Sunny with a few Cloudy Patches

I got off to a late start this morning – having had such a warm sunny day in Salisbury yesterday I was feeling a bit dehydrated and headachey and lay in bed longer than I should have done; decided my toes needed the rest so I didn’t run and started thinking about the trip home and began repacking for the 40th time. GAWD how I am tired of putting things in this bag.

I am tired of travelling and looking forward to being home.  I miss C.  I think I have found my trip duration limit; I think it was about a week ago.

I caught a morning train to Brighton – a reasonably short and straightforward trip. – I had listed the times of departure and the station I needed to change at, but having left later than I had planned on doing, all my times were a bit, well, useless.  So I ask the ticket seller at the station when the next train went and where I needed to change trains. He answered as if it was obvious where I was to change trains and I thought to myself – I’m a tourist, we make the obvious complicated.

Having successfully changed trains and gotten to Brighton with ease, I wandered down to the Information Centre (there was a map posted near the train station, so it was easy to find), got a map and headed to the ocean.

Since the road I chose to go down spat me out right at Brighton Pier, I walked the pier before heading for the beach.

Brighton on a semi-sunny Monday morning in early June is not all that busy; a few stalwart sunbathers and a smattering of beachcombers were all that were about.  I wandered along the beach looking at all the pretty rocks for a couple of hours.  Feeling my  pockets were beginning to weigh me down (I was doing what I always do on beaches - happily collecting rocks) I thought it probably time to see something other than the rocky beach of Brighton.

So I walked in the other direction along the “boardwalk”, passing back past the Pier and past the eyesore that is the West Pier – a tangled and rusted pile of metal beams slowly rusting just off shore – in its day, I imagine, it was as grand as the Brighton Pier (why they didn’t just remove it, I don’t know).  I wandered along for another hour before deciding I should also see something of the town, so I ventured into the heart of the “Cultural Centre” of Brighton to have a look about.

When I was happy with seeing all there was to see in the immediate area, I stood in a park and studied my map – at which point a man materialized at me elbow and asked if I was lost, to which I replied, “No, I’m just trying to decide what to see next.” He preceded to, for the next few minutes, offer me suggestions as to what I could  do while wondering why anyone would want to visit Brighton in the first place “Once you’ve seen this area and the beach, and had a wander around the shops, there’s not much to it.”  Silently, I had to agree with him – which is why I was consulting my map in the first place.

The morning had started out sunny but by 2PM it had clouded over and just going and hanging out on the beach was not as appealing as it might have been.  So I decided I would check out the two churches in search of more photos for my “Faces of the UK “ photo book concept I have been operating under since Oxford.

So I wandered past two churches, conveniently located in opposite directions from each other. Being uninspired by both and weary of the walking I headed back to the train station to make my way – sans schedule to Horley. 

The “Helpful” ticket seller at Horley station when I asked what times the trains ran to get me home said between Brighton and Gatwick Airport they run every 30 minutes and a train to get you from Gatwick to Horley run every 20 minutes from Gatwick – ok, so I’ll just find the first train to Gatwick then get off and hang about for the first train to Horley – simple.

The trick to finding the train you want is knowing where the train you want is ultimately going.  My problem, is 99.9% of the time, I have no idea where the terminus for the train I want is, so I have to ask a helpful train station worker on the platform for help – the trick is being able to find one.

Upon arriving at Gatwick Station, I was unable to locate anyone and just happened to glance over at the display at the next platform to see it listed Horley as one of its call stations.  I sprinted up the stairs, over the overpass and down the stairs just before doors closed and the train pulled away – I felt so Local!

Getting back to the B&B by 4PM I partook in my favourite travel past time, REPACKING! I  nibbled on Bourbon Creams and contemplated dinner – which ended up being back at El Gourmet for the same thing that I had Saturday night, minus the extra leftover olives – though he did send me away with the leftover olives that I didn’t eat while I waited for my main course.

I then returned to my room – unceremoniously and sadly binning the leftover olives on the way wishing there was some way I could bring them home for Cf to sample – to return to my favourite past time for the second to last time – tomorrow morning’s being the final repack. I’m almost home.

The Luck of the Irish

I think I now know where the phrase - “The Luck of the Irish” comes from.  It’s not from leprechauns or rainbows (though any remotely souvenir-related shop is chock a block with the former and since, allegedly, it rains a lot in Ireland one imagines that the latter are fairly prevalent too).

No, the evidence of the Irish Luck stems from one place – the roads in the Republic of Ireland!

