Scotland Part 2, Drover's Inn

Our absent-minded bus driver dropped us off a good half hour or more after passing our hostel’s stop.  We disembarked to find ourselves across from a fantastically ancient little stone place with moss growing on the southern face, in the bottom of a steep-sided valley as the sun licked up and off the top of the west-facing escarpment.  We went in to find that the Drover’s Inn had been in operation since 1705, was overflowing with highland charm, and the cheapest room was over three times what we were hoping to pay.

Where we got off the bus.  That's the Drover's.

So we left the Drover’s Inn.  There were a couple more Bed and Breakfast places in the dell (yeah, that’s right, I’m calling it a “dell” because it actually was that quaint).  At the first we found the reception door, knocked, and it was eventually opened by a confused-looking lad of around 18 years, with whom I had the following conversation.

Me:  Is this the reception?
Mr. Blurryman:  Uh.  No.  Well, maybe.  Uh, yeah, I guess so.  Yes.
(pause while we look at each other)
Me:  Do you have anything available for tonight?
Mr. Blurryman:  Uh…no, I don’t think so.  We’re…um…full.
(slight pause while he appeared to ponder the nature of good and evil.)
Mr. Blurryman:  Yeah, we’re full.
Me: Um.  Thanks.
Mr. Blurryman:  Sure thing.

After the Zen insanity of that interaction we headed to the other one, where a sign with an arrow for reception led us down a short walkway to a blank wall.  This bus stop should be labeled as “Scottish Twilight Zone.”

The road was crazy narrow to walk along, and it was about four hours in either direction before you got to anything else, so we headed back to the Drover’s and resigned ourselves to enjoying it immensely.

The floors were carpeted with clan tartan plaids, Rob Roy had stayed there, the walls and furniture were age-darkened wood, the floors creaked, and there were stuffed animal carcases on the walls.  Did I mention it has been an Inn since 1705, for crying out loud?  The communal bathroom had a claw-foot tub and a picture of a creepy little girl on the wall.

Our room was on the top floor, and was cozy in that it was apparently built for leprechauns.  The doorknob was at mid-thigh level, and as was the sink in the corner (leprechauns are very fastidious).  There was a slight smell in the air that reminded me of my British grandmother's cottage in southern England.  Like tea, crumpets, tea, lace, tea, and little British farts.  And tea.

And best of all, for dinner I got a plate heaped with a massive pile of authentic country “haggis, neeps, and tatties.”  It was delicious.  Haggis, parsnips and potatoes (the latter two mashed together), with a pepper sauce and absolutely nothing resembling a vegetable to be seen anywhere in the vicinity of my plate.

No offense to Morocco, but I enjoyed it much more than the Goat-head Soup.

Just in case you weren‘t sure, haggis is made of mashed up sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs, with oatmeal, spices, and suet (fat) mixed in, then stuffed in a sheep’s stomach or intestine, and simmered for three hours.  And according to the all-knowing wikipedia, the first written reference to haggis is from a 1430 cookbook written in verse! called Liber Cure Cocorum.  As if an entire cookbook from the fifteenth century written in verse isn‘t cool enough as it is, here is the quote, if the font transfers:

For hagese'.

Þe hert of schepe, þe nere þou take,

Þo bowel noght þou shalle forsake,

On þe turbilen made, and boyled wele,

Hacke alle togeder with gode persole,

Now with all that in mind, you need a closer look.

The next day I was understandably craving vegetables (the word “remorse“ comes to mind), but it was a Bed and Breakfast, and the breakfast was Scottish.  That means ham, a fried egg, sausage, fried bread, blood sausage, baked beans, two pieces of white toast, and for all the health nuts: half a warmed tomato.

K had the vegetarian version, which was the toast, beans, egg, tomato and two veggie sausages.

With that…solid…start, we quickly decided to spend the day walking.  That turned out to be an excellent decision.

A little fading of willful optimism.

In one of those posts about Belgium I mentioned that everyone rides bikes, including grey haired elderly people.  (I know, you probably didn’t read that whole post, it was too long, and there were three of them, so I will keep this one shorter)  Katrien offhandedly mentioned that it was more normal for older people to ride than younger, other than school kids, and over the past month I have observed that this is true.  In the morning it is kids on the way to school, and all day it is elderly folk running errands.

This is alarming.  Because it seems to me to indicate that the everyday use of bicycles has more to do with a generational difference in economic resources than it does any sort of awareness of environmental cause (or other conscious reason for bicycling, like health, traffic reduction, or frickin inter-human contact, even if only in passing).  I find myself disappointed.

