to Scotland

When I first imagined this trip back in January, I had been reading an essay by someone who had traveled recently to the Hebrides -- an archipelago of islands off the western coast of Scotland. [To explain: there are the Inner Hebrides -- 35 inhabited islands in all, but with fewer than 20,000 people living on them, the ones you'll recognize are Skye and possibly Islay; and then there the Outer Hebrides -- which I've not been to, but most people have heard of Harris and possibly Lewis. There, only 15 are inhabited.] The author extolled the virtues of the light on the islands. Yes, I remembered my own rapture when visiting Skye some five years back, when Ed and I crisscrossed Scotland together.

Time to go back, I thought. But to a different island. Islay was an obvious candidate. It's surely not crowded (Population: 3,200). It's fairly easy to get to (a small commuter flight takes you there from Glasgow). It has a rather mild Gulf Stream climate. It has eight working whiskey distilleries. Now, I know little about Scotch whiskey (or whisky as they write it) and am not likely to ever choose it back home, but traditions are fascinating no matter where they take you and so Islay became the island to put on my shortest of short lists of places to visit, come summer.


The day dawned bright in Berwick-upon-Tweed. I had my last filling breakfast (which has really become brunch for me, as the thought of sitting to a lunch after such a copious breakfast is daunting)...





[In a brief exchange of travel reports with another guest, I learn that yesterday was at least initially very wet and crowded on the Holy Island. But lest I gloat about choosing to put myself among the millions who turned out in Yorkshire to celebrate the victorious ride of the Tour de France, I have to insert here that, though the skies remained clear, the English mood dampened considerably as the homegrown Cavendish -- a hopeful for the jersey -- suffered a terrible crash just moments before crossing the finish line. The press all had front page photos of the horrified faces of the young royals and the PM who once again had to swallow hard as an Englishman failed to deliver the much desired sporting victory. Me, I want to say -- it's in the race, people! It's all in the race!]


And now a last look at my very favorite set of blocks in Berwick-upon-Tweed -- which happen to be just outside the Granary Guest House door...





...and then I yet again accepted the gracious offer from my wonderful (and this is no hyperbole) hosts of a lift to the rail station. Dave says -- we'll probably never see her again. I think about that for a bit. It is a one sided thing, this stop at a guest house, where you get a glimpse into another set of lives. The guest decides if she or he will ever pass this way again. True, I leave behind an even more detailed glimpse into my comings and goings with a link to Ocean, but it's not only the news friends seek -- it's the exchange. And the vast majority of people come and go and that fleeting shared space is indeed very fleeting. 


We say our goodbyes, however final or not final they may be and I face the train schedule posted at the station screen. I do hope the train to Edinburgh will not be late.

It is late.

I look around me. Passengers wait patiently.








(this one is actually for the later train to Glasgow)


The clock moves alarmingly forward, past the time of scheduled departure.

Well, I have some flex. In Edinburgh, where I do not bother to step outside the station, I catch the speedy 11:30 to Glasgow. On time. Bus to airport? Arrives instantly. Glasgow airport checkin line -- short. Security, despite dire warnings in the press that the UK is gearing for heightened alert and detailed screenings -- moves quickly. I'm at the gate, with time to watch the first Wimbledon serve before they call my flight.

The plane to the island is a small twin prop. I watch it spinning as we mount over the western coast of Scotland.





The young woman pilot is teaching her officer flying procedures. But, the skies are partly cloudy, the flight is short (30 minutes) -- I have no complaints.

We land at one of those island airports that has a short runway and a tiny waiting room. Two flights come in each day.

I've arrived in Islay. And by the way, it's pronounced eye-lah. I have had it said in every which way, but the locals are adamant -- eye-lah.

No buses run the island on Sunday and so I take the cab to the next village up from the airport -- Bowmore. That's where I'm based for the next 8 days. A long time to be in the middle of nowhere. To be in a place where nothing is going on. Where there are no great sights, no dramatic walks that take your breath away. No real shopping to be done, no gardens, parks. Only one good restaurant in the area and it is so good that it is expensive. Not likely to be my daily fare.

So why here? For the light? Well maybe, but really for the calm. For the cab driver who spins tall tales on the way to my guest house. For the red faced old man on the street who tells me where the grocery store is and then asks where in the States I live (my accent says it all) and when I say north of Chicago, he asks -- Illinois? and when I say no, Wisconsin, he asks in a barely understandable to me brogue -- oh, Madison? When I show surprise, he answers -- I should have been in American studies in school...

