first day back

If you count the nights I was away, this trip to Scotland wasn't especially long. When Ed and I used to travel in the summertime, we'd often be away for a month. I was gone only 12 nights. But because my garden was entering its transitional phase ,and because Snowdrop and her family had left town even earlier than I did, it felt that I'd been away from the usual routines far longer.

So I wonder: with my garden, what would I return to?

The mosquitoes had been at their worst when I left. What would I return to?

Snowdrop is growing in leaps and bounds. I hadn't seen her for a couple of weeks now. What would I return to?

I have answers to all those questions!


I begin with the morning. Ed is finally given his reprieve. I'm up at dawn to open up the cheeper coop.

So... what's with the flowers? Ed had said he had enjoyed many a moment on the porch, looking out at the butterflies and the bees that came to visit the gardens. But is anything still blooming?

It is.






The cheepers were pretending to be annoyed that I waited until after 6 to let them out, but they "forgave me" and came rushing over when I brought out the corn.






The mosquitoes are still here, but they're greatly diminished! It seems I really struck gold by staying away just as they were peaking, coming back to when their populations are receding.

(Looking toward the venerable farmhouse.)






(Last year's new bed looks especially lovely at sunrise.)






There's no point in going back to sleep after all this. I'm on Europe time still, so at sunrise,  I feel the day is half gone!

I clean house, do laundry, tidy a few garden disasters.  And I fix breakfast and it is outside on the porch and it is wonderful!






And Snowdrop? Well, her other grandma is still with her today, so I do not want to intrude on their time. But I'm encouraged and prodded to stop by in the morning and so just before appointments/chores/shopping and all the rest of the travails of post travel, I drive over to see the ever wonderful (remember -- I am a grandma, I'm allowed to say those things) Snowdrop.

I only have a few minutes, but still, her mom and I take the little one for a short walk to the next door park. She is tickled by the unpredictability of life: one day, someone you love disappears, then, a few days/weeks later -- they're back! And you can see that befuddled but happy smile in this shot where her mom and I are walking with her...






(In the park. Her hair just keeps getting longer!)






(On a swing...)






And then I scoot off and do all my errands/chores/appointments/cleanings/ and food preparations. Because in the evening, the little girl returns to the farmhouse (along with her mommy and daddy and her other grandma).

Snowdrop hasn't been here for many a day (it's been her longest break ever from the farmette). And she is so happy to rediscover all her beloveds! So happy! New clothes? Nice, nice, but hey, bises -- (what she calls her toy penguins) -- remember this book???






I give her the little sheep from Scotland. I had showed it to her on FaceTime when I had still been not that far from the sheep that like to graze daze and amaze. Does she like it?






We eat a shrimp dish because hey, I want to do a favorite for the little girl (and she is appreciative, eating way more than I could have imagined).







And after, she is so very happy to show me how these days, she just likes to dance. Oftentimes with penguins...






But it's all about moving to the music.

Well, it's about the penguins too.






My first day back. I write the post even as, by my European clock, the dawn has long taken hold in Islay. For me, tomorrow wont be less busy, but it will be more of a routine, as I will have reclaimed by then my habits here. And I'll take the time to tell Snowdrop more about Scotland. And the sheep that leap and sleep and peep out at you from all corners.

Scotland, one last time

On your last day away, you either want to crazily pack in as much as you can, or you've had enough and just want to hang out in your room and chill.

At first, I thought I was more inclined toward the chilling. But after speaking to my hostess (who is a thorough Edinburghian and who, before undertaking the bed and breakfast project, had a practice in architecture), I changed my mind.

I've not done anything exploratory here. Last time at least I did several solid hikes around town. This time I seem inclined to buy tickets to shows that I then cannot get myself to attend.

So this morning, at breakfast (which is in the lovely living room and which has absolutely a top notch spread)...






...I spend a while thinking about where I might find beauty in this dark and brooding city.

As I set out, I notice that it really feels like a Sunday. Families are out and about.






