finding flowers

I did not come to Scotland in search of flowers. I could have: there are fine gardens sprinkled throughout the south. I saw some of them last year. But for the most part, visiting gardens means renting a car and I got very stubborn on not doing this on my three days in the Borders.

So what to see on this day of unstable weather? I opt for visiting "the sights" -- places of historical and architectural significance. Ones you'd find in guide books. I don't usually follow such imperatives, but there are several tempting factors: one rather quick bus ride puts me at the gate of one such sight and I can hike to the next one, then back again, forming a rather nice loop that again puts me by the River Tweed, but at a different part of it. And I would be taking on a segment of the Southern Upland Way. Finally, I would be near towns (rather than in the desolate and intimidating hills) in case the weather turned really awful.

I linger just a little after breakfast. The English guests I met yesterday are getting ready to return home (and university for the son) and we fall right back into the easy camaraderie that somehow this unlikely group of the three of us took on last night.

But I dare not linger too long. Insofar as there's decent hiking weather today, it's skewed toward the earlier hours.

I catch the 10:17 to Melrose.

Now, there is Melrose the town and then there is Melrose the Abbey, founded in the 12th century by the Cistercian monks. I wont give you a lesson on the Cisterian order -- about their lives of austerity, field labor, self sufficiency, about their enormous influence on the marketing of woolens from this area -- there's plenty there for an interested person, but I try not to get too text-bookish here, on Ocean.

But let's get back to Melrose the town, because that's where the bus dropped me off. Of all the Border towns, I found this one to be one of the prettiest.







It's small (pop.1600), but vibrant, obviously aided tremendously by the presence of the Abbey. It doesn't exactly draw crowds (maybe a dozen visitors were milling about the Abbey when I was there), but enough people do come here and Melrose responds with a smile.







Now the Abbey. Again, there are the random bits of information that I think you might find interesting: lots of kings are buried here, including Alexander II and Robert the Bruce. (Well, let's be accurate -- just the heart of Robert the Bruce.)  The building itself is in ruins, but it's imposing nonetheless. Take a look:







(People especially are smitten with the gargoyles, and especially with the bagpipe playing pig.)






I walk around the grounds for a bit, but not for too long. I have other fish to fry today.

In walking toward the River Tweed to pick up my trail, I come across a walled garden. I had no idea it was here and it seems neither does anyone else, as I am the sole visitor.

















They're lovely! You know of course that I am just coming off of my own growing season at the farmette and I admit to a pang of jealousy because here, the weather is wet and cool and so plants that have already retreated back home are still going strong here. From a gardener's perspective, it's beastly unfair that this far northern country should have a shorter winter, a cooler summer, with lots of sprinkles thrown into it. On the other hand, from the perspective of the visitor, a steady diet of rain can be a challenge. But, this morning there's no rain and I am in the midst of a beautiful garden so I am feeling plenty satisfied!






And now I really do want to find the trail. I refuse to get distracted (well, I do pass a shop with a great Christmas gift idea, but that's a shhhh! for now).

Here we go: the River Tweed.







The river path is just gorgeous! You'll understand why momentarily. First, I want to record the siting of the suspension bridge.






And now the river banks:






However did Scotland get such lovely wild flowers along the river's edge?







Stunningly lovely!






(A heron again...)






(And always the rosebay willow herb...)






Walk along with me for a bit more -- I can't let go of them!






But eventually (perhaps five miles down the river) I reach my second destination for the day -- Abbottsford House -- the home of the writer and poet Sir Walter Scott.

Over a handful of years, Scott built this baronial mansion and added collections of armor, a library, art work -- the usual accoutrements of fine living of the time. (His prosperity was an on again off again thing, but the house surely is one of the finest in southern Scotland.)






As I enter the grounds, I'm aware of the fact that there are gardens, but the grounds in general are so well tended that it's not clear if this, perhaps is what they mean by gardens.

But I search for more.

And I find them -- the walled gardens to the side that are so easy to miss.






And they are just sublime!







I smile as I walk through them because in many ways they share some of the misery of abundance and growth and the passage of time. But again, while my fields are teetering toward a conclusion, these are still in many ways in their prime.







