left a big shameful surprise in my underpants.

Instantly and without thinking, I released an inhuman exclamation that sounded something like WHOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAGGGGHHH HO-HO-HO! I'm not sure if that extra Santa Claus bit at the end was instinctual, but my bellow echoed off the walls, intensifying in volume and setting off the rest of the group in a chorus of screams. Immediately following the last "ho", I realized that it was just a fake, a so-called "jumper 'ooter" employed to scare the bejeezus out of tourists, and I broke out into intense, nervous laughter. I've previously never released such a powerful noise from my body and my throat and diaphragm hurt for the rest of the night.

The guide apologized for purposely causing us to soil ourselves, but added that it served a purpose. Supposedly, since ghosts are made up of pheromones (did you know this?), they are attracted to people who release large amounts of the stuff, especially when it's produced by fear. Just like a dog. So in that minute of intense, concentrated fright, we had apparently unleashed a flood of fear pheromones for the ghosts in the building to eat their fill. A little sacrificial offering for sparing us any physical harm that night.

My lucky card: Had I picked the "right" one, I would have had to go into the crypt first, alone.

As the tour ended, my heart was still racing and my throat was scratchy. In our attempts to assuage the fear filling us inside, we tried to break it down scientifically. Of course we'd feel sensations of cold, the ground was damp and freezing! Of course our pictures would have strange anomalies appearing in the frame, since most shots of dark interiors use flash that reflects off floating dust! Of course my arms are covered in scratches, that lady next to me almost ripped my arm off when that dude jumped out at us! And so on. But even as we returned to our B&B, we still couldn't shake that sense of dread that lingers after a really good ghost story and spent the night huddled in a corner, taking turns at watch duty with a flashlight and Ecto Blaster.

III. Whisky A-Go-Go

OK, class, enough ghost stories. It's analogy time again. Here we go:

Italy : Wine :: Russia : ?

Vodka! That's pretty much a no brainer, since they drink so much of the stuff it could double as cologne. How about another?

America : Beer :: Scotland : ?

No, not the blood of the English. Whisky! Or, should I say, "uisge," the water of life and alcoholic pride of the land. Don't confuse it with whiskEy, for the real Scottish stuff doesn't need that pansy "e" at the end (save that for American, Japanese, or Irish stuff). In fact, in order for it to legally be called whisky, it has to be aged for at least 3 years on Scottish soil. And, please, there's no need to call it Scotch either. That's more inexcusably redundant than ordering French Fries in France.

As everyone knows (and has been incessantly asking about), when in Scotland, you must try the whisky. And try I did. But what some may not know is just how extensive and complex the art of whisky making and tasting can be. Like any other fine spirit, the culture and history behind this liquid gold is fascinating.

On our journey, we made a morning stop at the Scottish Whisky Experience, located just outside the castle gates on the Royal Mile. In order to understand a new culture, there's nothing better than living like a local; so getting drunk before noon would be wholly authentic. And they even give a discount before 12. I love this place!



As a novice whisky drinker and wannabe connoisseur, I paid rapturous attention to our tour guide, professor of Whisky 101. From the grain to the bottle, the Experience tour is a comprehensive and understandable lesson in the art of whisky making and appreciation. Although the corny video presentations and goofy Disney animatronics were a little lazy, they were packed to the brim with useful information. I'll try my best to break it down in the simplest fashion possible, since I myself am still new to this.

Whisky begins as most things on this planet: a seed. Barley, to be exact. This barley can be malted, creating darker malt whisky, or it can be unmalted and mixed with other grains, such as maize or wheat, creating a lighter grain whisky.

Thus, we have malt whiskies and grain whiskies, which can be combined to create a third type, the blended whisky.

Assuming a malt whisky is from one distillery and is not mixed like its blended brothers, it is called single malt. These are the studs of the bunch, generally preferred over the others for its purity. I personally take offense to that Third Reich-style of thought, since I've heard things that are mixed tend to be quite tasty and enjoyable. Pretty good writing skills, too.

So how do they make the whisky? Well, you take that grain and toss it into a big metal thing. After festering in there for a while, fumes are released and collected in another metal thing. This run-off is the colorless and possibly lethal alcohol that will eventually graduate the whisky academy. Expert sniffers stuff their noses into these spirits, judging and calculating any number of secret factors that only they can mysteriously understand after decades of being in a perpetual state of contact-high inebriation. You can tell by my lack of technical prowess that my whisky-making skills are not yet up to par, so I recommend reading up on the process if you really care.