There are several types of roads in Ireland – there are the motorways, which the locals must think is the Autobahn, since the speed limit is more like a vain suggestion than a actual limit.  The only two limits on the speed of Irish drivers seem to be 1. their car and 2. their courage (the latter they seem to have in spades – or should that be shamrocks!).

But getting back to the roads, a step down from the motorway is the dual carriageway (highway without the swish on and off ramps, turning across the highway is necessary in places). A step down from these are the one lane, each direction with a bit of a paved shoulder, a step down from that is one lane each way, no shoulder.  There there is the there-is-possibly-one-lane-in-each-direction-but-no-lane-markings-so-you-take-your-chances roads, followed by the there-is-no-way-in-hell-that-this-can-fit-two-cars-I-will-cringe-here-in-the-shrubs-until-you-all-go-away roads.  Followed by something even narrower still – yes, I drove it, I know it exists.

The real marvel of these ever-diminishing widths of roads is the seemingly unrelated LACK of decreasing speed limit!  The posted limit (and bear in mind, posted means it is only a suggested limit) drop from 120Kph on the Motorway, to 110 on the dual carriageway but on the lesser roads you are allowed (but certainly I was FAR from able) to do, wait for it, 100Kph!

No offence, but the Irish must be mental!  As I approached the towns, the speed limit would “drop” to a sedate 50Kph and some times I would have had to SPEED UP to do that!

But the Irish don’t seem at all phased by the narrowness of the roads and hurtle down the roads at top speeds sending terrified tourists they encounter (virtually head on, I might add) diving (or driving) into the bushes and rock walls to avoid car collision damage and imminent death. 

So if you manage to (as someone in Bath, England so succinctly put it - “grow a pair and just do it” – or as I prefer to refer to it as – managing to find the intestinal fortitude to deal with driving in Ireland the other challenge you will need a lot of Irish Luck for is navigating.

Now I had a map and a really good navigator (she was the best and I’d take her anywhere) but still we managed to miss turns.  Invariably, we would head towards a place following signs for our destination and my navigator would say, “there should be a turn in the town” and we assumed, since there had been ample signage for our destination leading up to the town we needed to turn in, there would be an equally useful sign where we needed to turn – alas, we would assume incorrectly.

It seems that the only people who can successfully  find there way anywhere in Ireland are people who have lived there, or ones that have gotten lost getting to their destination on a previous adventure.  Apparently Ireland doesn’t really want tourists at their tourist attractions, since two of the most famous ones that we managed to have time for (the Rock of Cashel and Bru na Boinne) were signed for most of the way and then – sorry, you’re on your own.

Rules of the  road, much like the speed limits, seem to be more like suggestions than actual rules.  Or maybe I should say that the Irish interpretation of a solid white line in the middle of the road is different than what I would interpret it as.  Crossing a solid white line, in Ireland, seems more like a means to and end than a violation of any driving laws.

Having ranted on about the crazy Irish (sorry, I meant to say Lucky Irish) drivers I must also say, that though they seem rather aggressive and “overly enthusiastic” they are willing to partake in a little give and take and will often acknowledge/thank you for getting out of their way – this is done by lifting a hand off the steering wheel in a bit of a wave/hand spasm or, if passing in the same direction, a flick of the hazard lights after they speed past.

Sometimes they will even give way – this is signaled by flashing headlights at the oncoming vehicle as if to say – “I’ll wait here, you come ahead.” Something I managed to pull off a  couple of times myself – I felt so “local”.

In my opinion, to get you safely along the roads in Ireland, you need, in equal parts; courage; patience, and the luck of the Irish.  Maybe this is why Roman Catholicism is so prevalent in Ireland – it helps to firmly believe in a Higher Power to get you safely on your way – “Praise be to God”.

Apologies...

For anyone who might be wanting to follow me in print on my blog while I travel about the UK I am sorry that my blog posts are sporadic and sparce.

I will post for most days (possibly posting out of order but they will be in order eventually as I will be back-dating some in order to have some sensible chronology at the end of it all.

In writing this blog post, I flatter myself that there is someone actually following my blog!

:o)

Cheers!

Good Fences

From time to time I am reminded of how fortunate I am to live where I live – today was no exception. 

The weather was less than spectacular for our day out in Belfast – grey and threatening – but we headed out on a bus tour  to see the city.  Part of the tour took us past the part of the city that is demarcated by something called a “Peace Wall” – which ultimately separates a Catholic neighbourhood from a Protestant one.  Calling it a Peace Wall seems to be a bit of an euphemism since it is a very tall fence with razor wire on top, it spanned the length of several city blocks (each street has a large gate that can be closed in times of “disruptions”) seems anything but peaceful.