I spend a while here. It's beautiful and it's familiar turf and the colors are bewitching.  And the gardens frame the mansion in the most perfect way.






(With  a touch of whimsy...)






(And a note of seriousness...)







I do go inside the house and it is impressive, but I offer no photos of it. I put away my camera in favor of wandering from room to room and thinking about the lawyer turned writer who resided inside. I'm not especially drawn to historical fiction, but Scott's went far beyond the ordinary. Who else would have Scotland's premier railway station (Waverly in Edinburgh) named after his or her novel?

I'm outside again, completely satisfied with my visit here. And then I look back at the gentle hills that just a while ago were so plainly visible behind the mansion. Were did they go?

Ah, they are blanketed in rain bearing clouds.

The ladies at the gift shop more than once offer to call a cab for me, but I resist this easy way out. It's not the expense (6 pounds in the scheme of things isn't a huge sum to pay to get yourself out of a pickle), but the fact that it seems a poor way to end an adventure.

And so I walk back to Melrose -- not along the river bank, but cutting across farmlands to shorten the hike somewhat.

(Is this road big enough for the both of us?)






But it is a wet trek back. I have my rain jacket, I take out my little umbrella, but you know how rain is -- it creeps in sideways and sometimes in an upside down fashion and finds its way into most everything that touches your body. (The cows agree and therefore they dispense with such nonsense as umbrellas and rain jackets.)






(The horses share in my travails.)






In Melrose, I catch the warm bus back to the Inn, where a warm radiator sets things right again.



Dinner at the Inn is different tonight. Oh, it's the same good kitchen work -- with beets, a fish plate and well prepared venison -- but the crowd has changed. There is an Italian couple -- traveling for two weeks now in Scotland and having had only two days without rain. And there are two Scottish couples -- one visiting from Aberdeen and the other -- local people from Peebles who have come for dinner.

At first, it is a silent meal and I am reminded of the quiet restaurants of the UK that always seem a tad forbidding. But when I hear that the two diners are from Peebles, I have a question for them about their town and it very quickly leads to an admission on their part that they're grandparents (of many children), which opens up the Aberdeen table -- because lo, they're grandparents as well and from there, well you can imagine -- things turn lively.

Just one photo of the first dish (beets with whipped goat cheese), to give a sense of the dining environment:






And this morning, almost like a replay of yesterday, I wake up to a changing sky, only this time we start with the mist...






... and within the hour, proceed to a dazzling sky that I think only Scotland can deliver.






(Leaning out to look east...)






Will it be a fine day? Oh, most certainly. Let's start with a good breakfast...






After -- stuff the back pack with an umbrella and rain jacket and head out!

the Borders

I left you yesterday as the drizzle turned into light rain and I was contemplating an outdoor adventure anyway. (When you travel, it's not especially hard to have an adventure. Sometimes it's hard not to have an adventure.)

I should tell you a little about where I am. The Borders region is like a fistful of hills, pushed in between the Scottish Highlands to the north and England's "umberlands" (Cumberland, Northumberland) to the south. Right through the middle flows the River Tweed. You would not be incorrect if you're thinking this river must have something to do with British textiles: for a long time, woolen mills dotted the area, but after the Second World War, most of them closed. Still, there are a handful of market towns, many right along the river. Peebles is one of them and one idea I have is to take the bus to it and do a hike along the river banks.

It is in theory a good idea. The hills offer good trails for serious hikers, but in reading up on them, I am a bit intimidated: warnings of poor markings and the need for good maps and compasses ("you can easily lose your way in the forests!" -- I'm told) make me look for something more straightforward, at least for this first day, where I'm still dragging after a night of travel.


And so after a refreshing cup of tea at my Inn, I set out to catch the bus to Peebles (20 minutes down the road).

The first indication that this is to be no ordinary trip comes at the bus stop, where a local fellow engages me in a recount of his life story. At first I attribute it to the pervasive friendliness of the people here, but as we wait and the rain sloshes about, forcing us both into the small space of the shelter, it becomes clear that the chap is slightly off, in a harmless if a tad over the top sort of way. He's on his way to the library -- a fine way to spend the day if you ask me. He likes geography. He'll be looking up Wisconsin and the Great Lakes there. I feel I've put my state on the map for him.

