the Highlands, 2

A Song Thrush is chirping an unfamiliar to me song out my window. Time to get up, to get moving.

You know what is really tempting? This bathtub, in the enormous room that serves as the bathroom. More like bath sanctuary...

But I resist the temptation. A warm shower will be just fine. (Did I tell you that it's in the low 50sF here at night? And low 60sF in the daytime? That's 12-ishC and 17-ishC respectively. And that is fine weather for the northern coast of Scotland in June! I'm deeply satisfied.)

The sheep are grazing in the sloping meadow. (Yes, I did pick up one of your tics last night, you wooley rascals! Thank goodness I wasn't too tired to notice it.) It's very quiet. And everywhere, there are flowers, picked locally, in small bunches, in every possible configuration.

Time for breakfast. In a room with flowers. (This was taken after breakfast was cleared. I did not want to wave a camera around when people were still eating. We have our breakfasts and dinners here.)

The SF couple is there, as is the couple from Australia. The SF guys work in fields familiar to me -- design work, attorney. The Australian pair -- dairy farmers. We linger for a while after we finish our homemade granola, our rather modern poached eggs on avocado toast. 

 

 

 

I have so many questions! (As a dairy farmer, the Australian guy comes to Madison regularly for our annual Dairy Expo. We talk about that as well!) Eventually I ask -- you've seen Clarkson's Farm? It's a TV series (on Amazon) and Ed and I have loved every episode. Funny, but also very informative. About running a farm in England. I'm curious what a real dairy guy would think of it.

Turns out he shares our views. Clarkson has done more good for farming in the UK and beyond than anyone out there. He has really shown the nuts and bolts of the operation and in an entertaining way. Agreed. 

We break up for the day. The SF guys are going out on a boating expedition. (It wont surprise you that I would turn down their kind invite to join them. Me and boats is a big no!) The Australian farmers are moving on, discovering more of the coast. I stay in the kitchen to talk to Tracy, a local staff person, about possible walks. Well, eventually we talk about walks. I hesitate at first. "Oh! I see you got ketchup spilled all over the kitchen sink!" But she laughs. "No, it's the way we clean it!" You learn something new every day.

Tracy is the rare person at Lundies House who actually was born and raised in Tongue. Her kids have grown and left, but she and her (photographer!) husband have stayed behind. Predictably, she knows every stone in all the roads and paths that wind through here.

I had reserved the use of one of their electric bikes for the day and I take it out now  to get to my beachy walks.

It is a magnificent way to explore the area! Even the single-track road doesn't intimidate me! And I can pause and take in ... everything!

(There are many hills and the power assist is a must for me. No way could I do this on a regular bike.)

On the other side of the Kyle of Tongue (you cross a bridge), I take the coastal road that keeps me close to views of the water.

Most people think of heather when they hum where in purple hew, the Highland hills we view...

 

But for me, Scotland is also Foxglove territory!

I leave my bike (me: do I need a key? Tracey laughs. That's a no.) and walk down the steep path to the beach.

(Irises grow where there is water...)

Back on the bike now, I pedal on. Up one hill, down the next. To the little village "harbor")...

(a boat that did not survive the storms...)

(village residents)

(a challenge for you: can you say this village name out loud?)

And over the bend, so that I can take in a full view of the North Sea in its full glory.

And here's a beautiful surprise: at the side of the road, as I pause to take yet another photo, I spot them: the Fragrant Orchids! The same ones I saw in Islay! And yes, they really are fragrant. Here, they co-mingle with the Cotton Grasses.

This is when it began to sprinkle a little. It's enough to get me to turn back. I had my camping rain jacket (from the years Ed and I used to hike with tents and gear), so I wasn't really bothered by the few drops, but I'm looking for an excuse to pause. I wanted to see what they had packed me for lunch.

(on the return)

 

 

I take the food and thermos of tea out in the inn's courtyard, because the benches with sheepskins look so... comfortable!

Another staff member, Becks, finds me finishing up my sandwich (or a portion of it... It's huge!). Becks is seasonally here. Originally from around Bath, she and her partner and now, too, their baby, love to travel around and the list of places where she has held seasonal jobs is... impressive. She wants to show me a secret spot on the property where I may want to dangle my feet in the water as I munch a lunch. This one:

A brook, a small waterfall, a stone bench. It's just lovely! Magical, really. I am impressed at every turn at the simple detail in this property. So I ask Becks -- who owns this place, anyway? 

A Danish family. 

Wealthy, I bet?