I'm staying at the Bowmore House...


 


...a bed and breakfast recently taken on by Andrew and Alison (and their two delightful little girls). It's not a complicated place, but it's so full of heart and immaculate care and my room has the best views coming at me from two exposures.

Andrew was, of course, responsible for sending me to Pooley Bridge and Berwick-upon-Tweed, so I owe him big from the get-go. He also coached me through countless steps of booking his place, flight connections and all the other small details which usually are no problem, except when you're traveling to an island that stands alone, stuck between Ireland and Soctland, not having the benefit of obvious access to it.

Alright. Enough text. A few photos for you from the first walk through the village:



the mountains are from the next island down -- Jura




The Bowmore distillery




beyond the village






And now it's evening and I definitely am ready for dinner. At the Lochside Hotel (where I'm told I can get a pub-like supper),  I ask about the herring starter. Don't know, says the young man serving the tables. Don't much care for seafood myself. The black pudding (meaning blood pudding) I would recommend.

I'll take the herring. 


 


...Followed by Islay scallops.
The main course comes with boiled potatoes and carrots and cabbage and squash. In copious amounts.
It's satisfying. All of it. The kind of meal that calls for a nap afterwards. Or, in the alternative -- for a moment in your room, leaning back in a comfortable chair, looking out at the bay waters and the vast sky that changes rapidly before you. There wont be a full presentation of a sunset tonight. It's 9:30 at the moment and the clouds are rolling around at the horizon. How about a pre-sunset from both my windows? Yes, so lovely. And of course, there is the island light. Unique and beautiful.




view to the south




view to the west

chance

I was set to go to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne today. It is, perhaps, the most renowned sight within a short distance of Berwick-upon-Tweed. You can only reach it at low tide. It's evocative, historically fascinating (described as the epicenter of Christianity in Anglo-Saxon times), with ruins of an abbey, of a castle and, too, since it juts out into the sea (not too far from the Farne Islands) it is a great place for bird watching.

After breakfast -- well, let's pause at the Granary breakfast, because it deserves a grateful nod of recognition. Today: a fruit plate with yogurt, though not just a fruit plate, this plate:






...followed by eggs benedict on smoked trout (I asked for just one, please):






...and because it's me, loving local honeys everywhere, ending with toast and a very local very wonderful honey on toast:






So, after this exceptional breakfast, I have an hour or so to kill before the one (and only one) bus per week takes off toward the Holy Island. I use that time to do more browsing and poking in my neighborhood. At the antique store across the street:






...and, too, I return to Jones and Jones, the store of fine English gifts and sundry items...


 


...this time meeting the delightful Mrs. Jones. I have one more gift purchase to make and as we chat, she looks at my attire (which happens to be composed of a gift from one daughter on the bottom and a gift from the other one on the top) and says -- you're a Tour de France fan? (Disclosure: the gifted shirt has bicycles on it. Coincidence!)

That, for me, is a complicated question. I love tuning into the race when chance permits, possibly for the scenery as much as for the race -- I don't really track who is who and I don't really care who wins. Ed and I used to watch it somewhat compulsively the one year I had cable TV. But, we don't have cable and typically I travel during some part of it and so I've lost my curiosity.

I answer truthfully that I love France, but I'm in the UK now so my attentions are elsewhere.

Oh, but it starts today and its start is in England this year! -- Mrs Jones tells me. Here, let's look...


 


...they're in Harrogate today and tomorrow they're starting in York. It's actually rather charming: the villagers have knitted yellow jerseys for the children and painted bicycles yellow -- there is a lot of excitement about it!
I tell her -- I'm rather set with a schedule and leaving tomorrow... Had I known... Though of course, York would be filled to capacity right now -- not a good time to stay overnight!
You know there are easy and fast train connections there from here...

And that is how I end up with an afternoon in York: a chance pulling out of a t-shirt to wear, and now here I am. It was a tough call, but I felt I had paid my respects to the islands, the birds, the coastal waters. And I had read so much about Holy Island that, as Dave, my Guest House host put it: you've been there and back through the literature.