“The Troubles” – another interesting Irish euphemism – is the name given to the animosity and violence that used to take place between the Catholics and Protestants in Belfast (and other parts of Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland).  The “Peace Wall(s)” were built to help decrease the chance of violence between the Catholics and Protestants by keeping the two groups separate.

“These new buildings were built in the ‘70s after several bombs went off leveling the buildings that had been there,” the tour guide was saying.  Belfast is a city shaped by bombs and violence.

This stark reality is shockingly obvious by the tall metal fences capped by sharp spikes and abandoned fields of rubble and the skeletons of buildings traced in city blocks.

Ten years or so beyond the “Troubles”, Belfast is a city slowly finding it’s balance; as evidenced by  The Troubles Tourism and the current building site of a Titanic themed hotel near the site where the Titanic was built. 

Beyond  the razor wire there is a ray of hope.

Sunshine on Leith

Ok, Technically, I was not in Leith (though we did wander along the Water of Leith), but for the sake of the Scottish allusion (and a little poetic license) I went with this blog post title.

Yesterday and today found us in Edinburgh, and the car hasn’t moved since we arrived on the evening of the 19th.

Part of the fun (read: challenge) of pre-booking accommodations without a really good map of your destination is that you find yourself a block from your accommodations, in a busy city on a series of one way streets all seemingly leading you further and further away from your intended target and being forced to ask a cabbie for directions. 

This is what happened in Edinburgh.  The cabbie thought about how best to direct us, started to explain, stopped, thought, started again, stopped, “Och, that’ll be too complicated, give us 4 pounds and follow us there.” 

“Follow that Cab!”  I thought to myself and we headed off – we turned left, went under a road,  turned right, up to a round-about went three-quarters of the way around it, right at the next road and then right again at the next road and half way down this road was our destination (a little further down this road was the overpass that we went under after our first turn) – did you follow any of that?  I didn’t – I just followed the cab!

So as result of our navigational challenges to get to our accommodations, coupled with the fact that we were within walking distance of everything we hoped to see, we left the car where it was for the duration of our time in Edinburgh and did the rest of our exploration by foot or by bus.

Our first destination was the impressive Edinburgh Castle – impressive partially due to it’s size, but also due to the fact that it is built on top of a rather large “hill” of rock – I imagine it was a rather imposing sight, back in the day.  As we arrived (having taken,  quite by accident, the scenic route – since it is built on the top of a large slab of rock there are limited approaches to the entrance – funny that) they had blocked off the area in front of the main entrance about 500m from the gates and a marching band (in full Scottish dress) marched out followed by a group of “soldiers” and for the next five minutes or so we were treated to the changing of the guard.

We wandered around the castle (the entry was part of our Historic Scotland passport) for a couple of hours and then I parted company with my travelling companions to wander about half-lost for the remainder of the day.

To my credit, I had downloaded a couple of walking tours before I left for my trip, however, they didn’t come with maps (though they were supposed to) so I got a bit frustrated since I had to stand in one spot for several minutes with the very knowledgeable voice on my MP3 player told me more information than I could ever hope to remember about Site A, before giving me quick and a bit vague directions to Site B (which most likely, would have been easy to find with the non-existent map that was allegedly supposed to be provided in my download). 

So after awhile of going in fits and starts down High Street also known as the Royal Mile (the main street down from the Castle which has, heading off at right angles from it, tiny narrow alleyways which slope away from the main road in a series of narrow cobbled allies or stairs, some of which I’d wander down and back up as my narrator told me more things to not remember) following Tour 1 – I found myself at Hollyrood Palace (where the Queen and other royalty stay while in Edinburgh).

Lying behind me and to my left was Edinburgh and my next Walking Tour, to my right Salisbury Crags, so I did the obvious thing, I turned right and went for a two hour walk on the Salisbury Crags.

I was, partially, in search of Arthur’s Seat.  But the tourist map I did have didn’t get me that far away from the shops and “main attractions” of Edinburgh, so when I should have tended to the left, I went right and away from my intended destination but quite enjoyed the quiet and almost-solitude of the high steep hills that end (on the Edinburg side) in cliffs.

After a nice wander and a light lunch of Oatcakes and cheese on the go (I resisted the urge to lie down in the grass and just enjoy the very warm and sunny day), I felt sufficiently fortified to head back into the City.

Having listened to all the tracks of Walking Tour 2  as I wandered around the Crags.  I decided to wander back up the other side of river via the main shopping street, Princes Street (which parallels the Royal Mile and is lined with all the main shops on one side and by a park and the river on the other side.

