Tuesday in (and around) Moniaive

If it's Tuesday and I am in Scotland, then there must be encounters with sheep.

With that in mind, may I suggest some music? I first heard this song exactly six years ago, when Ed and I did our big Scotland exploration. Our b&b host then was a teacher at a school that emphasized the preservation of the old Scottish Gaelic language and culture and he brought back a CD that his students put together of traditional Scottish music. The song "Ca’the yowes tae the knowes" (roughly translated: "call the ewes to the hills") quickly became my favorite and I talked him into selling me the CD so that I could listen to it again and again.

Most people think the song is Irish, which is a terrible insult to the Scotts, because the lyrics are by Robert Burns. You probably know of Robert Burns, but the Scottish people more than know him -- they burn with pride at the mere mention of his name (a couple of years ago, the Scottish TV did a survey on whom the Scotts consider to be the most important Scottish person of all time and the winner was Robert Burns. There wasn't even a close second). He put the poem to a traditional Scottish tune (toward the end of the 18th century). I listened to all the top interpretations available on youtube. None of them are nearly as good as the one on the CD from the school, but this comes closest:

(Translated:)

Call the ewes, to the hills,
Call them where the heather grows,
Call them where the river flows...

Hark the evening thrush sang,
Down among the Clouden woods, (the Clouden is a tributary to the river Nith which runs right through Thornhill!)
Then let us go and gather the sheep...etc.
 
Let's put you in the mood. These lambs and ewes are from farmer Neil's herd and I watched them cavort outside as I ate my breakfast.













The day is misty and gray and though the forecast assured us that there would not be rain until the afternoon, I was not going to trust those words. The weather in Scotland does not conform to what others wish it to be, or will it to be. It does its own thing.

Breakfast this morning is a Scottish rendition of what I have at home: oatmeal with fruit, yogurt and honey. Only it is quite substantial here, and the fruits vary, and the honey comes from the heathered fields of the Highlands.






And now comes the dilemma. The things I want to do here require decent (a low bar indeed!)  weather. Tomorrow is supposed to be wet. Today -- well, you know. Iffy.

Here's the plan: go to the village down the hill -- Moniaive (pronounced "money-I've;" population: 520) and see what it's like. If the skies stay dry, drive the seven miles to the base of the Striding Arches.

What's that? Oh, everyone in the district of Dumfries and Galloway knows about the Arches. And you've seen one too! Remember yesterday's post? There's a small one just outside the Castle grounds, by the river bank. They are made of large sandstone bricks and built to form a standing, self supporting arch. The artist, Andy Goldsworthy, has placed several arches in spots around the globe, but the Striding Arches -- three of them -- on the hilltops just north of Moniaive you could say are closest to his Scottish heart. He spent much of his life in this region. (You can read more about him and his arches here.)

The driving down to village is easy!






It's a wee place and so it takes me five minutes to explore it.









(at the cafe/general store, you glance at the ads on your way out)





(getting ready to pull out on the road... careful! pedestrians use it too!)


The skies remain dry. Good! I turn my car toward the road that takes you to the base of the Striding Arches.

And oh, what a road it is!

I'd say that my tiny Fiat 500 was far too wide for the single lane offered to us! And after a few miles, the pavement disappears and rocky gravel takes over. With holes and pits and flying rocks. And when I pass through pasture fields, cow dung sprays the side of the up-to-now crispy clean cream car.

But the really tricky part is the narrowness of the road. Every half mile, there is a small passing spot, off road, but who should be the one backing up along a narrow road with steep ditches on both sides and how this should be accomplished is beyond me.



(how the cows were laughing... Later I find out that they're farmer Neil's cows...)


The only reason, the only reason I am cool and collected is that I have the good fortune of not encountering a single other vehicle along the entire seven mile stretch of road. This part of Scotland is unbelievably remote. No one comes here. And in this lies at least part of the region's beauty.

At the end of the "road" there is a small parking space (empty, of course) and you have two choices: The first is the easiest: walk up a bit and in ten minutes you see a singular arch that is attached to an old farmstead house. For hundreds of years, the land north of Moniaive was used for herding sheep and cattle until the farmers figured out they could make more money on the timber.

I take this first choice, still keeping an eye on the skies.









(a timed release pic)


Your second option is to take the hike to one of the hilltop arches. The tourist info sheet describes this walk as "strenuous and requiring waterproof footwear." Warnings about changing weather are posted on a billboard. Let someone know of your whereabouts! -- the sign reads.

That sounds pretty ominous, but I tell myself -- I can always turn back if the going gets too rough. My host knows where I am. I don't have waterproof footwear and I forgot my walking stick (tucked nicely into my suitcase where right now it doesn't belong), but this is forested land so there must be sticks and my hiking shoes have seen mud before. Let me try.