The bus comes, we get on. The handful of passengers are local people, hopping on and off between market towns, but one or two are bound for Edinburgh -- the final destination of this particular line.

But three miles out of my village of Walkerburn, the bus stops. There's been an accident on the little country road and traffic is being diverted while they clear the mess. That diversion works for small cars, but the buses and trucks can not fit on the bypass routes and so there is nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

As I listen to the idle chatter on the bus, it becomes clear to me that there is an English out there that is impossible for us American types to understand. The accent is so thick that I am able to catch only the occasional word. Indeed, it takes many back and forths before I actually understand that there has been an accident. No one said accident, they talked of aye this and aye that and collisions that sounded more like colshons and I realize that it will take more than a few hours to get into the swing of deciphering speech patterns in this part of Scotland.

We do reach Peebles eventually. Here's a photo of the High Street -- a remarkable set of blocks in that the shops still seem to be drawing some business. Many of the older market towns have that desolate look of shuttered storefronts and too many reminders of who does so much of the labor here -- inevitably there will be a "Polish Store." Peebles, on the other hand, looks today like it did when I passed through here some forty years ago -- with its smattering of gift shops, inexpensive eateries and tea shops and the usual stuff you'd like to see on your main street in town.






These are the last couple of days of vacation for British school kids and despite the weather, I see a number of families out for a stroll. Wellies are de rigeur.






I find the path along the river. Initially, it's not especially lovely, but as I leave behind the town and plunge into the forested countryside, I am dazzled by what I see around me. A fellow walker steers my attention to the bird life, including this heron...






... and the wild ducks along the river's edge.






Here, let me give you a fuller look at the riverfront:






I know there is a crumbling old castle further down and as I ask a man walking his dog about its whereabouts to make sure I don't miss it, I'm given some good advice on how to conduct my walk: be sure you keep to the path beyond the castle, all the way until the arched bridge. You can cross the Tweed there and come back on the other side. We just came from there. It's quite lovely, really.

Alright: here it is, the Neidpath Castle.

I climb up the scraggy hill to it, but the building is closed to the public. The best views are, in fact, from below.






I continue along the bank of the Tweed as instructed. The path is completely muddy and sidestepping puddles is a challenge. I think to myself: the man and the dog assumed that I am like they are here -- hardy and game for anything. But I'm feeling more like it's been a long time since I had a meal (breakfast on the plane), like my trekking shoes are not meant for squishy mud that seeps in through the fabric, like my rain jacket is great against the drizzle, but I do wish the zipper would stick less as I pull my camera in and out, again and again.

Finally, the old rail bridge. And yes, it's beautiful.






On the other bank now, I come across fields of the ubiquitous here purple flower that Scottish people treat pretty much like I treat tiger lilies back home -- I don't even notice them anymore. And they don't notice their breathtakingly beautiful Rosebay Willow Herb. I ask at the Inn -- what is that purple flower that grows everywhere here?
Purple flower? The thistle? Fox glove?
No no no! That one in every field, every ditch... Finally, at dinner, a fellow traveler identifies it for me.






Closer to town now. The path turns into a paved walkway. Another family our for a stroll.






I cross back on the old Peebles Bridge.






Here's the town, this time looking up High Street, toward the east.






And now I'm in Walkerburn again, at the Inn, looking out at the hills, the sheep, the endless stone fencing.







Dinner at the Windlestraw Inn is a rather formal affair. There is a set menu and we eat together, though at separate tables. There is only one other occupied place -- a table of a mother and son -- she is about a decade younger than me (and her son at least a decade younger than my own girls).

At first, I take the position that we should eat our meal without regard to the other, but I change my mind when the young man comments on the grand piano in the room.

Can you play it? -- I ask.
I would need music.
I see music resting on the stand.
Is that a challenge? He smiles and walks over to it.

