Episode 9: The Highland Hop
I.
Return To The HighlandsThe 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.
Translation: God, these travelblogs are so bloody awesome.
(Courtesy of Wiki)II.
The Real HighlandersThe 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.
LopsidedThe 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 PerilDuring 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 HorseIn 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 interpretationThe
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 WaySo 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 leftDue 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 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!
, the finale your eyes and attention-spans have been waiting for:
Episode X - All Good Things Come To London...
The infamous Chinese tomato-egg outfits. Could also be McDonald's uniforms too...
TAIWANese Bronze Champ, Chen Wei-ling
Seriously, she could totally ruin you. (from Sina.com)
Oui, Oui~ Who's Tough Now?