And small wonder! It's actually turning out to be a gorgeous day! A few clouds, but they come and go. The air is brisk but on the warm side (for Scotland). What a pleasant surprise!

(This is the set of blocks where I'm staying.)






I see not a small number of dads out with their kids (notice there are two sets in this photo).






Maybe mum is taking a break? Fixing a meal?

The weather is a real spirit booster, but it's not just that. Perhaps I'm rethinking my attitude? Sue, my innkeeper, tells me she has always liked the very center of the city and plans to move there after she's done with the bed and breakfast (next week!). I ask her if she doesn't mind the crowds and without hesitation she answers -- not at all. I've always liked living in the thick of things.

Perhaps I've become too used to the farmette quiet. I used to live in city centers. Shouldn't I look for all the good that they offer?

I pass the ferris wheel, thinking today that it looks quite Sunday-ish and pleasant.







My first pause though is at the Scottish National Gallery. They have a special exhibition on how three Impressionist artists influenced each others work. Daubigny, Monet, Van Gogh. That's just wonderful -- I like them all and I like the theme, too.

(Here's a clever set up: it's supposed to make you imagine how Daubigny and later Monet painted from a little studio boat.)






I actually never knew Monet used a studio boat. Here's his painting of it.






And this just reminds me how much within the familiar I do not really know. One habit I have when I visit the same city again and again is to try out secondary museums or walks just to tell myself I've really done my job in trying to discover as much as I can about the place. That's fine, but perhaps a different approach would be simply to return to the favorites and look at them differently. It's not unlike repeating walks on Islay. Why not simply go back to my favorite places in Edinburgh?

I do just that.

I go down to Stockbridge by the Water of Leith. And on my way, I enter an English creams store (you may remember from my moonlighting days at l'Occitane that I am somewhat foolishly drawn to botanical creams). I spent a wonderful set of minutes sampling their rose products because no one makes rose products better than the British.

I continue my descent, trying not to be tempted by the hills at the horizon.






Families. Everywhere, I see families out for a walk...






In tea shops, I see the typical British sweet: Richly heaped with things that surely would give you a sugar rush. But kind of lovely too.






I return to a store in Stockbridge where I pick up some Snowdrop stuff. In addition to fall and winter clothes to get her ready for the colder season, I find some more Maclary books. Snowdrop was just getting into them back home and I smiled as Andrew, my Islay innkeeper recited them by heart -- his daughters love them that much.






(The neighborhood.)






I remember that I was exactly here last year, on a Sunday no less, at the time of the market.

But last year, I passed over much of the produce and food stuff. I surely never considered taking home a jam. We have plenty of good jams and honestly, we hardly eat any. Still, there's a rowan jelly that's quite unique. These guys have won serious competitions with their jams. I sample a great number of them and I pack one into my bag.





And I buy local cherries.
It's the last of this season -- the vendor tells me.
Will I die if I eat them right now, without a rinse?
No!
Okay then!

This guy is selling Welsh meade. I don't really like the sweetness of meade, but he assures me that the ones aged in oak sherry casks are anything but sweet. He proves it with many samples.






Here's a butcher's stall. Not your ordinary meats that we'll find at a market in Wisconsin (except for the venison).







I leave the crowded but chirpy (with music and people munching prepared foods) market.

The added benefit of this neighborhood is that it's quite close to the Botanical Garden and it's either pure genius or an insane amount of luck (probably the latter) because it is just 1:45.

(Here's a mom, heading to a park with two kids but only one stroller. Unbelievable what a parent will do to help a child along!)






So why is the hour so important? Because the Edinburgh International Festival (not the Fringe, but the real EIF) is offering something called "Songlines" in a few places around town at 2 o'clock and one of them is right in the Gardens.

The point is to listen to some excellent music and then, just for one song, join in with the musicians and give your own vocal chords a workout.

(What's blooming at the Gardens in August? Well, it's definitely less pink, blue and purple than at the end of June, but there's plenty to admire.)












I enter the greenhouse (the venue for the Songlines). People are scattered about, waiting for the performance to begin. There are a number of children. It's always nice to see them at more serious concerts.