Oh yes. He's a billionaire. Turns out he, Mr. Povlesen, is the principal shareholder of Asos -- a clothing company I'd never heard of, but that's because I don't follow these things. They sell online, and there are clothing giants that are marketed under its auspices. I later read that Mr. Povlsen is also the largest private landowner in all of Scotland. If you read Ocean back in the days when I traveled to Islay on a regular basis, you may remember that land ownership here is very strange: most of the country is owned by a very small number of people. The rest? They live on and work the land, but they don't own it. According to the Scotsman (a leading newspaper here), Povlsen and his wife, who regularly visit their Scottish estates, have pledged to "restore our parts of the Highlands to their former magnificent natural state and repair the harm that man has inflicted on them"

Before you get too wrapped up in a disdain for that amount of wealth in one family, read on, as I did when I returned to my room. Povlesen and his wife had 4 children. However, three of them, Alfred (5), Alma (15) and Agnes (12), were killed in the terrorist attack on a Sri Lanka hotel in 2019. (The fourth, Astrid, 10, survived.) The attack targeted tourists and Christians and was carried out on Easter Sunday.

I have rarely felt more sorry for anyone.

Povleson and his family are coming to Lundies House next week, which would explain why I could not book my little room for more than the three nights I am here, even though I booked last July! (I thought it was January, but I just checked -- it was actually last summer!). I guess he's taking over the whole house for a vacation.

I ask Becks if the village people resent the coming of outside wealth. Sure, Lundies House is an employer of locals, but it actually has to rely on staff from elsewhere to fill the needs. (Yes, of course, there's at least one Pole working here -- Agnieszka)! Local people in remote villages dont generally like strangers taking up shop. So the reaction is mixed. And it's not as if the place is open to locals. The dining room feeds only those who stay here. There's no pub, there's no traffic from the village at all. 

Nonetheless, the place is so beautiful in its simple adherence to those Danish principles of design minimalism and the use of locally sourced fibers, stone, timber, ceramics, and art that you have to acknowledge how well it fits into the larger landscape here. Even without the tragedy that befell its owner (and Lundies House opened in the very year that happened), I forgive the wealth that's behind this project, because everything in my room, for example, is so understated (a bed, simple wooden and recycled metal nightstands,  seat and one small wooden desk. That's it. No TV even. Nothing fancy about it except the big bathtub in the room next door), that it invites you to relax, no matter what your position in life. (A stay here is not cheap, of course, but the price includes all meals and is far more modest than, say, a simple, no meals included room in a Disneyland hotel in Florida.)

 

I take a cup of coffee and the leftover cake from lunch and I sit in the living room and write out some notes. 

(In this room)

 

 

By the time I'm "done with lunch," they bring out the afternoon treats: a freshly baked apple cake. And tea for me.

I think I should take an even longer walk tomorrow!

Toward evening, we all gather in the living room again. Australians left, new people arrive. Drinks, snacks, sharing of stories.

And onto dinner. New Belgian couple must feel left out, because there are now three couples from California. And me. Marcello, who serves dinner, tells me that this is unusual. That mainly they see Europeans. Though others who know Great Britain well, pipe in -- but rarely the English, right? The English apparently do not like to vacation by car and may I remind you -- you need a car to get here.

What dish should I highlight for you... They were all so good... How about the appetizer? A zucchini flower stuffed with seafood? Delicious, and also very beautiful.

 

Afterwards, we linger with some of the newcomers (from California!), but they soon give out for the night. It's been a long trip for them. 

And now five of us remain. We discuss whiskeys, pour Islay drams, and make our way to the courtyard. With the fire pit. Here we are, four Californians (one couple from the north, the other from the south) and a Wisconsinite:

 

It's the last night for the SF guys. Out tomorrow, with a return to Inverness, then home. I have to say, they glued the pieces of my trip for me so perfectly. They were the smile that carried me through that first tired evening. With stories tonight that I'll chuckle over long after they're gone. I owe them big time for the spark of joy that came with each of the evenings we hung out together.

Here's to the two of you!

A beautiful day on the northern coast of Scotland. Really, unforgettable.

with love...

the Highlands

The term Scottish Highlands refers to a vast area of Scotland, covering the northwestern third of the country. Mountains dominate, inhabitants are few. In fact, it's among the least densely populated areas in Europe -- 8 people per square kilometer. Culturally, it is a world apart from everything else. Traditionally Gaelic, with a modern language that is English, but a Scottish English. With Gaelic overtones. Many will say that the Highlands are closer in character to Ireland than to Great Britain. Though the region is more rugged, mountainous, isolated.

