The state of the kitchen:
The state of us:
Let’s just call it prioritization rather than procrastination, shall we?
Highland Fling – Part 7
The next morning, we determined to visit Loch Ness. We were already visiting Drumnadrochit (whose economy is solely dependent on the sea monster we knew to be lurking near a castle three hours west), and it shouldn’t have been that difficult to take a stroll along the lakeside, right? Wrong. So very wrong. After searching in vain for some kind of walkway among all the souvenir shops, we popped into the tourist office to ask the easiest path to the water. The couple behind the desk confirmed that we actually did mean on foot and then whispered conspiratorially for a minute. “Well, there is one path,” they finally conceded. “We’re not supposed to tell anyone about it… You have to cross a river… It’s not an official path… Maybe don’t let anyone know we told you…” “Sounds great!” we replied, and we set off on our officially unauthorized adventure.
Boldly going where no tourists have gone before.
We understood pretty quickly why the tourist office had been reluctant to advertise that path. For one thing, it wound in and out of swamps, splitting itself through the thick foliage and reuniting farther ahead when and if it felt like it. For another thing, every horse in Europe had apparently made a pilgrimage to that very trail and each left a sizeable memento underfoot. (We inadvertently made up a catchy hiking song that goes like this: “Whoa, horse poop! Watch out, horse poop! There’s some more horse poop! SO MUCH HORSE POOP!” repeat x infinity.) And then there was the river. It really wasn’t as difficult to cross as we had been led to believe—just a leap, a quick splash, and we were over. We felt pretty proud of ourselves until we got to the actual river.
Warning: bodies of water may be wider than they appear.
Okay, so I’ve already acknowledged that we lack wilderness survival cred. However, I think we deserve some bonus points for finally making it to the lake safe, sound, and [partially] dry. To be honest, Loch Ness didn’t look particularly mysterious or hostile, which was a bit of a disappointment to your story-seeking mother. I guess with Nessie on vacation, the traditional spookiness evaporated leaving a rather ordinary loch. Not that this was such a bad thing though. We picnicked on the shore watching local fisherman putter past, each boat proudly displaying the Scottish flag. We plopped stones in the water and watched the ripples roll smoothly toward the opposite shore catching glints of sunshine along the way. We giggled and explored and at least got to dabble our fingers in the subject of myths.
And we can confidently confirm that it was COLD!
~~~
Highland Fling – Part 6
Of course, our version of relaxing might look a little different than some others’. Since we were still supposed to be on the Isle of Skye, we considered the whole next day an impromptu detour and spent it hiking through Glen Affric. This is the part where I’m tempted to toss out this letter format and just pelt you with pictures, so photogenic was our day. However, the pictures don’t show how you, Natalie, skipped at my side singing a superspeed version of “You Are My Sunshine” on repeat… or how you, Sophie, reached up periodically to ask, “Would you holg me, Mommy?”… or how we tickled tadpoles in the “whisky-coloured water” (Scottish information pamphlets make my heart sing) and I failed to adequately correlate tadpoles with frogs in your minds… or how, with three photographers among us and a stunning display of nature on the other side of our lenses, it’s a wonder we managed to get anywhere.
Actually, we do have photographic evidence of that last one.
Despite our best efforts, get somewhere we did. We hiked over boulders, past waterfalls, across bridges, through fern glades, and finally up a hill that was approximately twenty times as high as it looked to arrive at a perfect picnic rock overlooking Coire Loch (pronounced “Corry Law[the sound of phlegm dislodging from your throat]”). The scenery was gorgeous—sapphire-toned water set in a lush forest that extended as far as we could see—and we were exhilarated to be at the top. Or rather, your dad and I were. You two had depleted the last of your energy asking “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? How about now? Now?……….Now?” on our way up the hill, and you were tired. Just how tired, I didn’t realize until you put yourselves down for a refreshing afternoon nap. On a log.
Just to clarify, your dad and I had nothing to do with this.