I'm lucky because there is a small space on a cement edge right by where the singers are positioned. It's as if I have before me only their music and the plants.

Emilie Renard, a mezzo soprano, is the soloist and a small local choir is singing not with her, but inbetween her solo pieces.

Renard starts with Handel's Ombra mai fu. And I don't exactly know why, but I am overcome with great emotion, so that as she sings, this older woman to the side (me!) weeps.

Maybe it's that Ombra mai fu is such a beautiful aria!

Or maybe it's because this trip, more than many others in recent times, has focused so much on the natural world that I would be moved by a song that is dedicated to the love of a tree! One translation of the lyrics:

Tender and beautiful fronds
of my beloved tree,
let Fate smile upon you.
May thunder, lightning, and storms
never disturb your dear peace,
nor may you by blowing winds be profaned.
Never was a shade
of any plant
dearer and more lovely,
or more sweet.


Here, I picked Bartolli's version, which comes closest to Renard's. Perhaps you also find it hauntingly lovely?  You can listen as you read along...

(Renard, after her performance.)






The choir is also splendid, singing Rutter, Vaughan Williams-- choral music that I have always loved (stuff my daughters would have performed with their respective college choirs... oh! will Snowdrop sing in a choir someday?).

And then, in the middle of the concert, we are asked to join in and if you only have patience for one listening moment here, let it be this traditional Scottish song that we all sang together:


Wild Mountain Thyme. (And I give you a youtube version that appears closest to the traditional version.)

The tears come again, but not so much as to prevent me from singing this simple and beautiful melody, with lyrics (distributed to the audience) that put me back to the days of rambling over hills of purple hue.

And we'll all go together 
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will ye go, Lassie go?


A few more pieces and the concert ends and I am deeply satisfied. And inspired, too.

In the end, my most moving moment came in Edinburgh after all. Look for beauty and you will find it!







But this little girl reminds me that I am so very ready to be home!






(This same field a year ago in June exploded with poppies among the yellow flowers. In August it fades and prepares itself for Fall.)






One more photo from the Gardens because it reminds me a bit of Giverny. How about that! Giverny in Edinburgh!






I'm back at the guest house. I sip a coffee, eat one of the home made oat cakes...






But I don't linger. Remember: the desire to just chill has been transformed into a great desire to find new ways of regarding great things about this old city.

I had purchased a ticket to a (sold out now) standup comedy show - the Best of Irish Comedy. And I plan on being there!

And it is good.  One comedian in particular has me laughing way too loud for polite company, but then, he himself is anything but polite.

The audience is mostly from the UK and Australia, and I get picked on relentlessly for being from the U.S. (doesn't help that I'm in the second row). And still, I can't stop laughing. Here's a photo of my favorite of the four comedians, Martin Mor:






[Much later, when I'm out getting dinner, a couple shouts out to me on the street -- hey, America!
Obviously they had attended the show.
He shouldn't have picked on your country so much. We feel bad. He didn't mean that stuff about America and guns...

I'm touched by this Scottish desire not to offend, but I assure him, I know it's comedy (with not a small amount of truth to the bite).]


I eat dinner at the Ox. It's coincidence that my host booked a table here, just like my hosts last year booked a table at the same Ox last year on my last night in Scotland. And the odd thing is that not then and not today do I see tourists there. In fact, on both sides of me, Edinburgh families -- all three generations  -- are having their Sunday meal.







I order two very Scottish dishes: Scottish wild mushrooms to start with and a fish pie for the main course.

They're both smothered in butter. As is the spinach, as are the beans and broccoli. At home, I cook mostly with olive oil. It's always interesting when you travel to a country (Poland is another), where olive oil is a rare preparatory tool. Everything immediately has a very different taste.

Here is the "pie:" bits of salmon, in a cream sauce, covered with mashed potatoes. A Scottish classic.







And no, I don't go home after dinner. I venture out to another standup comedy show, where we laugh our way through Mor's description of his trip to the Himalayas.