I'd been to York too, in real time, a long, long while ago. Pregnant with one girl, traveling with the other who was then barely three and her dad, we had booked a dinner in town at a modest but recommended eating establishment. What stayed with me from York was not the beauty of the city but the fact that at dinner, upon seeing us with a three year old (regardless of how good the three year old was in her behavior), an older couple felt compelled to come over and tell us -- people should leave their children at home where they belong in the evenings. The restaurant proprietors were properly horrified and apologized to us profusely, showering my little girl with little treats and smiles so that we would forget the exchange. But I didn't forget. It is what I remember about York, even now, exactly 30 years later.

Time to give the city another chance. (And, too, a chance to point my camera during this trip away from landscape and more at people and their habits. Like this Berwickian teen, waiting for a train.)






So first, the journey. Though we're crossing a great chunk of the country, it's only a 1.75 hour ride. As the train heads south along the coast, I am able to see the Holy Island castle in the distance. Here it is -- shrouded in a misty rain which some would say only adds mystery to the setting, but I will tell you that after a half wet hike yesterday, I'm happy to leave the rains behind me. And Yorkshire is said to bask in warmth and partly cloudy skies today.






Alright,  I am in York. This is going to be the last city that I'll visit on this European trip (until my final night on the continent in mid July) and so I want to give it my full (if brief) attention.

For the visitor, there's much to admire. Medieval walls set on high ramparts enclosing the city center. York Minster -- the largest Gothic cathedral in all of northern Europe; Snickleways -- the narrow pedestrian routes, and the Shambles -- a medieval street that presents a lovely stroll today. In the recent past, York was known for chocolate manufacturing and it still is the headquarters for Nestles York (the Kit-Kat!) even as the much loved Terry's Chocolate Factory (makers of the Chocolate Orange) has moved production to... Poland!

But let's face it, today the draw is the Tour de France and York is ready, proclaiming itself to host, in anticipation, England's biggest urban festival of 2014.

I have some trepidation in choosing this day to visit, the day before the Tour de France zips through -- as Dave, my host said, the first time and the only time it will ever pass through York -- and placing myself in the thick of chaos. I like celebratory airs, though perhaps the celebratory enthusiasm here on the day before is more of an excuse to party rather than a true hoorah for the sport.

Here's one of a group of York bound women on the train ready to set the town (and themselves?) on fire.






I get off to a very carefully cordoned off train station. There are plenty of police, of course.  And in town, there is yellow. A lot of yellow (for you Tour novices -- it is the color of the winning jersey).






The city is packed with joviality and I can't really tell if it's because of the Tour, or the brilliant sunshine (sorry to have abandoned you today, Berwick-upon-Tweed, but the weather here really is better), or summer vacation, or the weekend, or all the above, but there are a lot of people pouring into town. And I'm one of them.

I'll post a few photos of street scenes. None of them will be good. I was unwilling to stand and wait until a decent moment came to pass, photographically speaking. But you'll get an idea of the city, the festivities and the chaos.


























(With a few more touristy shots of the York Minster, though only partial ones as I did not want to pay the ten pounds to gain full access to it.)
















And there were some really stellar moments for me. Walking on the elevated medieval wall. Special. And quiet.






Looking (down from the ramparts) into the gardens that I really hadn't seen yet in England this time around. The precursors to my own love of gardening.






Watching for a little bit the first day of the race on a big screen in the city's center and hearing the proud English commenter saying -- and now they are passing close to an abbey and isn't it magnificent -- you see, it's not only the French who have their great chateaus in the Loire valley that lend themselves to Tour de France filming! We have plenty to be proud of! The dear, dear English, forever defending their own.






And finally, choosing to celebrate the Tour by passing on the tea and scone ritual and instead, sitting in a quiet cafe which calls itself Patisserie Valerie (so French!) and ordering a solidly good cappuccino and raspberry tart. International of me, isn't it?






Yes, I'm glad I came. Sometimes you need a little crazy to set yourself up for a week of solitude. I have that ahead of me. Tomorrow I leave Berwick and head even more north.



Evening. On the train back to Berwick-upon-Tweed I read a magazine I picked up at the news agent's: there is a point/counterpoint on the possibility of Scotland voting to leave the UK -- one writer stating the position that it would be a disaster and the UK would lose international stature, to say nothing of a seat at the UN Security Council, the other side arguing that it would be good riddance to the welfare chislers who send too many Labour MPs to London anyway and it's high time the UK regrouped and moved on.

I put the magazine down for a while and listen to the exchanges between mother and daughters across the aisle -- hers are maybe fifteen years younger than mine and I smile at the recollection of the time when mine were of that yoke...






I take a commemorative selfie (you know, for the bicycles)...