As comfortable as the tree bark looked, we opted to let you crash in your own sleeping bags that night, and can I just say how glad I am that we live in a day and age where “roughing it” involves you sleeping in pink feather piles in your own private room? Sure, we lack all wilderness survival cred, but it’s so nice having the resources to enjoy sleeping on the ground. Our nighttime routine at campgrounds is hardly different from the one at home. You get your pajamas on, then we snuggle up to read a story or two while you interject frequent questions about the characters’ personal lives, their bathroom habits, and the likelihood of ice cream in our near future. We hug and kiss and sing a song that may or may not be embellished with scatological humor. (“Twinkle, twinkle little fart,” anyone?) Your dad and I tuck you girls in and pray with you. We say goodnight. We zip up the door. We unzip the door and show you that your water bottles are, in fact, in the same spot they are every night. We zip up the door. We unzip the door and wipe noses. We zip up the door. I unzip the door and remind you, “Girls, you’re supposed to be going to sleep; now be quiet.” One of you leans over to whisper to the other one, and I bark, “Sophie! What did I just say?” I can sense your exasperation even through the darkness: “Mommy, I was not talking to you…”
Must be all those subversive bedtime stories…
~~~
Highland Fling – Part 5
Neither your dad nor I had ever experienced anything close to what the next few hours entailed. Our first mission was to extract you girls from your side of the tent, dress you, and get you safely to the car. This was no small feat as the wind would have happily whisked you off to sea, and by the time you were buckled in, we had lost three hats and were all sopping wet. I gave you girls the last of yesterday’s snacks from the front seat (“Stale pretzels for breakfast, isn’t that great?!”), then your dad and I screwed our courage to the sticking-place and went to take care of Everything Else. Perhaps this is where I should point out that we had unloaded the entire car the night before. Usually, we only get out the food and clothes we need, but since we had planned on staying in Glenbrittle for a few days, we had unpacked everything. Clothes, books, toys, food, electronics, cooking gear, bedding, toiletries, kitchen sinks—every last item in our possession needed to be fit Tetris-style back into the trunk before we could do anything else. The tent wrapped itself around our heads as we packed, and the wind shoved freezing rain into our pores as we ran each load to the car. Nature was definitely winning, and it wanted our tent for itself. Fortunately, another camper came to our rescue and held the canvas with all his might so we could fold it up and stuff it wet, muddy, and misshapen into our trunk. We were soaked, we were frozen, we were hungry, and we didn’t know where we were going to sleep that night, but by Saint Ninian, we had survived!
Next order of business: a big Scottish breakfast with plenty of hot chocolate.
The big question, once our bellies were full and our clothes wrung out, was what to do next. Here we had a wide open, albeit stormy, day on our hands and all of Scotland at our disposal. We weren’t going to be scaling any mountains (our insanity does have its limits), and our apartment in Edinburgh wasn’t available for another few days. So we did exactly what any family would do upon finding itself homeless and purposeless in a foreign land: We pulled in at the nearest castle and whiled away the afternoon pretending to be royalty. (I should note that you two didn’t need to do any pretending as you were clearly born princesses.)
As you girls would say, “My highnesses”
Eilean Donan Castle (more or less pronounced “EE-len DUN-en”) is one of the smaller castles we saw over the course of our trip, but it was the only one we paid to go into, and with absolutely no experiential proof to back me up, I think we chose well. Sophie, your favorite part was leaning over the castle wall to look for sea monsters. In fact, you were the sole one among us to spot one, much to your sister’s chagrin. Natalie, your favorite part was peering through the spy-holes on the main staircase. (Just wait until you’re old enough to read Nancy Drew!) My favorite part was pretending to be a scullery maid in the kitchen, and your dad’s favorite part was rescuing the rest of us from the various parapets, dungeons, and dishwashing stations into which we wandered. At least, that’s my interpretation, and I’m sticking to it.
Nessie alert: Red
(Never mind that we were still hours from her legendary home)
Maybe it was all the sea monster talk, but we decided to head to Loch Ness for the night. After all, why not? Along the way, we ran into some car trouble and discovered that the famous Urquhart Castle has a strict no-kindness policy toward little girls who need to pee. (It also has huge fence in place to make sure that no one can steal a glimpse of the lake without paying the lofty entrance fee. I’m starting to think that it probably deserved all its sackings.) However, when you wake up camping in a hurricane, all other attempts of a day to sabotage your happiness seem a little lackluster. We were survivors! Let loose in Scotland! Discouragement didn’t have a fighting chance. We found ourselves a peaceful little campground in nearby Cannich, unfurled our bedraggled tent directly on the playground, and got busy relaxing.
Notice the color of the sky at 11 p.m. Wonder no longer why we never once remembered to eat supper before 9 p.m. throughout our trip.
~~~
Public Controversy Announcement
~~ This is a public service announcement. Your regularly scheduled Highland Fling dramatization will return shortly. ~~
I’m a little unsure where to start explaining myself… if I even need to explain myself at all. I’m taking a step that tends to invite controversy; plus, I once told myself I’d never do it. On the other hand, it’s so normal these days that you might not even notice, so I suppose this explaining is mostly for my own benefit. Confused yet?