The next morning, I'm up fairly early, but not so early that I cannot have the wonderful breakfast offered by my host.

(A mirror! Can I make myself look as stately as the room?)






Porridge today.





And then I leave.

Sue, my host looks dubiously at my load. Should I call a cab?
I shake my head even though I have before me a fifteen minute hike to the tram and it's all uphill. I tell her -- there's an old Polish proverb that goes like this: she who carries gifts of clothes, blankets, whisky, plates, books and sea shells in her satchel must prove her sincerity by pulling her own load.

Past graceful houses...






Past parks, past posts and benches -- oh! I can do one last time release!





(Knowing my ambitions ahead of time, I packed an extra tote so that I wouldn't break my zipper trying to shut my wee suitcase.)

And here I am: at the tram stop.






And the flights are on time and I have no travel excitement to report and in a few minutes I'll be boarding my last flight -- from Minneapolis to Madison, where I expect Ed will be waiting with a wave and a very loud "hi gorgeous!"

one more udate

I have before me a full day of travel. I'll start my long trip back with this tram, caught at this station.






I'll write my final Scottish post (describing how a Sunday here can stop you cold and cause you to reconsider much...) in flight and I'll publish it when I get to the Midwest. In the evening (of US Central Time). Until then!

from Islay to Edinburgh

If you live on Islay, you know where stuff is. The handful of shops, the farmer who sells oysters, the mill that still makes blankets. You know if a new restaurant has opened or if an old one has improved or gone down hill (I've had reports of both this year). You know where to get your good loaf of bread and where to jump off the pier for good swimming.

But you never know what the weather will bring. And this morning is the best example of it: the skies are mixed, and it can go either way, and then come back again to something completely different by noon.






Of course, I shouldn't care. There is nothing for me to do but to eat my breakfast (there is always the pleasant clutter of local reading material on my table)...






... to watch Andrew come around with his offerings of a dram to get you going...






And then to say good bye. It is, by now, like leaving friends.

One big sigh and I'm off through the still quiet streets of Bowmore (yes, the butcher to the left, the Celtic Shop to the right)...






But I do have to pause to fill up on petrol. The Bowmore filling station opens at 8:30. My flight is at 9:50. I pull up just at opening time.

Still closed. I wait. Down the block, a man walks his Scottie, another pauses to chat.






And still I wait. Fifteen minutes later, the guy who works at the station shows up. Slowly he begins the process of opening shop.

I mention that it's a good thing he is there because I have a plane to catch (there are only two flights out of Islay each day; he lives here -- he knows which one I mean).

He looks up from pushing a garbage bin in place -- oh, I'm sorry about that!
I think he is apologizing for being late, but he clarifies: the weather is just looking like it may be a fine day today! Too bad you're leaving.
He continues to open up, eventually filling my tank.

Of course, there is no real hurry. The airport is a six minute drive from here.

As I'm about to turn into the parking lot, I see the sheep. Two have managed to escape the enclosure.

Sheep graze
Sheep gaze
Sheep glance
Wrong side of fence
Sheep, beware!
Airport's there!

I'm getting repetitive. Time to leave.






When poor weather isn't causing delays, the connections between Islay and the rest of the world are insanely easy. Less than half hour in the air, quick bus ride to Glasgow, frequent (every few minutes) and efficient train link to Edinburgh.


Ah, Edinburgh! How I love to dislike you! And it's so unfair, because I nearly always enjoy being here. But, there are these two nagging facts: the buildings will forever be severe...

(Just alighting from Waverly Station, boom! In your face!)





And secondly -- the very center of town is insane.

The New Town's Princes Street is a mash of people and commerce and none of it is attractive. In the Old Town, tourism is so dense (there is more tartan and shortbread to be had along the Royal Mile than possibly in all of the rest of Scotland) that you really recoil.

But of course, if you only move around St Marks Place, you very quickly get to hate Venice for the same reasons. So yes, it's unfair to hold these popular blocks against an otherwise complicated city.

