the Highlands, 6

The population of all of Scotland is not quite 5.5 million. (By comparison, the population of Wisconsin, which no one considers to be very crowded, is nearly 6 million.) Polish nationals are the largest group of foreigners here: 92 000 Poles live in Scotland. (The next largest group of non-Scots are Irish men and women -- a mere 21 000.) In the Torridon, I hear the Polish accent among the staff not infrequently. Young, friendly, helpful. I've stopped asking "are you Polish" because I know they are and I don't want to remind them that their accent says it all. 

Good morning! 

Breakfast downstairs. A Polish woman is taking the orders. (I choose eggs benedict with salmon, spinach and a mushroom.)

As is the habit among staff here -- she engages me in some friendly chatter, focusing on my camera, which admittedly stands out in size.

Have you gotten some good pictures? -- she asks.

I nod enthusiastically, telling her about my evening scramble up the hill last night. The light was especially good then.

Oh, that must have been wonderful! I went up there as well, two days ago. Also in the evening. Did you see the lake from the top? (I did.) And the one on the other side?

Say what?

Perhaps you remember from yesterday's post that I kept going until I decided that the path is a never-ending thing, possibly leading all the way to the Isle of Skye (some 40 miles from here). Okay, maybe not that far, but still. I turned back after I thought I had reached the top. Apparently, had I gone just a bit further, I would have seen another view. On the other side of the mountain.

Damn.

Well, that pretty much sets the agenda for this day! Back up I go. In better shoes, with walking stick and with water!

It's my last full day in the Highland hills of Scotland and I want very much to use it in a productive way. I dont necessarily mean that I want to eek out every last mile on the hills. I want to think about how to cope with the drama of life back home. 

It all surrounds my mother's increasing distress and dissatisfaction, which she channels right at me. Constantly. (She calls me here as well, but I have allowed myself a shut-down of my phone for the duration of my Scottish trip.) It is useless to try to "solve" her problems because nearly all of them are of her own creation and she is no longer capable of absorbing information, advice, suggestions that would change the course of her days. She has degenerated into sitting in her chair all day and using the call button (for the staff) and the phone (to me) to express her displeasure. All... day... long.

At first, when this began several months ago, I was overcome with anxiety. Whereas before I could listen each day to her grumbles and then shut it off, now, the sheer constancy of her calls at all hours dragged me down. I had ideas about what might help her, but it's one of those things -- horse to trough, but what's the point if said horse absolutely will not drink? She just wants to vent, expressively, dramatically -- this is her sole activity. Nothing else interests her. (She does not want to vent to any of the other family member. My daughter tried in my absence. But my mother just wants it go to me.)

So my goal for my final walk up that hill is to devise strategies for coping, because I tell you, that stream of voicemail messages (I have so many here!) is bad enough, but the calls, once I return, will be worse.

Ed says -- shut it off in your head. Well, I'm pretty good at blocking life's dramas. Of channeling my energies toward a happy platform where peace prevails. But I need to get even better, because frankly, my mother may go on like this for a long time. And it does pull you down. Or at least it pulls me down.

[Post walk thoughts: strategy number one: talk to the staff about upping her mood medications. Strategy number two: allow more calls to go to voicemail. Strategy number three: shut off the phone for the night. Strategy number four: turn on the affirmation! -- yes mom, the nurses, social workers and aides are awful, they all neglect you, yes CNN is terrible in repeating stories, yes, it's horrible in your room, with a view to the woods and not to the courtyard, and yes, the arrangement stinks, yes, it's a miserable existence, yes, yes, yes, I hear you! What does it matter if none of it is true. Well, maybe CNN does repeat stories, what do I know...]

Okay, time to start my climb.

 

As yesterday, the beginning is beautiful. Forested. Pure heaven.

I find the berries again. My plant identifier assures me that they're European Bilberries (or European Blueberries -- take your pick). I ate one yesterday, I survived. I pick a couple dozen today!

It's so gorgeous all around me. I climb not far from the mountain stream -- its sound is bouncy but at the same time soothing.

And then I come to the waterfall. I saw it yesterday, between the trees. It doesn't photograph well so I let it go. Today, I see that there is a short path jutting out on a cliff. From the tip of it, you should see the falls without tree obstruction.

Did you know that I have horrible acrophobia? Ed discovered this in our first year of hiking in the Canadian Rockies. The trail went across a very steep slope of scree (loose rocks). We had to cross it to continue. I felt completely unstable. The slope went down sharply and panic struck. I couldn't go forward. I couldn't return either. Ed had to come out on his butt and guide me back, also on my butt, holding onto me the whole time. 

And now, to get that shot of the falls, I get down on my butt as well and inch forward. I get halfway there. And that's it. I cannot do it. Well, I suppose I could, but panic would overwhelm me. The sheer drop on three sides is too much. No photo!

I continue on the trail, getting above the tree line once again...

 

 

 

 

Passing the point where I turned back yesterday...

 

(looking back)

Climbing, still climbing, trying to get to that crest that will give me the views to the other side of the mountain.

I hear nothing except for the chirp of a Meadow Pipit.

It's empty, it's desolate, it's windy and now I'm winded too. I realize my lungs haven't quite gotten up to speed after their dreadful spring of pneumonia. And maybe there always will be that hesitation in climbing great elevations going forward. At the very least, I do know that hiking alone on empty and wild trails feels safe only if I feel happy doing it. After an added half hour of climbing, I am no longer happy. 

