from the Highlands to Paris

Braced for the worst, I get the best: Scottish weather at its finest! Cool but not cold. Cloudy but with periods of blue sky too. And windy! You appreciate the wind when you come here in the season of the midges. Like mosquitoes, these guys cannot fly against the force of a stiff breeze. They are out and about, but I have seen and felt none of them. Next week I hear there will be a cool down and a return to showers (the prediction holds no great force, but I would not be surprised if in this case it was true). Me, I have had not a single hour of cozy reading as sheets of rain drench the landscape outside. Just day after day of a tug to be out there, in that Scottish terrain, taking it in from all sides, just not the inside.

Again, I wake up to a beautiful day. There's sunshine this morning, though clouds are rolling in. I step outside my patio door. If you strain to the right and squint your eyes, you can see the River Ness...

Oh, but it is a lovely day! I should seize the morning before it all changes on me. 

I decide to take a walk before breakfast. I'm told that there's a good path up the shores of the Ness, to "the islands." I'm curious.

(on the path, looking back toward the city)

And it is a good walk. There's a dedicated walking/biking lane right by the shore. Indeed, you can actually veer off and go straight into the river.

 

The Ness here is thunderous, fast paced, and clear as can be. You can feel its mountain energy. This is the river, after all, that flows out of Loch Ness. The lake itself is a two hour walk from where I am now. I should know it -- Ed and I hiked down to the city after our camping adventure up there in those hills. I dont have the time or inclination to head all the way up to that splendid body of water, but the memories for me are as clear as those waters of the river.

The islands are wide strips of land, right in the middle of the river. There are foot bridges that connect them from all sides and to each other.

And on the islands, the paths continue, among the tall conifers, the purple rhododendrons, the beautiful flora of the Highlands.

Let me rephrase that: rhododendrons may be beautiful and yes, you see them everywhere in Scotland. They were introduced as an ornamental and unfortunately they took off. They are toxic to sheep and deer, they shade out native species and they spread like wildfire. (Read about it here.) The EU allocated funds to help eradicate these invasives. (Here's a sign I came across in the Torridon forest: )

Well, you know how that went. [May I remind you, the overwhelming majority of Scottish people did not want to leave the EU and voted against Brexit. And incidentally, in less than a week, Britain is holding its elections. The current governing party, the conservatives, in power now for 14 years, is expected to get a kick in the pants. From all sides.]

Back along the path...

 

 

... I cross from the islands...

 

 

 

... back to the shore -- the opposite one this time. It's where you see some of the beautiful homes of Inverness. Sometimes behind very tall walls!

Now back again to my side.

In time for breakfast.

It's an okay meal. I finish my time in Scotland with the traditional eggs with salmon, mushrooms, tomato. Wrack of toast. They have fresh berries and that's nice, but the breakfast otherwise feels hotel-ish and indifferent. Still, it's certainly nourishing, which is good as it will have to carry me through the whole day.

Soon after breakfast, I leave for the airport, where I have to catch a connection to Amsterdam then to Paris. (I'm using miles, so I have to take what's available, but it happens that what's available is perfect for me. There are maybe half a dozen flights out of Inverness each day and most are to London, with the occasional one to a remote island. Amsterdam stands out as the big international connection. Inverness is a very small airport. Remember: the town has a population of under 50 000.)

I arrive in Paris late -- after 8 pm (there is an hour time difference, so it's actually 7 British time). Still, it's such a smooth transfer. No checked luggage, train at the platform and I happen to land on the express -- all this is great because I made a 9 pm dinner reservation. Amazingly, I'm only 7 minutes late for it.

Paris. What can I say. I really wanted to end my trip here. Just three nights. Before the Olympic craziness hits (in 2.5 weeks!). Paris. The one city in this world that I will always want to return to, no matter what's churning in my head at the moment. I've been here with everyone and with no one. Through crises, anxieties, through lovely days of contentment and joy. Paris. Not for the sights, not for the food (though they're all splendid). Just for sinking into the city's life, picking up on my mostly urban upbringing, remembering what it was like to dash and dart, and make the light, and glance at that shop windows, check what's on at a favorite museum.

I walk from the commuter train past familiar blocks, shops, parks. Only the people change. Ten minutes later, I'm at my beloved Hotel Baume -- my perfect haven in the storm of life, the place where I feel safe and happy. In the room I always ask for, because it's my favorite here.

I throw down my bags and run over for supper. 

(oh, those Paris mirrors!)

 

 

To Breizh Cafe, with the buckwheat crepes. Just up the block, on this rather warm Paris night. (It's been hot, but it is cooling down tonight.) I get a table outside. Perfect evening weather. Really perfect. 

 

 

Two crepes for me, both "market specials:" the main one is with langoustines, peppers, beans and comte cheese, the other is with cherries, raspberries, honey and cream. Both delicious!

You know how in Paris you often sit very close to your dining neighbor? It's an art to pretend you cant hear the conversation next to you! Since I lapse into French with the waiter, the couple next to me -- an American pair, very young -- has every reason to think that perhaps I'm really not listening to them. Besides, in between bites, I take out my book and "lose" myself in the text. In English, but they can't see that.

