High Winds in the Highlands

High winds in the highlands forced the tour I had scheduled for today to cancel. Apparently the bus we were meant to take would most likely tip while crossing a particular bridge. I don't know if the certainty which this was explained to me with was from experience, but I am hoping it was just a hunch. The tour director was right about one thing though, the winds are indeed high here in Inverness today. High and frigid. So frigid in fact that it quickly drove my plan of exploring the town out of my head and I somewhat desperately searched for shelter from the elements. I came across a place called Leakey's Cafe and Bookshop. It used to be a church that has been now been converted into a used and antique book shop with a cafe serving homemade soups with "crusty bread" from the second floor balcony.

Travelling through the UK I have come across many old churches now being used for different functions. In York there was one that is now a somewhat trendy night spot, another that rents out to a rotating number of charities who use it to sell affordable lunches and homemade goods to help fund their activities. When I was in York the charity was benefiting the blind and there were guide dogs lounging around the tables and people munched happily on their sandwiches. One of Edinburgh's old churches located right on the royal mile now houses a tourist information and tour booking service. It feels odd walking in these buildings now serving a modern function yet with the same statues, engravings and plaques on the wall that have stood there when people came to be closer to God and not book and all day highland sightseeing tour. Regardless of this sharp justification I think it is a good thing that these cities have not permitted the destruction of these age old buildings in what is now prime real estate territory. It saves the character of the city center and in a day where people no longer require as many churches due to both mobility and the frequency of visits it pays appropriate homage to a time where these buildings were the center of the community that they were located in.

Leakey's cafe and bookshop greets the visitor immediately in from the wind with the aroma of soup and the sight of books piled on the shelves and shin high from the floor. It is the kind of place that in its warm (and aromatic) embrace you never want to leave (especially to return to the cold, cold world outside). I immediately drifted over to the travel section. I am, in my opinion, quite the connoisseur of travel writing. I never dreamed of so many worn hardback copies of books on people's adventures to parts of the globe that were once unknown. I flipped through treks of Asia, sea adventures to tropical islands and expeditions up to the tops of mountains once claimed unreachable. Selecting a few titles I climbed up the winding stairs to the cafe where I warmed both my body and mind with soup and the Indies. While this building is no longer used for the religious services that it was intended for, I think that this is the next best thing. The communion that people take part in here is not one of the saints but one of minds. Soup as our wine and books for our bread.

Nessie

Today I ventured into a land where hills become mountains with only lochs and trains breaking through their domain. There is no question why this land is considered mysterious with legends of a monstrous sea creature and weather that speaks to the traveller in different shades of grey. A fierce wind started my journey out onto the Loch Ness. Our boat (proudly called a cruise liner by its two man crew) came equipped with sonar detector to spot any underwater goings on of the creature the locals have dubbed "Nessie". Our group consisted of about 30 people of varying nationalities all either in search of the monster or just curious as to what all the fuss was about. We first travelled through the Caledonian Canal passing it seemed ceremoniously throgh a lock system to enter the famous and erie Loch Ness.

I remember learning about the Loch Ness Monster in a GT class during 2nd grade. I was filled with wonder over this idea and knew with no uncertainty that if I were ever to travel to Scotland the monster would raise his head above the surface if for no one else, then for me, a true believer. Over time my commitment to this belief faltered as they do for all the things we hold true during childhood. Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the (while probably most unlikely) Tooth Fairy all occupy tombs in the graveyard of my lost childhood beliefs. I think the world loses that magic that we see it with as a child when we learn these ideas couldn't possibly be real. I think this is a magic that once lost, is near impossible to recapture. The closest I have gotten to that fantastical view of things is watching these adults from all over the word stare hungrily into the waters.

The Loch Ness set the scene perfectly for us today. There was a deep chill in the wind and we hit the waves in the loch at such force it drove all the hopeful watchers into the interior as water sprayed over the top deck. Nessie did not make her much desired appearance. While I don't think anyone thought she would there was a glum air on the bus ride home as the driver spoke about the people who had seen the monster and with what certainty they said it existed. So, does the monster actually exist? Maybe, but probably not. What I do know is this, that everyday at about 3:00pm you can find about 30 fully functioning adults hoping to see what they know shouldn't exist and in this world where we tend so much towards cynicism I think recapturing that childhood feeling of irrational belief is a magical enough thing in itself.