I think every time I travel to a new area I am secretly hoping that the people there will “get it” in some way.  They will have figured something out and demonstrate increased awareness of the important things in life.  But if the people here are more content to drive all these shiny BMWs instead of bicycling on a beautiful day, then they are just the same as Americans.

That sounds harsher than I mean it…by a smidge.  I know it is easy for me to say they should bike.  But you can’t show up to work sweaty.  And often the distance is too long.  And people often just don’t have time to go the slow way.  And it’s just so damn much easier to drive.

But to some extent those are excuses.  Or at least, surmountable reasons.  If people really saw a worthwhile purpose to biking instead, a lot of them could do it.

And suddenly I remember Stockholm.  I got to Stockholm a little before dawn and was walking the streets as the sun rose on a chilly September workday.  The city spans 14 island, with 57 bridges, and is a powerful economic focal point.

(I don't have any of my few pictures from Stockholm available, so here's one of the two I have from Scandinavia.  It's Copenhagen on a Saturday morning...and I kinda wish I'd been there for whatever Friday night activities left a pillow in the street.)

As I was walking around looking for a place to stay that night, there was solid traffic of grey business-suited professional men and women….on bikes.  Few cars.  The light would turn green and pedals would turn, sprockets would catch chains, and all the serious Scandinavian multitudes would accelerate along their way.  So maybe the Swedish get it.  Or maybe the relatively minor traffic capacity of a series of islands has more to do with it.  And maybe a forward thinking government regulated it.  (Which would be great, but I would still prefer a broad and communal consciousness.)

To give Belgium credit, there is still much more bicycling and I would say more general health-awareness here (without being all maniacal about it) but not by as wide a margin as my willfully rose-tinted glasses at first showed.
And I don’t know the reason or motivation behind the bicycling crowds of Stockholm, and in fact I was only there one day (couldn’t find a place to sleep) so I don’t even know if it’s really true, but at this point, I am going to believe it is, and leave it at that.

Scotland Part 1, Edinburgh, Stirling, Glasgow

We flew to Scotland on the continuous airborne infomercial that is Ryanair (does anyone ever buy the raffle tickets?) and landed in beautiful Edinburgh.  This place has a substantial reputation, and lives up to it fully.  We only had a week, so left after only one day, thinking “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of this place.”

Edinburgh Castle is nutty-dramatic on its hill overlooking the city, and spring is rolling in.

Next stop was Stirling, which has a mostly pedestrian downtown area, a castle, history up the wazoo, an indie/artsy music venue, a decent hostel, and a cemetery, all of it covered in bright new daffodils, and therefore was peachy-keen in my book.

Daffodils and a street in Stirling

Being back in hostels was a familiar old friend.  The one in Edinburgh was a classic example of a European hostel, a dimly lit reception with assorted funky, saggy couches, a brightly lit kitchen with ten blackened pots with no lids, a hundred spoons and three knives, and a bathroom of coffin-like showers and well-used sinks under a speckled mirror covered in signage about cleaning up after oneself.  The dorm room was also standard issue, with bunkbeds down either side of the room, thin lockers between, and a heavy layer of fart in the air, which grew to inhumane levels by the time the sun rose.

The hostel in Stirling was the countryside cousin, with more open air and less stank, although this particular one was being renovated, so the hallways were tenanted by rolls of insulation, cans of paint, and slabs of drywall.  It also meant there was only one functioning bathroom, so when someone lost their dinner on the floor of one of the two stalls, the rest of us had the chance to get to know each other better while waiting in line for the single toilet.  Luckily the charm of traveling and the fantastic weather kept us all in high spirits, and no one was murdered, so far as I am aware, although the detective work to find out who ralphed was enthusiastically underway in the common room.

Some street I found beautiful:

The next day we decided to head to a hostel on Loch Lomond run out of an authentic old manor-house mansion complex.  We took the bus to Glasgow, which seemed like a cool place too, although we only explored the downtown close to the bus station.  We grabbed lunch at the “Campus” sports bar, which was decorated with all the essential college dorm room posters (Scarface, The Doors, Animal House etc), American license plates, and bathrooms wallpapered with scantily clad members of the opposite sex.  I optimistically had some sort of meat pie thing, and am proud to say I survived it.

The two intercity buses we had taken had both been driven by alarmingly grumpy little men who created opportunities to berate us for not being there on time, even though neither time did we delay the bus.  Apparently bus drivers are to Scotland what post office employees are in America: grumpy malcontents who can barely stomach the regrettable fact of your existence.  While we were waiting at one stop I got to watch another driver on the opposite side of the road throw a remarkable tantrum, flinging his clipboard and everything.  Well goodness.

