Islay, days 9 & 10 (Wednesday, Thursday)

I keep meaning to write this Islay post, but for some reason it's harder than I anticipated. I want to do it justice without being overwrought and cliched, I want to convey the peacefulness and solitude of being on the island, the beauty and timelessness of it. I haven't quite figured out how to do that with words, so I'm just going to post some photos for you and hope they come close.

Our first full day on Islay started with breakfast in the hotel, and of course I had to try the full Scottish breakfast. It was delicious, even the black pudding was pretty tasty on toast with tomatoes, but I had a hard time getting past what it was. No matter how you cook or prepare it, congealed blood is always going to look like what it is. We then popped the Scottish bagpipe Celtic music CD into the Vauxhall's stereo and headed off across the island for the Laphroaig distillery. We (don't want to blame you specifically, sweetie) made a scheduling mistake and we ended up missing our scheduled tour, but we looked around and took some photos and I wrinkled up my nose at the smell of burning peat.


Driving across Islay, navigating the narrow windy lanes and keeping my eyes peeled for sheep near or on the road, its apparent that its definitely another world, of another time. The tiny island is at least 60 miles from any Starbucks or McDonald's. There is a comforting sense of timelessness, and a secure knowledge that there never will be a Starbucks there. Sheep dot the hills and valleys, interspersed with big fat happy cows, and there are a few stone walls and fences but for the most part they roam back and forth across their fields and the roads searching for the tastiest grass in between their naps. The sea is never far from view, and the weather constantly changes from biting squall to warm golden sunshine and fluffy clouds, gentle breezes to gusting winds. When the clouds and fog shift and you are facing eastward, you can see the mountains ("paps") of neighboring island Jura, their bronze summits usually covered by clouds. Time dilates, the rhythms of life are dictated by the seasons and the weather and not by television schedules or timeclocks.

As you pass another driver on the road, you must give a little wave...this tradition tickled me. There is definitely no road rage on Islay. Islay is the perfect antidote to the oversaturation and chaos of London.







Ifound a photo book in the lounge of our hotel, showing photos of the island from the early 20th and today. The only difference was that most of the stone buildings have now been stuccoed and whitewashed to protect them from the sea air, and the cars on the road look a bit more modern.


It's a peaceful and constant island...and I could definitely picture myself living there. There is even a tiny hospital and clinic...and they need nurses everywhere, right? I'd only need the job until I could support myself full-time with my sheep farm and pony-trekking business... It's easy to forget the rest of the world and other troubles there. I think I could learn to do without my Pagliacci's delivery if I woke up to that view of the sea and the paps of Jura every morning.

Now I just need a sturdy pair of wellies.

Glasgow to Islay, Day 8 (Tuesday)

Glasgow was a welcome relief from the chaos and hustle of London. Tuesday morning the clouds mostly cleared away and we even had some blue sky. The city center of Glasgow is compact and small, and well-laid out on wide, gridded streets. We only had a few hours before we started our drive out to the island, so the only thing I wanted to do was see the famous Glasgow School of Art building, designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I have always loved and admired his work and design, and was excited to be in his city. After admiring the building and dropping some pounds in the gift shop, we strolled a bit through the city. Glasgow seemed fairly quiet, and the streets were lined with some amazing examples of Victorian architecture.


Around noon we left the city in our trusty Vauxhall Corsa and headed north along Loch Lomond for the western-most reaches of Scotland, where we would catch our ferry to Islay. The road skirted the shores of Loch Lomond for at least an hour, and around every twist and turn in the road was another breathtaking site of mountains, hills, or loch. We stopped a couple of times to take photos, stopped in wee village called Lochgilphead for lunch, and stopped at Inveraray Castle. We weren't much in the mood for castle touring though, so I took a photo of the outside of it then was much more taken with the black highland coos (Scottish for cow) in a nearby field.

We made it to our ferry dock in about 3.5 hours, where we had to wait for a couple of hours for the ferry. We boarded just as the sun was setting and two hours later docked in Port Ellen, Islay. Matt couldn't wait to start the whisky pilgrimage so he had to have a dram of the "Whisky of the month" as offered in the ferry bar. We were going to miss dinner at our hotel due to the late hour, so we stumbled across a dodgy Indian place on the way there and got takeaway. We drove along the coast and between dark fields and pastures to our hotel, and I was excited that in the morning we'd wake up in a completely new place that we'd not yet seen since it was so dark and rainy on our way in. Once safely checked into our hotel, we picnicked on the floor on our takeaway curry and watched a television show starring Alan Cumming ("My favorite gay Scotsman!" exclaimed Matt...uhm, I like him a lot too but haven't yet gotten around the ranking the gay Scotmen I know) discussing Scottish films, with a focus on The Wickerman, one of Matt's favorite movies. The coincidence was delicious and more than enough to make up for the dodgy curry.