The glorious liquid, still potent enough to kill a small horse, is dumped into a big cask and left alone to age for years and years. Cheaper varieties can be bottled after a few years of waiting; while the big guns take anywhere from 15 to 25 years and above to properly age. The colour of the whisky is sucked from the cask's wood, creating noticeable differences when comparing young, amber whiskies with their mature, golden siblings.

Depending on where the distillery is located also plays a huge part in the flavour of the whisky. Let's take the two whiskies I sampled as examples:

First, our group enjoyed a dram of Ben Nevis, a 21 year old, 111% proof Western Highland whisky categorized by its full amber colour, sweet nose and full body. Distilled at the foot of the eponymous mountain, the tallest in the UK, Ben Nevis is one of many distilleries that is foreign-owned (in this case, by the Japanese). In fact, of the 76 distilleries in Scotland, only 14 are wholly owned and run by Scots. That shocking statistic seemed a little depressing to me, almost like outsourcing American jobs to cheap slave labour in Mexico and Southeast Asia. While we're on the topic of foreign involvement, even the aging casks used by many Scottish distilleries are imported: Jack Daniels, for example, tosses it's barrels after a single use (wasteful Americans!), so the Scots snatch those up for discount prices. Why waste a perfectly good cask? Anyway, back to the bottle.

On first sniff, the Ben Nevis was pleasant and light, the fumes bearable enough for me to retain consciousness. The flavour had hints of toffee and caramel, leaving a nice sweet aftertaste. But those were hints, mind you. Nothing too overpowering to distract the drinker, like the delicious honey whiskies or heather cream whiskies (similar to their Irish cousin, Bailey's) we tried in Spean Bridge.

My second sample was a complete sensory opposite. After the tour, at the fully-stocked whisky bar, visitors with enough money can try any whisky they desire with staff on hand to explain and offer advice. Rather than being a dick and ordering the generic "best" they had, I requested a dram of whisky that could give me a more unique and authentic understanding of what a truly special Scottish whisky was supposed to taste like. Almost unanimously, every staff member recommended the Lagavulin, a 16 year old, 85 proof Islay Malt.

Lagavulin

Islay Malts - and any whisky created near the sea, for that matter - are uniquely distinct from their inland counterparts in their full and savoury taste. Distilled along the Scottish coast, the whisky has hints of peat, sea air and salt, immediately apparent upon first sip. I admit that my initial sniff caused me to shiver like a baby tasting a lemon for the first time. The first taste, harsh and very strong, resulted in an even more violent gag. It was pretty fucking foul. However, after my nose stopped burning and my tongue registered that this was supposed to be pleasurable, the flavour set in. A smoky bouquet like BBQ beef jerky filled my nasal cavity, the thick peaty odor drifting around my head like a cloud of burning compost. The salty ocean air made a brief appearance before it all evaporated and left a curiously fruity aftertaste.

Surprised by the entire experience that had just transpired in under a minute's time, I continued to sip my 4 quid dram to the very last drop. Talking with the staff, they professed their love for Lagavulin because of its special taste and true representation of Islay Malt character, many citing it as their #1 choice for best whisky in the land. [Pessimists, don't think I haven't thought of you during all this. Before you think that they were pimping Lagavulin so hard because it was the most expensive shot, you're wrong. It was actually midway on the price-range of the whisky menu. This isn't China, people.]

Sweet, sweet whisky

Seeing the excitement and twinkle in the eyes of each tour guide, I was convinced. After finishing my glass, I cannot say I'm a huge fan of that pungent, smoky taste, but I can see how people can fall in love with its sheer complexity. When I accidentally asked about putting ice in whisky (a HUGE no-no, only spring water is acceptable), they reacted as if I just stomped a kitten to death with my bare feet. It's like ketchup on rice, mixing red and white wine, or ordering chicken at a steak house. Faux pas central! When they regained composure and pulled the new guy's hands from my throat, one guide actually admitted that there is no "right" way to drinking whisky, as long as you enjoy the experience. I couldn't have agreed more. The taste lingered for the rest of the day, reminding me of its presence with every burp, and I was just happy that I walked out of that place on my own two feet.

Order a dram or three!

Coming up next, the penultimate chapter of these here adventures: Episode 9, Monster Hunting In The Highlands...