Mary Queen of Haggis?

Dr. Samuel Johnson, in his famous English dictionary defined the word oats the following way: "a grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people". Whether this statement speaks more towards Dr. Johnson's distaste for the people of Scotland or for their food is a matter of personal opinion, but one thing is for certain, the people of Scotland are not known for their culinary accomplishments. This, we must remember is a country that prides themselves on their ability to create an alcohol whose main function is keeping one warm (some might drink Scottish whiskey for the taste, but I am not one of them. This became painfully apparent at a free whiskey tasting where after making two pained faces politely excused myself from the proceedings). While every country has its culinary quirks, I have never encountered one so widely loved by the people as haggis seems to be here in Edinburgh.

I have a confession to make. I am practically fearless when it comes to traveling. I thought nothing of crossing the straight of Gibraltar to travel in Morocco. When no one would go with me I marched across the Texas border into Mexico by myself a year ago. I dream of taking the Trans-Siberian railroad across Asia and Russia someday. Despite all the things I have done and am willing to do when it comes to strange foods I shrink back into my shell and quietly pine for a grilled chicken sandwich and iced tea. I refused to try snails in France, wouldn't hear of mussels in Brussels, and generally avoid anything I can't find available in the US. This fear became most apparent when travelling with my mom a few years ago she didn't think twice about ordering the questionable looking kebab from a street vendor (for those of you unsure what this is it looks like a giant cone of different types of meat and fat that rotates on a spit and the vendor shaves off into a pita). I looked it up and down and ordered a side of fries thank you very much. My mom had previously asked me if it was safe to fly Airfrance (I love you mom) . I knew then I had a problem.

Above you can see my breakfast this morning, sans the haggis. Normally, I wouldn't be so bothered by my unwillingness to take part in an edible local tradition, but this seems to be very prevalent. I went to a local cafe this morning that was packed for Sunday breakfast. You stood in a line and picked 5 things you wanted from a selection. I would proudly eat Dr. Johnsons oats anyday over this meat patty. Imagine my surprise when every person in front of me ordered the haggis! When I didn't the man behind me asked me if I was to afraid to try some real Scottish food. I replied that I didn't think it was for me, to which he cried, "Not for you! Mary Queen of Scots herself ate haggis"! While I don't know if this particular tidbit is true (Scots seem to have a flare for adding embellishments to help them make their case), I know Mary, when she came back to Scotland from France embraced a culture she never knew. She left the superior comforts of the French court and wholeheartedly made herself the Scottish Queen. I vowed to the proud Scot that I would try his country's food no matter how adverse to lamb intestines I might be. So, tomorrow morning before I leave for the highlands, stomach be damned I will have a breakfast of Haggis in the tradition of Mary Queen of Scots herself and earn my title of fearless traveller! Maybe I should order some whiskey to wash it down...

The Songs We Sing

The train pulled into the station at York at 16:00 Friday evening. This left me precisely enough time to check into my hostel, drop my bags, get lost in the city and end up in front of York Minster at 17:00. As luck or chance would have it this happens to be the time that the somewhat steep entrance fee to the cathedral is waived and visitors and worshipers alike are invited to attend evensong. I have been to my fair share of the great cathedrals of Christianity and I can honestly say that I did not believe that I could get that hair-stand-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck feeling from cathedrals any more. Greeting your first steps into the Cathedral you hear the echo of perfect voices being pitched about a great expanse. You are ushered into the choir area of the cathedral and sit in the seats that royalty would have used. It seems that in a day of praise music that seems more like pop we easily forget how this olden and traditional form without the aid of any instruments and fanfare can transcend the earthly and truly become a religious experience.