After a few minutes, I almost turn back, but not for the danger or the strain of the climb (it's a six mile hike total and you're either ascending or descending the entire time). Instead, I am saddened to see what the lumber industry does to these beautiful forests. Oh, I know -- I use paper like the rest of the world, but honestly, after today, I resolve to use that much fewer paper towels! We already tear the smallest pieces in half; now I'll be tearing them into quarters. A token act, I know, but oh, those beautiful trees look sad when felled to feed our appetites for paper!







But the weather gods have gifted me a day that is perfect for hiking -- near 60F, windy, with a cloud cover that in my mind did not spell "rain," so I persevere.

And oh, am I rewarded!

I reach the summit of the nearest arch on Colt Hill (elevation just under 600 meters, so about 2000 feet -- not too bad a climb).

The last mile of the ascent is already stellar.



(do you see the arch on the next hill? the point is to be able to mark one from the vantage of another)



But at the top -- the views are simply sublime! And the clouds do not stand in the way of the panorama!






You have a 360 degree span of this remote, hilly country. It's unbelievably beautiful.






Here's another selfie (on a timed release) -- to give some perspective to the size of the arch that I find here.






During this entire excursion, I do not see a single human being, but that's not to say I see no living things. The cows,  and, too a fleeing hare,






... a fleeing buck,






... and of course - sheep.






On a smaller scale, I am enchanted by the flowers. There are clusters of buttercups everywhere and, too, flowers whose names I'll never know. But these common forget-me-nots take my breath away for the beauty and purity of their color.






And the rains never came and the winds calmed down (once I was off the summit!) and in all, I could not have had a better hike!

The reward: a lovely pot of tea in the sun room at Three Glens.






Today's dinner is with my host farmer, Neil and his dog, Stanley.  They come over to Three Glens...



(come on, Stanley-- jump up!)





(such a good dog!)



 ... and Greg -- the man who runs the house while Neil is still not retired -- prepares for us a tomato/mozzarella salad and a beef and mushroom risotto, with stewed apples and ice cream for dessert.



(the zucchini and arugula are from Neil and Mary's garden...)



In the course of our meal, I learn a lot about the life of a successful farmer in Scotland. About the progression of events that lead to the expansion or contraction of a farm. About generations of families and how they fit into the future of the business. About optimism. About taking chances, about risks, about happiness.






I'm better for it all, I know that.

Tomorrow -- oh, let's not look ahead. Let's just revel in today.

the people of Thornhill and the castle of Drumlanrig

It happened last night: I was finishing supper and I felt it -- something loose in my mouth. Chipped tooth, missing filling: right there for the world to see in the front uppers.

Needless to say, first thing on the agenda for my first full day in the middle of nowhere is to call a local dentist.

My hosts suggest a dental practice just two villages down -- a mere twenty minute drive.

And so after glancing out my window in what is now mid-morning...



 



...and after a wonderful breakfast of grapefruit in port, yogurt, cereals and fruit, and eggs with Scottish smoked salmon...






...and after admiring the sheep and especially the lambs, whose gentle plaintive cry I would hear occasionally at night...



clustering





waiting



...I head to Thornhill (population: 1500).






It is not a tourist destination, but a working town -- with the nearest to us chain grocer (Coop), post office (of sorts) and, of course, dental practice.






I take the one opening that's available -- with a young dentist who cannot be more than 25, though I know judging age is tricky. The coppery plates outside state her name as Evmorfia Stamatiou and announce that she received her degree in dentistry in 2012. In Greece. The second dentist in the practice is more senior: he has been there for a dozen years and he hails from Poland. It seems that Scottish dentists avoid being plunked down in the middle of nowhere. Poles and Greeks -- they follow the work.

I ask for a temp filling. Anyone can do a temp filling -- even a 25 year old. (I was amused that the receptionist inquired if I minded a woman!) She took great care, put in something that feels like it may last a few days and charged me 20 pounds. I am looking forward to going back to my guy back home and asking him how much he'd charge for putting in a temp for a stranger from, say, Scotland.


After, I walk the town, glancing over at the butcher,



(if you want to know how to make haggis, zoom in and read the poem)



...the baker,



(so... British, so very sugary)



...and too, at a cafe with a very fun sidekick of half artsy half playful stuff to sell.




(toys from France and a very British poster)





(a patron, by a wall of art)



...and at the post office (meaning a woman behind a desk at the grocer's -- an idea I might float to the beleaguered USPS) and grocery store.







The skies are mostly gray today. They say it wont get past 59F so I have my sweater and fleece. But now I do want to walk and I'm lucky -- Thornhill is just a couple of miles from Drumlanrig Castle. Yes, there's the castle to admire. But, too, there are superb gardens and outside the grounds -- pine trees and rhododendrons, bluebells and ferns grow savagely and beautifully, up steep hills that frame the castle grounds.