In fact, he plays beautifully as well he should: he is an organist at his college. And from this spins the story of a life, just this one family's life, yes, but as I listen, I get a very special glimpse into the universal and the unique. Because don't all family tales contain, in the end, much the same elements of longing, drama and ultimately hope? But isn't it uniquely British to worry, for example, about what it would be like to raise a family in the States -- because there, my sons couldn't be choristers, could they?

It was, in fact, and enchanting evening, made more so by the occasional music that the young man would play for us.


And this morning, I look outside and note that at least for a while, the clouds have parted.






I should hurry to breakfast, but hurry is not something I associate with travel here, so I linger in bed and watch the clouds slowly roll in and of course by the time I come down, all traces of sunshine are long gone.

That's okay: it's time for a good, hearty Scottish breakfast:






And whatever the weather, it's time for the next adventure.

to Scotland

And again I have three flights to get me where I want to be and all come in early and without complications. I live with good travel fortune (except when it disappears for a while, but honestly, in recent years I have been lucky).

Perhaps the biggest adjustment for me (apart from sleep, but I haven't come to that little nugget yet as it's around the noonish hour here now) is in the weather: from hot and dry, to a slide down into wet and cold. I was ready for it, but still, when I step off the lovely tram that took me from Edinburgh Airport into town, I really do have to pull up that zipper on my fleece.

I'm not staying in the city now, but I cannot resist a short walk, suitcase and all. I like Edinburgh, even as it always seems to me to be a rather forbidding place, not helped by the gray skies of course. I don't think I've ever been here in August before -- the time of the International Festival of Performing Arts, mainly because it's very crowded and expensive in these weeks, but today it looks not especially crowded or festive, the big yellow welcoming sign notwithstanding.






It just looks like good old stoic and brooding Edinburgh.






From here, I take the newly inaugurated (by the Queen herself, last year) Borders Train nearly to its last stop. You may know that "Borders" refers to the section of Eastern Scotland that lies south of Edinburgh, all the way to the border (aha!) with England. It's a hilly part of the country -- quite lovely actually.

(Looking out the train window.)






Just a few weeks ago, I found a place that looked promising: the Windlestraw Inn in Walkerburn ( a village of a no more than a dozen houses, I swear). Here's the Inn:






And my lovely room in it:






... with a view:






Even though the Windlestraw is in the middle of nowhere, the prices are the usual UK high levels, but if you book at the last minute (great discounts!), and you do it this year when the pound is at a record low (we have Brexit to thank for that),  and you don't stay too long, then it's more or less okay. 

[I have to say, it was tough to choose a new place to explore for a couple of days before my annual visit to the islands. I got very tired of driving a car around Dumfries and Galloway last year and so I wanted to be at a place with decent public transportation. In Scotland, rail service is great or nonexistent, depending on where you want to go and so you're often tied to a bus schedule, which can be spotty, especially on a weekend. Where I am now -- close to Peebles for those who know Scotland -- really satisfies the urge to hike, the urge to not travel far for food -- the inn provides dinner -- and the urge to not rent a car.]

As I write this, a nice steady drizzle is coming down on those lovely hills out my window. I have to smile though: on the flight into Edinburgh, a husband and wife behind me were coming to Scotland for the first time. Residents of Florida, they were dismayed at the rain outside and complained about it to the very friendly flight attendant. The Dutch attendant told them -- you know, I never really notice the weather. It's raining? Okay, I take along an umbrella. Or do something interesting inside. I guess I'm rather indifferent to weather.

I can't say that I do not notice weather. I write about it nearly every day here, on Ocean! And still, I am less bothered by the cold winters and the hot summers than many others. And so I'll hijack that indifference to meteorological vicissitudes to my time here in Scotland. It's raining right now? Okay. Off I go to explore. With an umbrella.

departure Wednesday

Misty sunrise...






A few flowers...






Beloved breakfast...






And I'm off!

I'll be in Scotland, thinking quiet thoughts, watching sheep graze, pulling up the zipper on my rain jacket, eating smoked salmon fro breakfast and thinking nothing of having a dram of whisky when an occasion presents itself. Scotland -- where mosquitoes are replaced by midges, oatmeal by porridge, and where walking is constrained by no one,  limited only by the boggy turf.

I'll write next when I get there.