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Here’s the thing: because I’m rubbish, I missed the Torchlight Procession on December 29, and Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve) is a bit fuzzy. I went to the giant street party in Edinburgh, with its giant fireworks display and Auld Lang Syne – except when midnight hit and the fireworks went off I was in the Port-a-potty, and shortly thereafter I lost my bottle of vodka. That was probably fortunate.
But here’s something reportable from my holidays, almost a full month late. (See? Rubbish!)
On Boxing Day, after Christmas Day with my flatmate and her family in Helensburgh, Lindsey took me for a road trip up the West Coast in Argyll. We went to Kilmartin Glen, a place my Scottish history teacher mentioned numerous times as being one of ancient religious significance. The area is scattered with Pictish standing stones and carvings, burial mounds, and Dunadd, the fort from where Dalriada was once ruled. (We’re talkin 6th Century here).
The reason my teacher thinks the place was such a significant site lies off the coast beside the Isle of Jura: The Corryvreckan Whirlpool. It’s one of the most powerful forces on the planet, he said, that can form a cauldron in the sea up to 100 metres across, and sends whirls out into the oncoming Atlantic tide. My flatmate sails, and was familiar with the area and the whirlpool, so we packed up the dog and went for a walk on the headland.
You can’t see the whirlpool from the shore, or course, but it’s located in the gap between those two islands (and above Otto, aka Doggle McGoggle, aka Chops, aka ‘ARGH! You’ve eaten the mail again!’).
We could hear the whirlpool however – or rather, we could hear it temporarily. As we walked along suddenly there was the sound of roaring water – and then suddenly there wasn’t. We noticed the same thing on the way back: all was silent, until we reached a certain point, and then after walking a few more metres the sound was gone again. We could hear other, smaller tidal activity, like the hum of distant traffic, but the intense roar of the Corryvrecken came and then went.
I promise to update this thing more often, so as not to alarm my family that I’ve fallen off the face of the earth. Also, perhaps I’ll call home more often. Sorry guys!
When I first got to Edinburgh I spent most of my days off finding new places in the city, searching out things I hadn’t seen before. Now that I’ve been here five months (five months? For serious?), I’ve gotten into a routine and am familiar with my corner of the city, which means I’ve stopped trying so hard to be a tourist. I’m trying consiously, now, to get out of my neighbourhood and section of the Old Town and still, on the odd day off, track down something new.
Last week, I took the train 15 minutes out of town and went to Linlithgow Palace. Most touristy sites I’ve been to in my travels have been lovely, but also full of other tourists. Because I went to Linlithgow mid-week, in the off season, when I arrived I was the only one there.
The place was silent except for the sound of my footsteps and the odd pigeon cooing. The palace – where Mary Queen of Scots was born – is huge with rambling cooridors and a huge great hall, big bedrooms with fire places. In the kitchen you can still see the giant oven. I’d take a turn down a random hallway and suddenly find the wine cellar, the brew house.
At one point, in the Great Hall, I did run into another couple, just long enough for them to exclaim ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ and for me to reply ‘It’s lovely!’. We headed in different directions. I didn’t see them again.
The day was made more lovely because Ms. Dhana works at the court house across the street from the palace, and after my tour she took me out to a small cafe with killer mac and cheese, and we talked about Canada.
***
Awhile ago, on another free day, I hopped on a bus and headed to Rosslyn Chapel.
Yes, that Rosslyn Chapel. From that book/movie.
It is lovely, all conspiracy theories and made up history aside. I’m not bothered if people want to believe that everything from the Holy Grail to the mummified head of Jesus is buried beneath the thing: the fact is that it is beautiful, regardless of the myths. (Rosslyn is, according to my history teacher, ‘The biggest red herring in Scottish history’).
Unfortunately, though, it’s currently under a canopy and covered in scaffolding until 2011, because it’s taken on a lot of water and needs to be dried out before it crumbles. Apparently, for The Da Vinci Code, they had to reconstruct a model of it for the shooting.
You’re not allowed to take pictures inside the chapel, which is where all the amazing carvings are. (Though you can see some here).
Even with the canopy, though, the outside is still marvelous.