 



But let's start with the castle itself.






It's a seventeenth century building and it belongs to a Duke and Duchess and if you think it's a fine piece of architecture, know that it's not their only holding -- they are said to be the largest property owners in the UK. Their wealth is considerable.

Maybe you heard of them and the castle in the news a few years back? It was the scene of a major art theft: a dozen years ago, a Leonardo da Vinci painting was stolen from it. Who would steal a da Vinci? Apparently someone who knew the Duke was quite "attached" to it. Five years after the theft, the thieves appear to have contacted Glasgow lawyers to facilitate the return of it. For a small fee. The painting is worth some 50 million pounds. They wanted a mere fraction of that.

The Duke charged the lawyers with extortion, to no avail. It seems the lawyers were legit: they were there to facilitate a transaction. For a fee. The Duke then refused to pay them, even as the painting was returned. Last year, the court ruled that the Duke himself may be sued by the lawyers for nonpayment of fees.

It could only happen in the UK: the royal assumptions and presumptions, the wealth, the legal angle - it all sounds so properly British!

As I drive up to the entrance of the castle grounds, I see that the price for a castle visit is ten pounds (about $16 in today's strong dollars). The price for the grounds stands at six pounds. I hesitate, then say -- just grounds. The royals have probably hidden the good art!

But then I reconsider.
So if I pay ten pounds, I get both castle and grounds? 
Yeah.
Okay, throw in the castle then.
But unfortunately, it's closed now. Only open in the summer months. 
I smile at the timing of this information.

I walk the gardens.



(the formal part)


I have to repeat myself here -- the British, they do gardens and walking paths so well! No one comes close! The perennial borders (which I did not photograph here, because they were long and narrow) are abundant and exquisite. The hiking trails -- available everywhere for long and short distances, all perfectly marked and tended. This is a nation of flower loving bird watching walkers and that's not an overstatement!

But at the castle grounds, it is the woodland gardens tucked into the dense and beautiful forest that capture the imagination.








(not too late this year for bluebells!)











(the arch, by the artist Andy Goldsworthy)








The walk here is so beautiful that I want to do more. I reach for the map given to me by the ticket agent (well, I prodded her for one) and I study the hikes listed on it. One, the most challenging (by their standards), offers a panoramic view of the area. I'm ready for it.

I walk backwards on the trail and so I have a tough time of finding the signposts, but I manage, with only a few retraces.






And it is a beautiful and serene view.






Even though I am experiencing some rain drops on my hand. No matter. I am in a dense forest. The canopy above me is protective. The drops are gentle and after a while, they give up and move elsewhere.



(the Marr Burn river)





(the Druid Loch, reflecting so many dense trees that you cannot tell what's lake water and what's forest)





(the car that got me there)



Very late in the afternoon, driving back to Three Glens, I realize I have yet to visit the village associated with my place of stay (Moniaive). But I put it off yet again. I've walked long and hard. A cup of tea in the sun room -- now that sends chills up my spine!

Later, much later, I meet Neil (the farmer who owns Three Glens and who corresponded with me initially about my visit). He is here to mow the grass around the house.

We talk about his sheep -- I tell him I'm guessing he has several hundred. He grins: eight thousand right now. Three thousand mature sheep, and then their lambs, and then last year's lambs that are not yet reproducing but are no longer lambs.
And why the line up this morning? (See first photo, where the sheep are separated from their babes.)
The shepherd was treating the lambs for worms. Preventively. They get it from the grass and aren't mature enough to deal with them. Next week we'll be sheering. I've been doing that for thirty years. That's why the gray hairs!
I am so sorry to be missing it!

Supper: mixed veggies with sausage, followed by a curry beef (from Neil's meat stock, of course), then local ice cream and whipped cream for dessert.








(with rhubarb)



In my room, I see that a mist has taken hold in the hills. Rain maybe? The week is to be a mixed bag of weather patterns. Not warm, but not cold either. I'm slowly easing myself into a routine and a Scottish mindset. I can never fully embrace it  --  it's always interrupted by a return home -- but I get closer. The more people you meet, listen to, or just see at arm's length, the closer you get.


Outside, the sheep find places in the pasture to settle in for the night. A very young lamb cavorts around her mom. Again, she completely reminds me of Snowdrop! Uncanny!

I listen to the occasional meh-eh-eh-eh. It grows quiet outside, but never for more than a few minutes. The lambs voices are like the sounds of a calm sea: one wave, then another, then none at all, and then one more.

When you're here, passing through, you begin to understand all that Scottish pride that many thought was at stake in last year's vote for independence. In the end, they did not emerge a separate nation. Perhaps because they knew that in many ways, they already were out there on their own.