 

(looking back again)

 

 

(looking ahead) 

And so again, you're not going to get that photo of what's on the other side of the mountain, because I see that the trail goes straight up to get there there and I am not up for it. My legs are strong. I have the energy. But I do not have the will to continue.

I turn back and start the descent home.

(such beautiful European larch trees... I grew up with these in the village in Poland)

At the point where the path detours for a view of the falls, I see two women hikers. One is gingerly coming up the detour path without hesitation, the other is moving slowly with the help of two hiking poles.

 

 

 

She has knee problems, the first one tells me.

I laugh -- at least she made it to the ledge! I couldn't do it. Haven't the head for it.

The women are from Belgium They're not from the Torridon - just hikers, here on a lark. They ask what's up ahead on the big trail. I explain that there is supposedly a good view, as reported by my sportif twenty-something morning wait person, but that even after a stiff climb up the mountain, I could not reach it. I wasn't up for it.

You have to listen to your body! -- the one with the poles says. She's serious and laughing at the same time. 

I suppose at my age I do...

At OUR age! -- she responds. We're all in the same boat, no? (Turns out she is 69 and her nimble friend is 72.) She says -- this is enough for my knees. They go down. I give them some space then follow.

And I think this is the main difference between so many solo hikes in years past and solo hikes now: in the past, I would reach the goal for the day, no matter what. In Gargnano, I was winded and panting, but I wanted that summit and I got it! I can report countless such climbs. Now, it's different. Sometimes, I just wont be able to reach the summit. Not alone, on a mountain. I just wont always have the head for it.

Down I come. Pausing to look, to identify...

(a carpet of mountain wood-sorrel)

(my plant app tells me this mossy looking plant is a cranberry... could that be right??)

Then, not feeling tired yet, I walk over to the meadows that extend from the hotel to the shores and I say hello to the Highland cattle...

... and hope that I wont be tempted to have a piece of that meat for dinner tonight!

At the Torridon again...

(the symbol of which is a deer...)

 

... I eat lunch in the living room. Isle of Mull cheddar and chutney, on grain bread from the Cromarty Bakery. Funny, I had wanted to stop at the bakery (it's by Inverness), but gave up on the additional drive the day I flew in. I feel now my eating load is complete.

Well...

The kind staff person asks me -- don't you want a freshly baked scone today?

I think about it. I do want a scone! Maybe just with jam? No, make that with clotted cream and jam! And with tea!

When in Scotland, I cannot say no to a cream tea.

 (while George, Duke of Gordon, looks on)

An ever so slight layer of guilt overcomes me: I love Scotland's countryside. When am I next going to be here? What am I doing inside, chomping away on cheese sandwiches and cream splattered scones?

It's just a little over an hour to dinner. I go out for a walk.

Where to? Well, there's one last trail suggested by the maps of Torridon. They call it the Torridon trail, I call it the "seniors' walk." I mean, it's a loop and it is only a mile long, give me a break. 

The thing is, it is stunningly lovely. And just perfect for an evening predinner saunter.

 

Through the forest, then down to the very edge of the shoreline. Accompanied by the singing of a Song Thrush. Heaven indeed.

So short and yet so beautiful!

And there's an added bonus: the trail ends in the hotel's kitchen garden.

I thought I had explored it the very first night I was here, but I'd missed about 95% of it, it's that well hidden!

Tonight I walked it in its full glory.

I met another two women there -- they were nibbling on the strawberries and encouraged me to do the same. Who am I to refuse two sweet old ladies?!

Later, as I settled into the living room for my predinner Negroni, tonight with a floral gin...

... the bartender, who has been at Torridon for six years now, explained to me that they are working hard to reimagine the garden space (aka the kitchen garden). Maybe add a rose garden? Something else? 

I don't know, I really like it in its hodgepodge form. Had I found it earlier, I'm sure I'd sneak in with my book and spend at least an hour there.

The bartender (and  gin connoisseur!) himself is from France. An absolutely delightful guy (photographed yesterday on Ocean). Since I'm nearly at the end of my stay here, I'm asking more about the staff backgrounds. For example, I found out that there are actually only two Polish people on the team: my meal server, whom I had guessed as such, and someone on the cleaning staff. I asked the restaurant person if she liked Scotland -- she'd only been here a few months -- and she said yes! She'd worked for six years in England and she waited forever to find something good in Scotland. She has high standards!

At dinnertime, the waitstaff at Bo & Muc told me what to order. The West Coast mackerel, okay, fine. I liked it before, I'll have it again for an appetizer. And then, they all urged me to get the Beinn Eighe venison. (Beinn Eighe is part of the mountain massif I see out my window.) It's a freshly added preparation, with very fresh venison!

Well fine, but I saw a deer here yesterday...  Still, they were so insistent that I caved. (Served with a potato cake, celeriac and cabbage, and red currant sauce.

I definitely wanted something local, something Scottish, and this was as local and Scottish as they get. And it was fantastic! Really delicious! Since I am normally not a red meat eater, I feel like the times I do have it (always in restaurants, never at home), I want it to be worth the sacrifice (of animal life, of my feelings about eating red meat, etc). This one was well worth it.

For dessert, I ordered something that was like a Pavlova except with a Scottish twist: strawberries (from their garden) with cream and chunks of meringue. I love that mix and I was thrilled to see it as an option tonight.

No post dinner walk. I think I pushed it with the hikes just a little. My cough is finally getting better. I dont want to return home feeling more tired than when I first set out.

Besides, I want to spend as much time as I can looking out my window. It's that pretty out there, over the waters and up those dang steep mountains.

 

Tomorrow, I return to Inverness.

with love...