Probably for reasons of geographic convenience, the islands off the western coast of Scotland (including my beloved Islay and the awesome Skye) are also included in the Highland designation, but honestly, they seem to me to be removed and in a universe of their own. 

Ed and I did a hike that cut right through the Highlands: from Fort William in the west, to Inverness along the eastern coast. It was magnificent! Along Loch Ness. It took five days as I recall. We pitched a tent (Scotland has a law -- Free to Roam; you can pitch your tent just about anywhere), except when the rains came and I begged for a dry room. At night, we picked off sheep tics from our tired limbs by the light of a falshlight. We learned that where there are sheep, there will be tics. We were so much younger then! (The year? 2009.) Me, a mere 56, Ed also still in his fifties. The hike seemed remote, but the trails actually links two of the largest cities of the Highlands: Inverness with a population of around 50 000 inhabitants and Fort William, coming in at 10 000. You've probably not heard of any other town from this region. They're all tiny.

 

Today, I arrived in Tongue, Scotland.

The parish of Tongue has about 500 people. Tonight, on this longest day of the year, I will join their ranks. Sunset in Tongue today: 10:30 pm.

[It's not the northernmost point I've been to. Iceland tops it by a mile. Or more like 500 miles. Oslo, Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Talinn -- they're all closer to the Arctic. My great desire was not to reach the northernmost regions of our beautiful planet, but to reach the northern most regions of the Scottish Highlands.]

However did I get here? Well, the easy answer is I flew! From Minneapolis to Amsterdam...

(sunrise in Amsterdam today happened at 5:18 a.m.,  long before we came in over the North Sea, as seen below; sunrise in Tongue will have been at least an hour earlier than that...)

 (breakfast at Amsterdam airport)

 

... then three and a half hours later, from Amsterdam to Inverness. 

 (landing in Inverness)

From there, I needed a car. It is technically possible to take a couple of local buses, but the connections are such that it would take me forever. Almost as long as a flight across the ocean, even as the distance is... small. (Today's flight from Minneapolis to Amsterdam: 7.5 hours. Today's bus from Inverness to Tongue: 5.5 hours)

I'm not a fan of renting cars in foreign countries because it removes me from any feeling of immersion. It's me in a car. Period. Don't like it. Nonetheless, some places force this on you. Tongue really does require a car.

But, but, but, why Tongue? Oh, it's simple: I love Scotland, especially the wild and beautiful bens (Celtic for mountain), craigs (rocks), and dales that form the country's Highlands. And if the Highlands are wild and beautiful, in my mind, the coastline to the north, from all I've read, seems even more remote, more stormy and wild, isolated, perhaps beautiful? If I were to write a mystery, I'd set it right there, in a parish much like that of Tongue. There's something about the fierceness of the land that must instill a fierceness in the people too, no? I wanted to find out. To talk to someone who actually lived here. I could have picked another of the three or four villages along the coast, but Tongue had something else that appealed to me -- an inn, a very small one, that opened up recently. It's in a 19th century house and yes, it gives a big nod to its history, but it is furnished simply. They proudly say -- in the Danish style! I had a very hard time finding this place, but once I did, I was hooked. It's called Lundies House (managed by Wildland, which, in their words is "Scotland's most ambitious private conservation effort").

So that's the backstory! Let me roll back to my arrival in Inverness. In shockingly decent weather. None of this "four seasons in a day" stuff that Scotland is famous for. I asked for a small car, not only because I dont like or need a big one, but also because half of the drive to Tongue is along a one track road. Meaning you drive head onto the vehicles coming from the opposite direction. When you see a car, you have to backtrack or zip forward to an extra lump in the road that's used for passing. Whether you zip or backtrack is a mystery to me, but this is the way it's done. Of course, you have to do all this on the wrong side of the road. So, little car, please! (It's not that small. They're never give you the really small ones!)

The first half of the journey-- to the town of Lairg is, thank god, along a normal road, so I get used to the Scottish driving habits without the need to do this single lane stuff. Here's the one town I pass through: Lairg, population 891.

 

But then the road narrows. For 35 miles, it winds up and down, with a single track. And interruptions, not only from motorists.