Everything about their evening is, in my mind, awkward. His mother calls, she wont get off. He hands her over to his girlfriend -- that's not too smooth either. He texts his friends. She sits and says nothing. They order cider, they dont like the cider. He wants to split a chocolate crepe, she tells him she doesn't like dark chocolate. Mainly, she is very very quiet. Freshly out of high school maybe? From L.A. Finally, perhaps with some desperation, he asks -- do you like games? Let's play a game. It's good for conversation. She nods. He forges ahead.  We both have to answer these questions. Here's the first one -- if you could invite one person to dinner....

This fails as well. She cant think of anyone. I steal a glance at her: she's made up, very carefully dressed in an LA sort of way. She is in Paris. And there is no spark. For either of them. Do they realize it? Will it improve? 

Paris is just a pot within which you mix things up in the hope of coming up with something grand. A life's memory. Love maybe? A checked box, a dream come true, a new beginning, an adventure. All I kept thinking was -- poor kids. How hard it is to be that age. Even in Paris.

 Paris sunset is at 10 p.m. tonight. I catch a very colorful sky as I walk home. 

Well, I like to imagine it's a home of sorts. They surely make me feel that way at the Baume. Paris home. For a quiet night, windows cracked open, listening for distant sounds of city life.

(Hotel Baume to the left, Parisian love to the right, pink and orange evening light falling on the Odeon Theater in the middle...)

Good night, not from the Highlands, but from France now. 

Avec tant d'amour...

the Highlands, 7

Such an un-Scottish morning! Just about the only predictable thing about it is that it was totally unpredicted! Sunny, mild. A "wow!" day, to be sure.

(very early: I looked out then went back to sleep)

(a wee bit later...)

I eat my breakfast in the sunny quarter of the dining room -- I go back to scrambled eggs with trout and wild mushrooms. And that British soggy tomato along with it. And a rack of toast of course. Impossible to imagine otherwise.

And I contemplate how to deal with this plum day. I had wanted to leave right away. Do that single-track out of here quickly, enjoy myself after. But this weather!

After packing up, I head downstairs, where I encounter Gillian -- one of the few local staff people here. Most others are from far away. The gentleman at the desk is from Switzerland, for example. The wait person at breakfast -- from Australia. Gillian tells me -- we are lucky to have a residence here for workers to stay at. Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to fill the staffing needs. 

I ask her if the owners come up to Torridon to visit. She laughs. They live here. In that house by the kitchen garden. They raised their three kids here -- the children went to the local school, along with my two. Then she turns serious: but that school has closed now. And so has the one in the next village. This is a big problem in the Highlands. Small schools close, young people therefore dont want to move here. We used to have coffee shops, things going on in the village. The older kids worked there, their parents managed the businesses. Not anymore. All closed. Only older people and summer people. It's true all over the Highlands.

We talk a little about the Kitchen Garden -- you should go there now. Seonaid, our gardner is there today.

It's a plan!

This is how the day suddenly took shape for me: it becomes all about gardens.

I find Seonaid among pots and gardening paraphernalia. She's the boss here, though she grows things at the pleasure of the chefs -- if they want small nasturtium leaves, she'll grow nasturtium with small leaves -- and of course, at the pleasure of the owners. If they want a rose garden, there will be a rose garden.

We talk gardens and plants and animals that devour gardens. And families and life in Torridon. And trees and fairies. Honestly, if she wasn't so busy and if I weren't a slave to my watch (which tells me I really have to leave soon, or I will over-keep my rental car), I could stay and chat with her all day. She and I have planting stories to share!

Inevitably, we discuss weeds (because I see so few in her beds). She tells me -- dont call them weeds! Call them "plants of resilience!" Sounds so much better! 

Scotland has a less severe climate: winters can be cold, but not as cold as ours. Summers -- not as hot as ours. And of course, they rarely suffer from lack of rain. The soil here is rocky -- and yes, you can complain about that all you want, but I'd take rocky over clay any day. In any case, we all try to improve what's there.

As we look out over her beds, I tell her that I love the cottage garden look. That I would resist shaping the borders into something more formal. She agrees, though of course it's not her call. 

I ask if her children (she has three, two away at school, one at uni) want to stay in the area. She shrugs. Their dad is a fisherman a few villages up the coast. Her daughter is passionate about sheep and wants to work with them once she is done with school. ("I send her to a good prep school and she wants to herd sheep!")  It seems kids here scatter. Out of necessity. Out of a desire to experience something other than Highland village life.

(hmmm... I planted my honeyberry bushes this spring. Most of the sprouted twigs have been totally devoured by the groundhogs.)

That's a rowan,  she tells me, pointing to a small, bushy tree). You can't dig that up. You know that for us Scots, rowans have fairies living in them. One of the workers here, from another country, dug up a handful of these trees. I winced! That's not going to make the fairies happy, poor man. When I had to take a rowan out, I spent some time trying to make the fairies understand that it had to be done. I hedge my bets. Cant hurt!

And now it really is time for me to say goodbye to this place. 