...and I lean back and look out the window.

The train pulls in onto that bridge over the Tweed and maybe Dave and Pam are out on the ramparts now, as is their habit and maybe they pause to watch? From my vantage point, the view toward the mouth of the river is compelling. I notice the clouds here, up north, have thinned out a bit.


 


But as I get off the train, I feel it to be ten degrees cooler.

I go down toward the river. From here, the rail bridge is even more imposing. I smile as I watch another train shoot across, this one in the direction of London.





The walk back to my neighborhood is along the river and I listen to the screech of the gulls. I learned from my hosts that the gulls aren't here year round. A handful stay for a winter scavenger hunt, but most leave for better food sourcing. The residents have a welcome break from their noise and droppings! In the States, I assumed gulls never went away from the coastal towns. Am I wrong?

I stop for dinner at Audela's. Did you doubt it? I liked it the first day and, too, yesterday, and so it surely has to be my last dinner here. I break from the incessant seafood eating and order something I rarely pick -- braised lamb. Scottish Borders lamb, over cabbage and potatoes. Not attractive to photograph, but so delicious to eat!






Yes, for one last night, I'm in England. Or, as I indicated yesterday, suspended somewhere between England and Scotland, loving the uniqueness of this and of my Berwickian home base, one that I'll long remember for many reasons, not the least being the wonderful people who helped me along on each bit of my journey through here.

the Borders

I'm sure I saw it. I didn't imagine it. Suddenly it crossed my meadow path and then disappeared. The Northern Brown Argus butterfly. Here for only for a few weeks in its great migratory journey. Feeding off of the leaves of the rambler roses (such a sweet fragrance they give!)...





...drawing nectar from the flowers of the wild thyme.

As I write this, I am eating an excellent little cheese scone, accompanied by great tea at the Old School House cafe in St Abbs, Scotland. I suspected the scone would be good because when I asked after a cafe in this lovely seaside village, an earnest mom and daughter told me to come here and to stop, too, in the room next door to the cafe, as they are holding the weekly market there today and the cheese scones are outstanding.

In Scotland you get this prideful detail when you ask a simple question.

But wait, Scotland? Yes. This day trip is entirely due to the recommendation of my Granary Guest House hosts who put St Abbs on my short list of places to visit when in Berwick-upon-Tweed.

Am I ever grateful for that recommendation!

So after breakfast - I asked for porridge this time, which is served here with caramelized bananas...







...oh, wait one sec -- do you see Penelope there, in the background? She is a mannequin, appropriated from the antiques shop across the street; she is dressed for an English win in the World Cup; now Pam is considering donning her in Scottish garb to cheer the Scots on in their September referendum for independence.


In any case, after a fitting breakfast, I catch my bus to St Abbs in Scotland. A long journey indeed: only a half hour, to cover 13 meandering coastal miles.

As we get deeper into Scotland, the weather changes. I'm not kidding. The rain clouds have been hanging back in Berwick-upon-Tweed, but here, the windshield wipers are working briskly. Well now, I'm having sympathy rains, even as Americans are bracing for East Coast storms this Fourth of July.

It's always a tad strange to be in a country that doesn't react to this date. Dear ones, over in America -- have a happy holiday today!

So here I am in Scotland (they call this region the Borders); now, am I to slog through rain? I'm equipped for it: I have my camping rain jacket (I did not think that in my three weeks in the UK I would escape rain). But before I set out to follow the trail sketched out for me by Dave, my B&B host, I explore the village.






Starting with a look at the wee market.

Oh what loveliness! The smoked fish...






And this vendor who insisted I try her charcuterie mutton (from here) even though I explained I am not allowed to carry any back home.





It was excellent!


And a vendor who sells stuffed things -- pillows and bears and such -- made with Harris tweed.






And this sweet woman with pink curls who did have a plateful of cheese scones. I asked if she'd sell out if I returned later - she didn't hesitate: Aye, I'll put one away for you, dear, she tells me. Everyone here says "aye" a lot.





That little scone. That extra mile. Scottish people go there for you.


Alright. The time of decision: do I stay around the village or do I hike?

Oh, I hike, of course. So my pants will get wet. So what. I'm in Scotland! It should be thus! Forge ahead!

St. Abbs is at the edge of Scotland's St Abb's Head Nature Reserve. This is where my hike takes me.

The grasses that edge the path are knee high and it doesn't take long for my pants to become completely soaked. My camera darts for cover constantly and still I cannot keep the drops of rain from the lens. The look back toward the fishing village looks drab indeed.