 

 

It takes more than a full hour. And the distasteful part is that you have to do sudden stops because around the bend, there will be a car coming at you (my stomach doesn't like that!), and you have to keep your eyes glued to the road because it is VERY NARROW. I shift my gaze to pick up my water bottle (still with that cough!) and the wheels veer off the paved surface. Thump, swerve, oh! Careful! I do this twice, and then I finally slow down to a crawl, thinking I'm just too tired to trust my sense of the road in this new to me and not very small car. I do not want a flat tire here, in the middle of nowhere.

Though it is a beautiful middle of nowhere.

 

 

I am thrilled, thrilled when I finally see the Kyle (the strait) of Tongue. It's been a very long day!

The Lundies House is well hidden. You cannot see it from the road. I know, because I passed it twice before I convinced myself that I need to go through that gate, and follow that dirt lane to find it.

 

And my room.

And the views all around us.

And it is all so beautiful! I sit down with a pot of chamomile tea and give a huge exhale. The longest day, on the northern coast of Scotland. A dream....

 

I eat dinner at Lundies House. It's part of the deal here. I would eat absolutely anything they served. (Again, by their words: "locally sourced produce from land and sea... foraged along the shores and in local woodlands"). Not fussy. If it's fresh and honest, I'll eat it.

There is a Britishness about the dinner, in that those staying here (I counted 7 besides me) gather before the start of the meal for a drink, maybe a snack, and some guest mingling (in one of the two living rooms here for guest use).

It's always interesting to meet fellow travelers, especially when they end up choosing, like you, to stay in this unique and frankly well hidden spot. But today I got extra lucky -- I met a pair from San Francisco and they were delightful and I'm not just saying that. We continued those early friendship questions and stories well into dinner and I may have been tired, but I loved the mix of quiet on the outside with sweetness indoors.

Our dinner? Today we had local scallops with roasted cucumbers, a fresh pea dish, a very well served and adorned  strip of beef and a citrusy dessert. There were plants, flowers, mushrooms accompanying the foods on our main plates. I'll just post the pea picture because these peas, served over a cheese, were so delicately delicious that I felt we really were had crossed the bridge from late spring to early summer.

\

So comes the end of summer solstice. I take a brief walk when the sun's still out (9:30 pm), down the hill from the inn...

 

 

... through the church yard, past the sheep meadows, gently sloping toward the Kyle of Tongue...

 

 

Magic. Beauty. Adventure.  

With good wishes for a beautiful summer solstice to all us northerners, and, well, yeah, winter solstice to those in the equally beautiful southerns regions of our magnificent planet. With so much love...

I'm off!

Yes, I've been wanting to do some version of this trip for a long time now. On the one hand, it's to a country that I know almost too well, after so many repeat trips there -- with family, alone, with Ed, alone again. But on the other hand, it is to a very remote corner of the country. One I don't know at all. The older I got, the more I hesitated. Remote? Alone? Is this a good idea? 

And still, the tug has been great. In January -- a month when I churn out a great bulk of my travel ideas, I finally shut the door to my trepidations, and I booked this trip, in a very "now or never" frame of mind.

I leave today.

Hey, flowers, I appreciate your impatience given the heat outside, but maybe we can halt the rush toward flowering just a little? A handful of days maybe? I'll be back by the end of the month!

(this true lily is really ahead of the pack...)

(most of the day lilies are still in bud form... here's an exception!)

Hey Ed, I think you may have liked this trip! Well, maybe not the complicated travel that it entails. And maybe not the overnights. They're not under the canopy of a tent after all... Still, aren't you tempted? (He is not. But he will miss me and I will surely miss him.)

My departure is very methodical. I packed my suitcase yesterday (just a carry-on, which was a challenge, considering...). Today, I just need to do the backpack, and water the plants -- outside pots (there are 32 of them, plus another half dozen on the picnic table, plus five on the porch -- I know all this because Ed asked me to count how many he should look for, when he takes over in my absence -- they're scattered everywhere!), and inside pots. And I need to drive Blue Moon (the car) to the body shop. It finally will be fixed (following the crash of May). Well, there's also a load of laundry to finish up -- the cats, oh those cats! Their blankets are filthy! Oh yeah, a camera to clean, shoes to de-mud... Travel is all about detail. Always. And about spacing the preparation -- especially as you get older and crave that more contemplative approach to the day.

By 11, Ed is driving me to the airport so that I can catch my flight to Minneapolis. I do beat the storms, and have plenty of time to then catch my next flight, and the one after. But I'll post from here -- the Minneapolis airport. I'm not sure when I'll next be online.