 

 

Exquisite staff. Really wonderful. I'm not surprised that they have so many return guests. (I hear the chatter in the public rooms. I know whose coming, whose returning...) Will I be one of them? Have someone drive me over, wheelchair and all? I'd say this place has half active types and the rest -- well, at least they're not dressed for outdoor life. More like for clay shooting (which you can do here) and whiskey sampling. Lots to choose from. 

 

 

And there is in fact one gentleman in a wheelchair.

(There is also a vast library of very old books. Kind of fun for a rainy day.)

But now I am off. Down that singletrack, all eleven miles of it...

I nixed so many car side trips while here (all for the good -- sticking with bike rides and hikes was so much better) that I decided to do one small add-on to today's return. Instead of driving straight to Inverness Airport (where they are expecting the car back), I thought I'd go just a tiny bit further (on a normal road!) and take a quick look at Cawdor Castle. It's less than ten miles east of the airport and I hear they have great gardens!

Cawdor Castle is a Medieval structure, owned and inhabited by the Cawdor family for some 600 years. That's 23 generations of one family. Impressive. Some of the rooms are furnished with period pieces. I decided to bypass all of it and head straight for the gardens.

They're beautiful. Classic herbaceous borders, in the best British tradition.

(stunning!)

I dont linger too long. The car is due back at 2, it is now 1:30 and the gas tank is running on empty.

Nuts! The gas station is in the opposite direction to the airport. I speed the fifteen minutes to it, fumble with finding the gas door, get back into traffic, lose my way to the car hire drop off, pull in 28 minutes behind schedule. Two more minutes and I would have charged you extra! The Hertz guy tells me. Pure evil! He goes over the car with such exactitude that I now understand why they tell you to take videos of your rental at pick up. Still, he finds nothing amiss. I am car free!

I cab to downtown Inverness, telling the driver how luxurious it is to close my eyes now while he does the driving.

Why stay in Inverness at all? I know that I dont really love this city. (I was here with Ed, before and after our long hike from the Atlantic coast to the North Sea coast.) I dont expect to like it any better now, which is why I found a hotel a little to the side. Along the Ness River.

(The hotel is in fact called the Ness Walk.)

I'm liking the light and breezy book I'm reading (You Are Here, by Nichols) -- it involves English hikers of sorts -- and I imagine an afternoon out with it, in the garden, would be just perfect. But it is not to be...

I check my computer to see what emails flooded my box in my morning of being "away from it all." Oh-oh. The Polish couple staying at Steffi's House? They are without gas. No hot water. No stove. Nothing. Baby born. Two days old. What the heck??

I call Ed. He goes over to get a feel for the problem. Gorgeous, the gas is shut off and the meter has been removed. Bye!

Figuring out what happened takes the better part of three hours. Compounded misunderstandings between the builder and Madison Gas and Electric led to this. Eventually, once everyone stopped saying "it wasn't my fault," we got it straightened out. Very quickly someone sent a repair team to reinstall the meter and turn the gas back on.

By this time it was too late to walk up the shores of the River Ness. Too late to lose myself in a book. Too late to find a bakery for a midday snack (I'm told that every last one closes at 5).

I'm hungry and I want to walk somewhere, so I follow the front desk guy's suggestion of going to Tesco. Fifteen minutes down the river, turn left, it's there. (Tesco is a British multinational retailer of groceries. Sort of like our Costco.)

(the walk)

It's not unpleasant to visit big supermarkets in other countries. You get a sense of how people stock their pantries. I take a long while and then decide on nuts and on these:

They may not be fru-fru, but they will taste like the real thing: sweet Scottish fudge is milky and delicious. I munch it all the way back to the hotel. I enter my room and I hear a knock. Oh, they have turn-down service! Nice...

The maid places something on my pillow. It's a goodnight treat, she tells me. 

It's Scottish fudge.

Dinner is at the hotel, at the Torrish. It's a bit upscale, but there was an inclusive price that was very attractive, so here I am.

Upscale, of course, does not mean good. I'm expecting okay food. I get great food. Scallops -- well, that's no surprise. These are fressh off the coast. You can do a lot to butcher a scallop, but these days most places pan them well. So, well prepared, but not beyond what I would expect.

I then ordered a "Borders free range chicken." A breast with some mushroom prep and a barley risotto.

It was fantastic! I told the waiter -- you can always tell a great restaurant by the way they prep their chicken. It's very hard to do a breast well. This one was fabulous!

And the dessert was good too. Some mix of rhubarb and creme brulee and it stayed together well. Plus I had never had rhubarb served like this -- tasty and still crispy. We have a ton of rhubarb at the farmhouse and my feeling about it was always -- cook it to a wilt, bake it in a cake, or give it away. This one opened my eyes to other possibilities.

My, Scotland has come a long way in its attitude toward food! Sure, I ate in places that aren't exactly pub grub, but they weren't over the top, price-wise, either. And every meal I had was very, very good.

 

It's my last night in the Highlands. I really must come back! There's something about Scotland and especially the Highlands that fits my temperament. As the bar tender at the Torridon said -- the people here are direct and unpretentious. It took some getting used to after France. And of course there are the hills, the purple flora, the birds. The pines, the sheep. The kitchen gardens. All so beautiful...

with so much love...

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...