Random musings

I interrupt this cheerful and informative travel blog to bring you some snarky thoughts about my fellow travelers...I'm sure you've been wondering when I would include these thoughts, you didn't think I'd left my snark behind in Seattle, did you?

On the ferry to Islay, as we attempted to relax in the ferry bar lounge, we noticed a large group of about eight middle-aged white guys, being rather jovial and noisy, and judging by their alcohol intake the situation only promised to get noisier and more obnoxious. Not the mention the really pleasant habit several of them had of breaking into a loud, wet hacking cough following each laughing fit. The gabbered away to each other, apparently telling some of funniest stories ever told on a ferry EVER. At first Matt thought they might just have really thick unintelligible Scottish accents or even be speaking Gaelic, but as I listened closer, I realized with a sinking feeling that they were Dutch. (Sorry, Danae, you are awesome and I'm sure they are NO relation to you). Now, the Dutch in general are fairly benign and of course we all claim to love Amsterdam and its "entertainment," canals are charming, and we all adore Anne Frank. Since they lost control of world domination via the spice trade routes in the 15th century no one has had much to say about them. I mean, apparently we grow all their tulips in Mount Vernon and then ship them over there. But on Jodi's and my cruise down the Nile last October, a very large and obnoxious and tour group dominated the ship...and they were Dutch. So it's fair to say my impression of these boisterous Dutch dudes was colored by that experience. But as I like to remind people, stereotypes are simply time-savers. Anyway, they drank more and more during the 2.5 hour ride and got louder and even funnier (to each other, of course) and we just cringed and I tried to reassure Matt that our hotel probably wasn't big enough for all these Dutch. Fortunately, they stayed somewhere in Bowmore and the only other time we saw them on the island was when their van left Bruichladdich distillery just as we were entering...can you say "phew!?" We spotted them again on the ferry back to the mainland on Friday morning but avoided them in the cafe and just hoped they were all hungover enough to behave themselves. One of the distillery tour guides explained that the Scandinavians, Icelanders, and Dutch apparently just LOVE the peaty/smoky whisky from Islay, and some intrepid fellows have tried starting similar distilleries in their home countries. However, Islay won't export its precious peat ANYWHERE...so they resorted to breaking down old Islay scotch casks and burning those to malt the barley in order to get whatever "smoky" taste they could from it. Interesting.

We thought we were in the clear at Bruichladdich, but as we waited for our tour in the gift shop we couldn't help but notice a woman loudly chatting with the shopkeeper about how she' d love to get her hands on a few of those "really cool special tumblers" to complete her collection. The shopkeeper said he'd go check in the storeroom for her, and she replied, "Okay! Well, I'll be waiting right here! You can't miss me, I'm the American in the bright yellow raincoat!" Ah, restating the obvious. You can't blame Americans for doing what they're best at. Then she chuckled. Loudly. I would have noted that you can't miss her because she's the only one on the island wearing tight spandex cycling pants, but whatever. She also bore a striking resemblance to my arch nemesis and neighbor Lydia, so I'm going to call her East Coast Lydia from now on. She and her husband cheerfully announced that they were from Philadelphia, and as the tour went on we strained to learn more about the distillation process of whisky but somehow we learned more about how Mr. and Mrs. ECL. They had embarked on a bicycling tour around Scotland, but found biking in Scotland to be "trickier" that they had planned on. I'm not sure what's tricky about trying to bike on narrow one, maybe two-, lane roads with no shoulders or guardrails, and competing with huge logging lorries and coach buses for share of the road, but whatever. Apparently centuries ago when these roads emerged through the highlands planners failed in include bike lanes. Go figure, I'd have been shocked too. So Mr. and Mrs. ECL "cheated" (their words) by hiring a car to drive part of the way, and their disappointment in not getting a Subaru was palpable. They eventually cornered a poor unsuspecting fellow from California at the tasting part of the tour, and we could hear them telling him at length about their absolutely amazing bikes and their biking histories. I have found that a consistent trait of these biking/hiking/outdoorsy enthusiasts is that they usually have nothing else to talk about besides biking/hiking/outdoorsiness. Case in point, Mr. and Mrs. ECL find themselves on a gorgeous remote Scottish island drinking rare expensive whisky but all they can find to talk about are their pedals and spokes and elevation climbs and other items of various self-importance. We spotted them again on our ferry Friday morning, but at least this time they had both deigned to dress in actual clothing for the journey rather than grace us with their spandex glory.