I began blogging in 2002 when only a handful of my friends had even heard of the term and Blogger logo t-shirts were cool. I wrote through my junior year of college, and blogging can take a lot of credit for my decision to switch to an English degree. I thrived on the creative outlet and daily feedback. Around the time I got married, though, my online persona no longer felt comfortable hanging out in real world. Figuring out how to be a fiancée and then a newlywed while still in college was challenging enough without putting the process on show and tell, so I killed my blog in an alleyway one dark night.
When I officially re-joined the blogosphere four years later after a springtime of reading her and her and her and her, the territory was unfamiliar. It seemed that everyone had a blog; even toddlers I once babysat had Xanga accounts (remember those days?). Women from across the world were converging on Chicago to meet friends in person for the first time, learn how to generate income on their sites, and pick up swag from companies eager to advertise to this powerful new demographic. I saw ads on Dooce’s site and initially thought Good for her! Later, I saw Keri Smith’s purposefully ad-free blog and thought Oh… good for her! At the time (and considering my readership base of approximately one and a half), the ethical side of the debate was more relevant to me than the lucrative side, and I preferred an uncluttered design anyway.
Lately, though, we’ve found ourselves looking for creative ways to make ends meet, and I’ve had trouble justifying this blog to myself. We can’t eat it, we can’t wear it, and it takes time and resources that could be spent elsewhere more effectively. However, I love writing here and reading your words in return. Through this, I am connected to a community across the globe that I am no more willing to abandon than I am the friends I see face-to-face, and the inspiration I find here is invaluable. I’m simply not ready to give this up.
That’s why I’m scooting over to make room for some advertising. I understand that this may not sit well with everyone, but if it means that I can post more regularly, comment more regularly, and remain part of the collective wonderfulness of us… well, I’d take a little controversy over another dark alleyway any day.
Highland Fling – Part 4
The next morning dawned sunny and clear, and nary a midge lodged itself between our teeth at breakfast. It was the day we had been looking forward to the most since the trip was just a twinkle in our eyes—the day we would finally enter the Highlands!—and it could not have started more beautifully. We donned our short sleeves and sunglasses and stopped by the Scottish Wool Centre on our way out to pay our respects to the sheep. As it turned out, the sheep were far more interested in A) trying to nurse each other and B) trying to headbutt each other (as one particular gender of sheep is likely to do upon being “nursed”) than in hanging out with us. However, the miniature horses were much more agreeable, especially when we offered carrot sticks. I tried to cleverly maneuver the conversation toward the amazingly awesome yumminess of carrots and/or vegetables in general, but you, Sophie, saw right through my tactics like any self-respecting two-year-old. At least the horses won’t be coming down with scurvy.
Whaddya know, we stumbled on some social sheep after all.
By lunchtime (carrots), we were headed north. I remember the precise moment when the landscape changed from forests to something you might find on the green side of the moon, and there they were—the Highlands, in all their scandalous beauty. At this point, we began to make decidedly worse time, partly because the road broke out in acne, and partly because I had to get out of the car every half mile to snap another photo. The sun had stayed back in Stirlingshire, but clouds simply added to the mystique of untamed hills, chaotic and purposeful all at once. It was easy to understand why people in movies always run through the Highlands, because how could they not?
One almost expected Liam Neeson to dash by in a kilt.
The farther north we traveled, the wilder the terrain grew. By the time we crossed onto the Isle of Skye, we were beginning to feel like extraterrestrials. The road had narrowed to little more than a jogging path with “passing places” marked every so often; besides that, there were few other signs of human involvement. We were alone in our car with craggy green-dusted mountains on all sides punctuated by snaking waterfalls and a rollicking armada of a sky. The wind didn’t whip or gust so much as it simply was—a powerful constant, a ruling presence whose ghost-hide we penetrated with each turn of the wheels. It felt lonely, exhilarating, and a little terrifying to find ourselves on nature’s turf. At least we had our car and our sense of adventure, and after approximately a million hours of twisting away from civilization, we arrived at Glenbrittle Beach, our getaway for the next few days.
Guess which member of the family said “Nah, I won’t need a coat; it’s summer!” and subsequently rued her optimism?
Once we set up camp, there was absolutely nothing to do except take a walk. Fortunately, taking walks happens to be one of our favorite family activities and was our only agenda for Glenbrittle. We planned to tackle a mountain the next day, but a simple stroll along the beach seemed like the perfect way to unwind after a long day in the car. The sand was packed with rivulets and pebbles like the sea’s personal Zen garden. Wind rushed headlong through our ears, and it was impossible not to get caught up in the wildness of it all. You girls climbed on driftwood, filled your pockets with purple seashells, and waved across the Atlantic at your grandparents. We all raced together along the waterline and even defied all beach logic by managing to get livestock charging at us again.