So when I bought a ticket for the Glasgow-Oban route, put our bag underneath the bus, and then found they had actually sold us a ticket on the Glasgow-Fort William bus (which also went through Loch Lomond) I prepared myself for some grumbling from the driver.  To my pleasant surprise the fellow was very amiable, sorting us out and greeting us onboard with a pleasant “ye jus’ goin’ at’the hostel, then?  Tha’s w'me, ya?  Tha's fine.”

Just north of Loch Lomond

We left Glasgow and passed by gorgeous scenery as we approached the Loch.  It stayed gorgeous as we entered town…then left it…continued on…  Crap, I don’t like to be the worrywart American, but I was pretty sure he had forgotten our stop.  I gave it a few more minutes until my suspicion overbalanced my trust and then went up and asked him.  Yup, the hostel was well and truly behind us.  We could wait by the side of the narrow road for the next bus back which came at….10:15 PM.  No thanks.

I asked him to drop us off in the next place with a hostel or budget lodging, and he replied that we were coming up on the Drover’s Inn, which was a very popular spot, frequently full of backpackers.  Sounded good to us...

Fashion Show

(I will try to post something about Scotland soon, but I just realized I never posted this.)


So…my girlfriend is a supermodel.

Specifically, she was in a store a couple months ago and the owner asked her to be in their annual fashion show, which took place Saturday night in the same hall where we saw the interlude-of-sexual-overtones-during-the-Celtic-concert after the children’s Carnaval.  (Just a quick pop quiz to see if you have read my other posts.)

The hall was now dominated by a long stage, which was ringed in densely packed chairs; people here clearly do not worry about fire codes as much as Americans do.  (I blame my past as a property manager for noticing that shit.  Plus it was hard to climb over the chair backs with a beer in either hand.)

The show was three hours, with an intermission halfway through, and was opened by the town marching band.  Apparently many towns have them, and they are collectively called “Fan Fare” bands, which in Dutch sounds sort of like “fahn fahd-uh.”  Band members ranged in age from a couple of (maybe) 10 year old girls self-consciously playing flutes while blushing profusely, up to the balls-out carefree sixty-somethings blaring their trumpets and thumping their bass drums.

As a whole, the band had a super funky sort of Gothic Zydeco thing going on.  Face paint (green for St Patty’s) and vests.  Hats, no two alike.  Bracelets and dangly earrings.  A mini-troupe of five dancers grooved and whirled with a fair amount of that half-India, half-stripclub movement that you see in hippies everywhere.  (I don’t mean to mock that; you keep on floating them hands and moving them hips, girls!)

The Dutch word for “model” is “mannequin” but these local folks were anything but blank-plastic-faced, looking very much human and enjoying themselves.  Plus, there was never a mannequin that blushed as profusely as a few of them managed.  (Speaking of which…who decided that sulky girls who look like unhealthy 13 year old boys were “sexy”?  Seriously, fire the fashion industry.)

Here's my supermodel girlfriend:

The participants ranged from a maybe 6 year old girl, up to a maybe 60 year old woman.  (As you can tell, I am remarkably bad at guessing ages.)

The 6 year old wore a little bird on a hairclip for her third outfit, and it stayed resolutely put throughout the rest of the show, I‘m guessing at her insistence.  The 60 year old did a lengthy and impressive salsa dance in heels on the narrow stage.

The guys were all 20-ish, and did a good job looking confident while simultaneously exquisitely self-conscious.

The final set was wedding-themed, starring an adorable little older couple who took a circuit of the stage, smiles relentless.  No one seemed to know who they were, but no one cared.  I mean, just look at them!

Now that's my kind of fashion show.

Questions for Scotland

I am going to Scotland tonight, and I have a couple of questions I hope to answer.

1.  Are they frickin sick of Braveheart or what?
Preliminary snooping for towns with affordable hostels indicates that nearly every hamlet and Podunk in the country has a Braveheart Backpackers (a town called, I’m not making this up: “Killin”) or a Willy Wallace Hostel (Stirling).
I mean, it is history to be proud of (outnumbered armies defeating the imperial English is always impressive) but having that history subsumed by Mel Gibson’s entertaining but almost entirely inaccurate film (don’t get me wrong, I love that movie, except for the problem that it’s full of Mel Gibson) and thereafter simplified to blue face-paint…that’s gotta be annoying.
Oy, I wonder if any Scottish historians were ever lectured by movie-watchers on “what really happened.”  And I wonder if the historians then clove them in twain with that bigass sword he runs around with.  Wouldn’t that be ironic.