And as I sit here waiting for this long imagined trip to finally get started, I do have to wonder -- am I at the tail end of my travels yet? Do I really want to be away from an increasingly older Ed, and increasingly older young families? And do I really want the anxiety that has accompanied several of my most recent trips, as I traveled soon after getting over Covid, and soon after getting the flu and now, with a cough that is the most embarrassing thing you can take on board a flight with you these days? The answer is that for now, I'll take these challenges and do my beloved trips to far away places. For now. 

Okay, I've got another flight to catch.

With so much love...

last wisps of spring

Well, it's a hot ending of a season. In the winter, we freak out at the sound of the forecaster's words Arctic Blast. Now, toward summer, we get sweaty at the mere suggestion that we'll be under a Heat Dome. Wisconsin has always been subject to the extremes. No mountains halt the onslaught of cold air from the north, and of course, the heat comes right at us from the southwest. We're sitting ducks for everything! 

But of course, it's still spring. A heat dome in spring counts as not fair! Too soon for readings in the 90sF (over 32C).

I go out early to take stock, to feed, to do a good walk through.

(I planted a few climbing vines by the big stumps. Delicate and pretty!)

I see some tree limbs have come down, the radishes have grown to be monster radishes (I had forgotten all about them!), the meadows are lovely, the cherries are nearly all gone, the blueberries need weeding. 

(monster radishes)

And the lilies are holding off still, which, on the one hand is good, on the other -- I bet they're waiting until I go away and then boom! Behind my back, they'll start opening up. Well, never mind. You can never time trips perfectly. You do the best you can with what information you have.

Breakfast.

And then we do some outdoor clean up. Flower fields (that's my job! if I gave Ed this task, he may well pull out a flower "by mistake"), the blueberry patch. This is the more interesting part of the morning. Of course, there's also going to be the tedium of stupid stuff. For example, calling the airline to change flight tomorrow. "To beat the storms!" -- I tell her. Dont worry, if you miss your flights, we will rebook you then. Oh, how I do not like that answer! In the end, perseverance pays off: I hang up and try repeatedly to do it online. The tenth try's the charm! I'm now flying out earlier and outside the storms' path (I hope). 

The other stupid stuff concerns my cough, which continues to sound as if I am a closet smoker, going at it with maybe two packs a day. No, I did not have pneumonia last week or on the weekend. No I didn't have Covid then either. Or the flu. Nonetheless, I need to make sure that I am not heading out into the wild with some contagious disease that will kill all those within my range, me included. For once Ed agrees. So once again I make my way to Urgent Care and once again I have a great doc, who once again screens and xrays and checks and then tells me -- you're good to go!

What a relief. At home I check in on my newly changed flights for tomorrow, then head out to pick up the kids.

This summer, the older two chose to go back to the place where they attended preschool for their half-days of summer camp. (They have a summer program for older kids.) Call it nostalgia. Both kids were ripped from their preschool programs in March of 2020. Suddenly, and in the case of Snowdrop -- permanently. When schools reopened one year later, she was a public school kindergartner. I have to think she chose this summer program in part because it creates a bridge for her. Familiar stuff, known entity. Lots of field trips! (I ask -- do you play in the school's playground? She replies -- no gaga! That's for little kids. We walk to nearby parks.) Her brother is thrilled to go to a summer program along with his big sister. And Sandpiper, who is still at that preschool, was bedazzled by the sudden presence of his two sibs at drop off!

Snowdrop and Sparrow are with me most of the week this summer after camp, but of course, not this week. Just today. And I know they want to go swimming in the nearby community pool, and it's the weather for it, but I feel things are just a little too tight for it (she has Girl Scouts in the eve, and I hate rushing through the afternoon. So I say -- no, not today.

Snowdrop's disappointment is huge. (Sparrow is okay with going, but he doesn't remember the pool and being a cautious dude, he's also okay with not going.)

She tries to convince me that there's time for it.

Let me think about it -- this is from me. I really do want to think this through.

That always means no!

Not always... Well, just most of the time.

We go for ice cream...

Then to the farmhouse. 

Where Snowdrop cajoles Ed into letting her play her favorite Cat Game (??) for a few minutes...

And in the end I cave. That longing was so great. (You're not going to be here! I wont get to that pool for weeks!) And the kids were so cooperative and helpful, that we did it all: snacks, play, pool, showers, and a punctual drop off at Girl Scouts.

 

And now it's evening. Hot, humid, but ever so beautiful! How I love this sweet spot, with Ed doing his thing, with me doing mine, and the flowers ready to burst with the joy of a very pulchritudinous last wisps of spring.

with love...