But not for long! There seems to be a lessening of drops as I plow my way along the coastal path. And it isn't cold, so that the wetness never really bothers me. And the sights! My kind of walk! Sea to the right...





...a pastoral landscape to the left.






And as the path twists into the hills, I see that they are covered with meadow flowers. And too, I see the distinct clumps of Scottish heather. (Needless to say, I'd already passed numerous samples of Scottish thistle: it's as if the land itself is speaking a different dialect here!)











The sheep are well sheered. Does that make them wool bearers? Or are they tomorrow's charcouterie mutton?






As I get closer to the light house and the cliffs...






...I hear that distinct call. It's the shags and the guillemots!

This rocky coast, too, attracts the nesters. Not puffins, but the others are well represented.

I will never get as close to the birds as I did on the island, but as I climb down closer to the shoreline I have a full panoply of black and white birds.






I come across, too, a small group of Edinburgh artists. Students maybe. They're busy painting or photographing the bird habitat.










I can't resist asking one to take this photo:






Perhaps you cant tell, but they used their light reflector to achieve a good light balance. Here they are -- the three art geeks.






From this point, I follow the path recommended by Dave. Splendid, all of it! Just a few photos for you as I twist around a lake, back through the hills and dales, to alight at the village church again. (Total walk: 3 hours, with only the first part under rainy skies.)



to the north





surprisingly, a lake





verdant meadows





sheep against a threatening sky





in a resting position, they're well braced against the strong gusts of wind





oats and the village church



In the village, I am loyal to my scone baker. And I settle in for my tea and it is lovely, but you already know that.






After, I have just a few minutes before my return bus. I spend them in the harbor...






...watching the fishermen bring in the mackerel.











And in the late afternoon I am back in Berwick-upon-Tweed. I walk at a slow pace now. The street of the Guest House is lined with curious shops carrying antiques, vintage this and thats, teas and chocolates, even a grocer who sells jars and boxes of foods from Poland.

I stop in a shop (Jones and Jones) that has a pretty window display, even as I'm not quite sure if they're an "all things tea" place, or more of an "England of yore"  or perhaps a "country England" venue. I'm not buying much of anything these days, but I still enjoy poking around little shops in a distant land, and so I poke.





At first I think -- it's lovely here, but I really do not want to spend money so let me just purchase a sweet (because they sell these too) and go.

In the process of paying for the candy, I get to know the owner, Gavin. (Or one half of the ownership, as the second Jones in the partnership is his wife.)





His is the story that I so often forget exists everywhere, not only in the States. The work that takes you from your homeland (from New Zealand in his case) to a new place (to London then Edinburgh) and eventually, for whatever reason, you make plans to stay. And slowly you move away from your principal professional life to immerse yourself in whatever passion is driving you (for Gavin -- away from IT and into selling interesting English things -- see their website here) and now here you are -- in Berwick-upon-Tweed. It's not terribly different from my story, or that of endless others who have traveled far and then for some undefinable reason, decide never to return home again.

I can't resist asking him if it's easy to adjust to life here. Are the people welcoming?
And here I should tell you that in all that back and forth, when Berwick was tossed from one nation to the other, the people developed (and Gavin speaks of this) a real Berwickian identity. You're not  English, nor Scottish, you're from Berwick-upon-Tweed! There are Berwick families that date back to here a long long time. I suppose moving away is like emigrating from your homeland.

We chat for a long time. (I purchase another item, too. It's a gift from Scotland, even as I am not yet really in Scotland, though if I absolutely cannot stop loving it as much as I do now, I may keep it.) And because Gavin is an ever earnest and helpful person, he writes down the names of two gardens in Scotland that he thinks I may enjoy visiting. I cannot do it this time -- they are rather remote, but you can be sure that my next UK trip will include them.

For dinner, I return to Audela's. They have a Berwick crab salad as a starter that sounds perfect and I add to it a small cheese and leek souffle with an apple salad at the side. Mostly, they have the comfort of familiarity and lots of space, so that I can eat, yes, of course, but too, work on my post a little, because last night's past midnight finish just wont do for two nights in a row.

And so you wont be surprised that when I look outside afterwards and see a tempting sunset sky, I resist the impulse to chase it with my camera. I'm home for the night. In my Berwick-upon-Tweed room. In England, after a short time in Scotland. In a place that is neither, though a little bit of both.