2.  Haggis.

3.  How long would I have to loudly praise England in a pub before a Scot hauled off and decked me?

4.  How green is it?
I may be a little hard on Europe on this whole “centuries of human (mis)behavior have killed all the wilderness” (after all the Carpathian range is frickin massive and pretty dern wild) but how paved and populated is Scotland?  I just remember hearing that Scotland doesn’t look “Scottish” enough any more, so they filmed Braveheart in Ireland.  (Checked on imdb, and it looks like indeed most of the locations are in Ireland, though not all, particularly that opening shot is actually Scotland.)
Oy, I know.  I ramble about how over-played Braveheart is, and then mention it a second later.  Please forgive me my hypocrisy.

5.  Is a real Scottish accent as irresistible as I suspect it is?  (Okay, I already know the answer to that one.  Lucky bastards.)

I’ll look into these and get back to you.  Maybe.  Good night.

Avatar Pee

The local community center sometimes shows second-run movies at discount price on Tuesday evenings, so last night I finally saw this “Avatar” thing that made such a buzz.  Or was it The Last Samurai?  Or Dances with Wolves?  (Or, I hate to admit, my own favorite movie, Last of the Mohicans?)  Or any of the million other movies where some white guy goes and becomes “native” and does it better than they do.  It’s too bad all the Noble Savages need a gringo to come save them.  But anyway, I’ll spare you my ranting about clichés (btw, who wants to be “the hard-nosed fighter pilot with a chip on his/her shoulder who comes through with a heart of gold” next time?)

We were watching the movie, where the protagonist goes to another land, falls for a tall beautiful female and learns about her unfamiliar world, including the language, which he haltingly picks up.

Halfway through the movie they had an intermission (how cool is that?  Pee-and-Tea break, everyone!) and I went to the bathroom where I tried to pick out words I knew from the flittering conversations, and observed the others to learn how things are done here.  Then I went back to my tall beautiful female and tried not to drown in the déjà vu.

(Okay, so the bathrooms aren’t that different, but I did opt to wait in line to use the motion-activated cloth-towel-loop-recycler thing to confirm how to use it.)

Ooh, and can I tell you a little bit more about the bathroom?  I know you want to hear more about the bathroom.  I remember hearing years ago about a (in my memory he was Danish) train station employee who was tasked with figuring out a way to reduce the amount men were peeing on the floor.  His brilliantly simple solution was to paint a little fly on the porcelain of the urinals.  Men, as we all know, are just oversized little boys, and given the chance to pee on something, will.

So all the guys started peeing on this little fly, and lo and behold, the floors stayed dry.  (If you want to use that sentence in your next song, you can.)  In the community center bathroom in Heist-op-den-Berg I finally got to pee on the fly!  I hope the guys next to me weren’t too weirded out by how entertained I was during my visit…

(And it bears mentioning, the bathroom was much cleaner than its counterpart in the States would have been, I reckon.  No sticky floors, wet paper, or cigarette butts.  Although that is generally true of all public bathrooms here.)
(To be fair, I don’t mean to say everything is magically better here; surprisingly, it is even harder to find a public bathroom than back yonder, where it borders on a human rights violation in my mind.  Anyway.  The point is: I got to pee on the little fly.)
(Although to be honest, the Spaniards have one-upped them already.  There was a pisser back there somewhere with a little orange ball and soccer goal.  Probably less effective at keeping the place clean, but way more fun.)

pre-fashion show fitting trip

My girlfriend was asked to participate in a fashion show, and yesterday we went to the store that’s running it so she could be fitted and her outfits chosen.  My own sense of fashion had a 28 year late start, so I did not feel remotely competent to contribute, and since I was basically just in the way I went and sat in the movie-theater seats they had outside the dressing rooms.  (A comfy place for gender-role men to sit while gender-role women try on clothes is a definite source of bonus points in my book.  I can‘t count the number of times I have stood around in the impromptu Boyfriend Holding Pen that forms outside dressing rooms.  We all stand there uncomfortably, competing for who can look the most supportive while remaining suitably manly.  You know what I mean, you‘ve seen them too.)

I had brought a book to read (Hesse’s Siddharta fits right in my pocket) but was distracted from it by the music, which wandered between 80s standards, 90s pop, and euro-techno before settling into an entire Bloodhound Gang album.  Do you remember these guys?  (If you weren’t in school around the turn of the century you are not required to.)  They were the ones with that song about “do(ing) it like they do on the Discovery Channel” which apparently is “doggy style so we can both watch X-Files.”  I had forgotten how catchy and how utterly filthy their songs are.

Polite and fashionable people wandered around the store examining super-expensive clothes (a pair of men’s shorts was 89 Euro, about $140!) while the bland-voiced singer recited an ode to a porn star, discussed premature ejaculation, and informed us of his onanistic tendencies.  In detail.

All in all it was an above average shopping trip.