Glasgow, Day 7 (Monday)

We sadly said goodbye to Elly on Monday morning and headed off to the York train station to return the stinky diesel Passat and catch our train to Glasgow. It was a direct train, with just three stops, and only four hours. Have I mentioned before how much I love train travel? No customs, no baggage claim, no waiting in the terminal for hours...just show up, find your platform, and get on. Then get off. The end! We were in the quiet coach again, which was mostly very nice. No amount of scowly glares seemed to convey to the baby two rows back that this was the quiet coach and not the cute and drooly coach. Cuteness does not cancel out squawkiness in my book. I guess that's why iPods were made.

And then we were in Scotland! Aye! This was my first time to Glasgow so I was excited to see a new city. Scottish weather greeted us the minute we got off the train at Glasgow Central...windy, rainy, chilly. We checked into our hotel...our "splurge" for this trip, the Malmaison Hotel, a boutique hotel in a stunning converted church. We had a duplex suite, and a whisky tasting was included, what more could we want? We were tired from day of traveling so once we picked up our wee rental car stayed in to take full advantage of our lovely hotel and bar.

I'll share an important lesson about whisky tastings with you: When the bartender offers to let you try three whiskeys, you should consider that this is actually equivalent to 6 drams of whisky in about 20 minutes (when one of the two tasters simply takes a teensy sip of her drams).
I'm not telling tales or naming names, I'm just sayin'... Anyway, our grass-fed Ayreshire burgers were fantastic after the tasting, even better in room service than it would have been sitting in the bar and eating.

Yorkshire, Day 6 (Sunday)

According the BBC Weather prediction, Sunday was to be a bit cooler and cloudier than Saturday was, with a few showers. So, of course the day dawned with crisp clear bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and not a hint of rain anywhere in site. It ended up being the most beautiful day we've had on this trip so far. So much for BBC Weather.

We visited Castle Howard, a 300-year old estate and mansion house in North Yorkshire. The house and furnishings were exquisite, and it's the site where both versions of Brideshead Revisited were filmed, if you are enough of an anglophile (I am!) to be excited by that. The one odd bit about the house was that amongst the classic old Chippendale furniture, ancient Greek and Roman sculpture, Rubens and landscape paintings, modern-day photos of the children who currently live in the house were displayed. There's something about a glossy 8 x 10 of young Merlin or his sister Octavia doing a cannonball into a hotel pool that distracts from the historial grandeur of the mansion. But I digress. I was tickled by the "Labrador Welfare" tent on the ground of the house. In the states they would probably have a "Feed the Children" charity tent erected, but here in Yorkshire, the fate of homeless Labrador retrievers is a much more pressing concern. Did I mention how I feel so much more at home on this side of the pond?



After lunch in the stable-yard cafe at Castle Howard, we set off across the Yorkshire Moors for Rievaulx Abbey. Set deep in the picturesque valley of the River Rye and surrounded by hedgerows, grazing sheep, and thatched cottages, it was so far the most beautiful and serene place we had visited. The Abbey and the monastery were in ruins, but that only made them more breathtaking. We scrambled over the ruins for a while, snarked at Russian tourists taking fashionista-posed photos, then headed back to York for a bit of a rest before our Indian feast.

Yorkshire, Day 5 (Saturday)

I'd like to say it was my stellar planning and forethought, but we arrived in York on the only train that made it on time from London that evening, thanks to the person who chucked it all in and ended it on the London-York train line. But it was really just dumb luck, and our train happened to be the cheapest at the time of the booking. Anyway, we easily found a taxi and showed up at Elly's house...a twee Victorian-era terraced brick house. Jo and Elly greeted us with mugs of tea, we flopped on the couch, and ordered pizza. It was a relief to be in a house with friends rather than a small hotel room.

Saturday morning we were off to York city center to pick up our rental -- erm, hire -- car, then to explore the city. First stop, my favorite cathedral ever, Yorkminster Cathedral, and that's saying a lot from a girl who avoids churches and any mention of g*d. I'd promised Matt that it would be more impressive than Westminster Abbey, and he agreed. There's something about the light through its windows and the soaring height and openness of the ceiling that is more peaceful and gothically breathtaking.


The steps to the top of the cathedral had never been open during my previous visits, so we decided to make the climb. Despite the hilarious (sorry, Jo!) story of Jo's paralyzing fear of heights angering the tour leader and the signs warning us to stay down if we suffered any tiny little hint of any kind of health issue, we joined the next group going up. The narrow stone winding staircase opened up to path across the roof about halfway up, which I didn't realize, so at this point I breathed a sigh of relief and started snapping pictures of the view below..."Ah! That wasn't too bad. 275 steps? Piffle!" Then Matt nudged me ahead and through another door, and lo, there were the remaining half of the steps to the top. Even narrower and windier. But anyway, we made it, took the photos, then wound our way down.