Stepping out of the church and my reverie I understood why York is considered among some of the travellers I have met a city of buskers. I will fully admit that I have a soft spot when it comes to buskers. The first time I travelled in Europe a British girl was explaining the place they have in British culture to me and due to her accent I, until this trip, operated under the belief they were called Baskas. A Busker is not a person sitting on the road with their hand held out, but a piece of the place they choose to perform. I have heard Bob Marley in the metro, an appropriate choice as the somewhat grim nine to fivers scurry back and forth. I have heard classical in the streets of Vienna by the Opera House. The ones in York were playing British tunes in the busy center and the performers by the Cathedral used archaic instruments to set an appropriate mood. There are signs around town addressing and acknowledging this group's presence. In London a while back there were signs asking commuters on the tube to vote for their favorite. Coming from America where anyone asking for money for an unrequested service is threatening or "a bum" I find it heartening and humanizing that Buskers are an accepted and maybe even appreciated part of the culture in many centers of the UK. I watched a mother encourage her 3 year old son to go drop the coin in a particularly talented performers guitar case. After completing his task the boy stood grinning up at the man captured not only by the magnificent setting of York but the added effect that only this particular performer could give the location at the time. Sitting and talking to a York native the next day one of the first things they noticed was the lack of buskers and it was said with an air of disappointment.

York seemed to be a city filled with songs, however varied they might be. This seems to be the case of the city itself. Inside the walls alone several different styles of architecture can be observed, from parts of the original Roman wall, to modern architecture built to house the city's relics. It is this almost eclectic feel that made York to me, a unique personality.

Bath Water

If Bath was an author she would be Jane Austen. (I use she on purpose, Bath is one of the most decidedly feminine cities that I have been to, and not in a uses doilies and requires an escort way but in a graceful and independent way. It is also quite pretty) This might seem like an obvious choice as the (very underwhelming) Jane Austen center is located here and one can actually peek into the windows of the Georgian townhouse she always rented while on holiday (probably not appreciated by the current tenants). The impression starts immediately on leaving London. Having never ventured farther then Richmond from London ( I am a sucker for literary sites) I was immediately struck by the provincial beauty of the country surrounding Bath. I leaned against the massive train windows and imagined every country house that we passed was where the Bennett's once resided. I could imagine carriages pulling up and well groomed ladies piling out after the long night at the area ball. There is also something very authentic about Bath. It is a major tourist stopping point but doesn't seem to lose who it is. I think any day tripper there would terribly miss the point as while there are some power house sites just wandering the streets was the best part of my time there (I got asked for directions a number of times and wanted to say getting lost here is half the charm!). It is also very intelligent. One of the joys of being a solo traveller I have found is the number of people you get to have conversations with. I have never been asked so many times if I minded someone joining my table. I ended up at a vegetarian pub last night in the heart of town (I had veg bangers and mash-- I know Mr. Banks is turning his nose up at this right now, but they were very good!) and got into a great conversation with some local university students about the varied differences in cultures and manners in between two countries, America and the UK, that share the same language and arguably much of the same foundation. It reminded me of Austen examining the manners of her time in her novel and putting them to trial through her wit. The night ended with me being amicably informed that it was just daft to call the second level of a building the second floor. Leaving Bath today was fairly easy as I know this is a place I want to return. I have now arrived in York and look forward to seeing what this more Northern city has to offer. I will keep you updated and hope everyone is well!

At the immagration desk (a comedy in one act)

Katie: Hi how are you today!?

immigration officer (female): Can you please fill out the exact address you are staying at...

Katie: no problem! Here it is ma'am!

officer: Why are you in England

Katie: Oh, just travelling! (shoots the officer a winning smile)

officer: By yourself? You aren't meeting anybody at any point? (said in a snarky tone)

Katie: (smile faltering) Well, I am meeting my boyfriends Grandmother in York for tea...

officer: Oh, so you are going to york too! Well, then where is your boyfriend at! (picture this said VERY snarkily)

Katie: He had to work he couldn't come with me (looking very sad indeed at the prospect of a week without Nick)

officer: so why is grandmother in York?

Katie: his father is British

officer: well why is his father in America?

Katie: ummm...he's a resident alien...

officer: Don't you work???

Katie: Yeeesss, I start a new job next Monday! (maintaining a facade of cheerfulness)

officer: (pulls out a form and starts filling in data) so how long have you been out of work?

Katie: just since the 28th...

officer: Describe your previous and new employment in detail please...

Katie: ummm...

officer: fine just show me your returning ticket so I know we won't loose you...

Katie: (hands requested documents over)

officer: ok your done pass through

Katie: (still trying) have a nice day!

officer: (shoots a withering look) Next!