When you’re tired of Scotland, I think, you’re tired of life.*
*Shamelessly stolen and revised Samuel Johnson quote.
I’ve done a lot of lounging over the past two weeks. I’ve spent some time wandering around Bristol, then two days last week wandering around Bath, and am looking forward to being in Ireland tomorrow and having other people to wander around with: namely my brother, Jeff, the red-headed step-child, Dustin, and Boy-Whose-Father-Invented-Trivial-Pursuit, who I’ve not yet met.
Bath was intensely lovely (there!), and I paid too much to wander around the 2,000 year old Roman baths, and was glad I did. The fire alarm went off when I was half way through the museum, and I had to evacuate and go back later (it hadn’t burnt down).
The water has turned green, but the baths are still in immaculate shape and wander throughout the building. The Romans had heated floors in their steamy massage rooms, for crying out loud.
The baths are right beside the Abbey, (you can see it in the background), right beside which is a square with rotating buskers. On the other side of the baths people gather around buskers who do magic shows, or juggle knives while wearing pink tutus on top of giant unicycles.
I sat in the square and read “Northhanger Abbey”, because Jane Austen used to live in Bath, in this house (#4):
Bristol is a big busy university town were Tamara works for a law firm, and is also an excellent place to wander. I wandered through the markets one day, and sat under a tree eating lunch in Queen’s Square on another. At the Watershed Media Centre I attended a lecture on the United States’ use of torture against detainees, I walked up to Cabot tower in the park (John Cabot discovered Newfoundland), and went to the Empire and Commonwealth museum, with its extensive exhibit on the history of the slave trade. (A lot of explorers launched their ships from Bristol, and it was the hub of trade, in both goods and people, after that).
Now! My cab will be here soon to take me to the airport, from which I will catch my flight to Dublin. It is quite possible I will be spending much time in pubs over the next two weeks.
We caught the bus to Evora today, to see Roman ruins and bone chapels and museums and cathedrals.
Most of them are closed on Monday.
We´re going to take a walking tour tomorrow though, and have someone show us around. Being a good Saskatchewan girl, I´m missing the grid system. Missed your corner? Just turn at the next one and loop back. Not sure whre something is? Just head in that general direction.
Not here. Especially not in Evora. The town is like a wheel, with a central square and streets branching out from it, and others twisting in between. They´re narrow with tall buildings and for two prairie girls, well, it´s a little claustrophobic.
It is beautiful, though, once you get past the close quarters, and today we saw a Roman temple preserved for 2,000 years and just sat in front of it for awhile.
I think Portugal´s slogan should be “Land of Many Stairs”. That could just be because I´m from Saskatchewan and not used to inclines. To get to our hostel you climb a set of stairs to get to our street of stairs, and then once at the hostel climb three more sets of stairs to get to our room.
Today we went to Sintra, home of many castles. The Moorish castle, built in the 9th century but restored in th 19th, JJ dubbed “the coolest thing ever”. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. Covered in stairs.
Portugal´s other slogan, though, could be “Portugal – So Pretty”.
Then, up a very big hill (we took a trolley, thank god), was another 19th century castle, pink and yellow and covered in blue tiles.
Inside we tried to imagine living there, with so much stuff. Furniture and paintings and tapestries and statues.
There was much more to see, but we were too tired after all the stair and hill climbing and caught the train back to Lisbon (and the hostel, more stairs).
Tomorrow we´re heading south to Lagos, and many beaches.
Two American girls stumbled into our hostel room yesterday, red faced and short of breath (from all the stair climbing) saying they’d just come from Lagos.
“I´m going there tomorrow,” I said.
“Oh my god! We loved it there! It´s like a whole different world!” said the short one with the brown hair.
“It was wild, the best night life I´ve seen, anywhere,” said the taller, blonde one from Jersey.
“Great,” I said, not admitting i was more looking forward to long days of beach lounging and lots of sleep.
“Where are you staying?”
“Uh, a hostel, Carlos…something…”
“Oh my god! That´s where we stayed! It´s crazy there. Better not tell them you met us though, we left there with our heads hanging a bit low…”
So apparently we´re heading for the land of sun, sea, and debauchery. Stay tuned.
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