We explored the narrow Tudor and Victorian shopping streets of York, "oohing and aahing" over centuries-old cobblestoned alleys and stucco/tudor buildings that were sagging and crooked from age. We had tasty sandwiches in Swinegate at a place called Piglets, then headed back to our car for a trip into the Yorkshire countryside. But first, Matt happened across the birthplace of one of York's infamous Guy Fawkes, which completed his impromptu 48-hour tour of the life of Guy Fawkes, from the site in the Tower of London where he was hung, drawn and quartered, to his birthplace on a humble cobbled street in old roman York.

After apologizing profusely for the smell of the car and realizing that the gear I had believed to be first was actually third (you can imagine the hilarity that ensued. Uhm, it will be hilarious tomorrow when the smell and cloud of blue exhaust has faded from memory) we were smoothly on our way to Scarborough. I didn't have too much trouble driving on the other side of the road...to be honest, it's easier than trying to navigate the crowded sidewalks of London because at least the roadways have lines and you just kinda follow the other cars. Mostly. Heh. Just gotta pay attention to those right turns.

Scarborough the city is a seaside resort, and like most British seaside towns it's gaudy and bright and tacky and depressingly decaying between the cracks. They all had their heyday in the Victorian era but once Brits started going abroad for their hols, these places lost their allure. We avoided the main touristy drag of the city and headed up a steep hill (more steps? more climbing? srsly?!) towards Scarborough castle. It was built in the 12th century to protect against Viking invaders and is of course strategically located high atop the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Cliffs and sea aside, the steep climb to the top would be enough to deter me from invading. Perhaps I would not have made a successful invader. A moany and whiny one, definitely. The castle was mostly in ruins, but I loved the views of the sea and the surrounding town, and it was eerily quiet and still atop the cliff.


After the castle...as per usual, we were exhausted after our long day. We scrapped our initial plans to eat fish and chips in Scarborough and just drove straight back to York, content to have leftover pizza and falafel. Hey, the combo worked. Elly and Jo treated us to a tear-jerking history of Ireland via The Wind That Shakes the Barley (I give it 5 stars, highly recommend it, moving, informative, and very well done...hey, you get movie reviews on at travel blog! Lucky you.)

London, Day 4 (Friday)

O London my love, ye are a harsh mistress. I love this city, but our love affair is wild and intense and passionate and after three days the city has sucked the life from me and overstimulated and exhausted, mentally and physically weary. It's definitely time to go for now, although I know I'll be, as always. I think Matt's at the same place I am, I can see it in his far-away glazed-over stare as we navigate the crowds and try to comprehend just how old that rock is. We sit silently over our pub lunches, shell-shocked and worn down.


We finally had our full English on Friday morning, at our local pub, and it was greasy and filling and all I had imagined. Then we checked out of our hotel, leaving our luggage there, and decided to wander over to the Natural History Museum which was somewhat nearby in Kensington. I'd never been there, only walked past it in Cromwell Road previously, but the building itself is beautiful, Victorian sand and blue brickwork.


Inside, we were greeted by an towering dinosaur skeleton. We visited all the dinosaurs and checked out the taxidermies of extinct mammals and birds. More than the impressive dinosaur bones, to me, was the setting that they were displayed in, the Romanesque architecture was a perfect contrast for the prehistoric remains. But after a few hours, we were even more tired and are feet were achier so back to the pub, then to collect our bags.


The lovely hotel receptionist phoned a minicab for us, and despite notorious London traffic we were deposited at Kings' Cross in about 35 minutes. The cabbie ominously asked us, "Have you been to Kings' Cross before?"
"Well, I haven't, but she has," said Matt.
"Hmm. Ok, at least she has," he replied. I remember it as a big and crazy, but was it really that bad?!

Kings' Cross was batshit crazy. There's a central waiting area, where everyone stands around staring at a main announcement board, willing their train to appear so the platform would be announced. Finally our train appeared with the designation "QC" under platform, that I somehow figured out meant "queue behind C." We found a queue of people who collectively agreed they were "queueing behind C" and we fell in line behind them. Despite the announcement of a "fatality" near Retford and threats of delays and cancellations, and a cheeky text from Elly ("Someone just killed themselves on your line! You may be delayed...") we actually boarded our train only 12 minutes late.

Two hours later, we arrived in York uneventfully.