Still, the severity of it all! Not helped by the weather. It's drizzling again.

I walk to my bed and breakfast. I've upped the ante somewhat. I've stayed in about a dozen places in this city and found fault with them all. So I'm spending more and staying a fewer number of days (a compromise I sometimes make that completely befuddles Ed who would never ever do such a devil's arithmetic). Two nights (instead of the originally planned three or four) at the, in fact, very very lovely 6 Brunton Place. (To add insult to my pocket book, I am here during the most expensive set of weeks out of the year: during the Edinburgh International Festival.)

Here's the place. Simple, but beautiful.






Just four rooms. Mine, in the back, is uncomplicated and incredibly comfortable.






The living room (for guests from all four bedrooms) is spacious and a good cup of coffee and freshly baked cakes greet me on arrival.






So I love the place and feel a bit sad, as the current owner has (for difficult personal reasons) just sold the guest house (effective next week) and though she assures us all that nothing will change, you of course cannot tell.

I want to prop up my spirits somewhat and go back to places that have given me some amount of pleasure in the past. Like the shops that sell Snowdrop clothes for the next season!

(Which one?? Time will reveal!)






And as I walk around town, I see that I have completely missed the ball on the Festival. Oh, I contemplated taking in a performance or two and in the end I even purchased a ticket for tomorrow -- for an Alan Cummings show that promises to be great, though it's so late at night, so far away and standing room only, that chances of me actually going are low. But I never really knew about the Fringe: the alternative stuff. The hundreds of shows, of standup comedy, of dances and theater numbers performed around town that are less formal and oftentimes mind blowing.

I see right away that the city is transformed. There are signs of it everywhere.





I listen to one woman sing under a tent on one of the most staid squares in Edinburgh as people sip their gins and parts of the square are filled in with water for effect. It's really all quite remarkable and I know I'm not even scratching the surface.

Tomorrow maybe I'll explore some of this stuff if it's not too late. Tomorrow.

For now, tired out by the craziness of these crowded wet city blocks (and no, somehow the ferris wheel just doesn't cheer the place up)...






I look up at the old town, shake my head -- no, not today...






And I head to my room at the Guest House.

I reemerge for dinner at the Olive Branch.

I think it's incredibly funny that my inn keeper recommended The Olive Branch and the Ox as two eating places (and booked me a table at both for this trip). The bed and breakfast of last year is in a completely different part of town, but the inn keeper there recommended exactly the same places. I passed then on the Olive Branch -- it sounds so unScottish -- but this year, I don't mess around. It's a Saturday night during the Festival and my hosts were able to get a table for me and so I go.

It's a fine place where I eat very good sea bass and nibble on this overly rich dessert (advertised as berries with oat cake, but really covered by a dense layer of chocolate).  I watch the couple at the table just before me -- he's married, though I don't believe it's to her.






I think about whether I could tell, just by looking and listening, which couples are living together and which are not. I mean, can't you recognize the signs? The story telling is different. The level of detail. The explanation given to things that need no explaining if you share living quarters.

The restaurant has a chalk board with posted daily specials and the WiFi password is scribbled there as well, but it doesn't matter to me, because I purchased limited cell service from my cell phone provider back home (you can do that and it's great if you're unsure of what the WiFi will be like where you're going). I take a few minutes to text with people back home.

The waiter, a genial young guy comes up and asks me if I could maybe move to another table to do that because this nice couple has been waiting for my wee table.

Oh, the madness of a city at Festival time! When you eat alone, your meal always finishes in half the time that it does when you eat as a couple. You get served faster, you eat faster. I felt a tad robbed of my post dinner moment, but I get it: it's about making money.

I decline the offer to sit elsewhere and walk home instead -- up this rather cool street where it seems I've been eating nearly all my meals in Edinburgh (Broughton Street). I see the guy with the bagpipes walking up toward the center of town. Could it be the same guy I always see, doing his bagpipe numbers (and collecting not a small amount of cash for it)?






The rains have stopped. I walk home and try to access yet again whether, on balance, I like this city.