At least these sheep didn’t look particularly hungry.
Once the coatless member of our family was sufficiently frozen to death, we headed back in for hot pasta (we’re the only family we know who counts a colander among their camping gear) and bundled up for a blustery night, secure in the knowledge that our tent could withstand whatever the Isle of Skye brought its way. <insert pause for dramatic effect> Oh we of little faith. We should never have doubted the wind’s ability to flatten resistance… quite literally. We woke up the next morning to our tent roof pressed against our noses while outside, our anchors flew wildly in an authentic island tempest. And with that, our three nights’ stay turned into one.
This is the sole picture we managed to take before our tent began digesting us whole and photography dropped abruptly off our priority list.
~~~
Highland Fling – Part 3
We would have happily stayed for a few more days chilling with our new friends, but our plans lay further north, and neither Roman walls nor belligerent cows were going to keep us out of Scotland. It was a lovely day, cool and pearl grey with the sun occasionally slipping off her veil to waltz across patchwork hills. We hadn’t driven very far before the lure of an impromptu detour grew too strong, and we found ourselves piling out of the car beneath a patch of Stirling forest. Our real interest stood at the top of that patch of forest—the towering Gothic sandstone of the National Wallace Monument—but the hike itself proved to be the star of the show. When I announced that we were going to go exploring, you, Natalie, replied as drily as John Cleese on toast, “Indeed.” But after noticing the frequent switchbacks on the trail (“It’s wiggly!”) and the tall wildflowers flanking it (“So many magic wands!”), you decided a little woodland trek might not be the worst thing in the world after all.
If you’re not careful, impromptu detours have a way of leading to other impromptu detours, some of which are impossible to get down from with any semblance of dignity.
You two have a gift for pure silliness, and it’s truly a delight to experience… especially when it turns an uphill hike into a hilarious obstacle course. We wiggled and waggled and jumped over logs and scaled boulders and raced and tripped and climbed trees and took our tennis shoes off-roading in all the best possible ways. Before your dad and I even had a chance to properly whine, “Are we there yet?” we were at the top drinking in the panorama. Below us, the landscape of Stirling rustled in the wind. Behind us, the Wallace Monument twisted into the clouds. In front of it, two pint-sized fairy princesses ran and twirled, zapping each other with freshly picked magic wands. Your dad and I have traveled to incredible places over the years, but it still blew our minds that we were spending the afternoon in the Scottish countryside with our precious little girls. (Scratch that; you, Natalie, just turned your sister into a toad. Oh, and you, Sophie, followed that with a grasshopper spell. Now, both of you are members of the crustacean family.)
Well, our two precious spawn, at any rate.
After a while, the wind began to rattle our comfort levels into oblivion, so your wands were donated to hungry bees (Sophie’s idea), and we ran pell-mell down the hill to continue the next leg of our trip. The destination? Trossachs National Park. We stayed at a rather snooty campground that charged us twice as much for the privilege of following a hundred nit-picky rules and being spied on from camper windows, but that didn’t stop us from having a fantastic evening Bassett-style. We simply drove off into the surrounding forests, found a spot to park, and explored to our hearts’ content. As far as we could see stretched craggy hills mottled in endless shades of green with the occasional silver glimmer of a loch. We trekked over boulders, fallen trees, and friendly neighborhood slugs in between pauses to marvel at the view. You girls plopped down with me to test the napping potential of the pillowtop moss. We played I Spy Foxgloves. We made up marching songs. You could say we were enjoying our first day in Scotland.
No hands!
(In our family, this qualifies an activity as an extreme sport.)
Did I mention it was your dad’s birthday? So far, we hadn’t done anything specific to celebrate, unless you count the beautiful farm-fresh eggs I bought for his breakfast… and promptly emptied half the salt shaker into. (Me: “Ugh, these are the least edible scrambled eggs I’ve ever tasted. What should we do with them? Oh, I know—we can put them in the scrap bucket for the chickens!” Your dad: “…”) We headed back to camp in the lingering twilight for a birthday supper of hot dogs and midges and pickles and midges and Dr. Pepper and midges and midges and midges and a lovely Tesco birthday cake that we ate inside the tent to minimize the number of midges sticking to the frosting which still ended up higher than one would hope. You, Sophie, led us in a rousing chorus of “Half a birthday to you, half a birthday to you!” and then your dad opened his new Bliptronic 5000 with which you two generously volunteered to help play.
I’d like to think all the half birthday wishes added up to one fantastic day for the favorite man in our lives.
~~~
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