I popped in and out of shops a few shops in search of the perfect Scottish jewelry souvenir  – jostled with the crowds on the sidewalks as I made my way back in the general direction of the Castle and my way back to the furnished apartment that was our accommodations for the three nights.

Passing, on the way, a pair of unsuspecting policemen who I managed to talk into posing with Tigger for his blog. 

Me; “may I ask a favour of you?”

Cop1, wearily; “Okaay?”

“Would you mind posing for a picture with Tigger?”

Cop1: “With Tigger?” 

Me: “He’s been to New Zealand and Peru, and he has his own blog” 

Cop1"; “So he’s famous then.” 

“Sure!” I say. 

Cop1, to Cop2 (who had, until this point just stood silently and looked disapprovingly at me – personally, I think it is a skill they teach to cops); “What ‘ya, think?” 

Cop2, rolling his eyes: “Fine but you have to hold him.”

Me all giddy: “I know it’s a bit daft, but I appreciate it!” I quickly snap the picture before they change their mind, retrieve Tigger and begin to walk past them.

Cop1: “So what’s the address of his blog”

I told them, and practically skipped away down the path. Grinning like a goon the whole way back to the apartment.

Today, having had no success yesterday finding my jewelry, we decided to make our first stop the Castle gift shop.  Having learned our lesson and found a more direct route to the Castle we were on the other side of the main gates to see the changing of the guard.  Standing in the perfect place, slightly to the right of the main gate I watched and as it finished I watched the soldiers march towards the Castle gate, then through the Castle gate – then the one in charge ordered “Left Wheel” and they all turned towards me and I had to scurry backwards to avoid being run over.

Opting to stay with my parents for the day, we wandered through shops (still in search of various souvenirs) before getting fed up and heading for the New Town area.  An area of narrow streets (mostly pedestrian only)  lined with shops.

After tiring of the shops we headed towards an area of Edinburgh known as Dean Village – along the Water of Leith before tiring of walking altogether and headed back to a park called the West Princess Street Gardens where we sat for a hour or so enjoying the wonderfully sunny and warm weather (I had originally thought of calling the post – Sunburned in Scotland, but changed my mind) and enjoying a 99 Flake before heading  back to our accommodations to prepare for our night out with friends of my Mum.

Overcompensating

In order to make up for yesterday’s disappointment, we set off on our way to Edinburgh via five castles. Not that we’d set out to visit five castles, we set out to visit a couple that were on our route but when we arrived at the first,  five minutes before it was due to open & the only car in the parking lot (save the staff-person’s), the helpful woman in the gift shop / ticket office suggested we get a Historic Scotland pass which allowed us to see as many Historic Scotland sites as we could fit in three days of looking spread across five calendar days.

So after having a look at  our first castle, Balvenie Castle, we consulted the map, found our next castle and headed off.

Now castles in Scotland (and England, for that  matter) are grouped into one of two types; castles that are still in use (by some Earl, or Duke, or Lord of some sort) and may resemble what the romantic view of what a castle is, or may simply be a very large “manor house” fully decked out with historic furniture, tapestries and the like – in these fine edifices, you can look, but can’t touch or take pictures; the other type of castle is what my Uncle would describe as “piles of rocks”.

Our castle criteria was simply this – how many piles of rock are on our immediate path and how many can we see before we need to be in Edinburgh.

The answer was, four more; Huntly, Kildrummy, Glenbuchat & Braemar – though technically Braemar wasn’t a ruin, and we only could see it from the road since it was closed today (we only stopped because we drove right past it – I should get a bumper sticker that says “I break for Castles”. 

Also, to be technical, the Glenbuchat castle isn’t on our Historic Scotland map and was free to go and see (the very chatty attendant at Kildrummy  Castle suggested it and gave us directions on how to get to it).

The thing I like the most about old castles is marveling at their construction and imagining what they looked like in their prime.  “What does this half-wall represent?” “I guess this hole here was for, umm, drainage.”  I looked down a lot of “drainage” holes today – and was certainly left with a greater appreciation of our modern conveniences (running water, plumbing, central heating, just to name a few). 

I think that’s one thing I really like about travelling it helps broaden your horizons and allows you to better appreciate what you have.

Loch Mess

Today is the biggest, most frustrating, completely miserable , heartbreaking disappointment of my entire trip!  Maybe that’s too excessive, let me rephrase it…

Today is the biggest, most frustrating, completely miserable , heartbreaking disappointment of my entire trip, thus far.

My plans for this part of Scotland included: seeing a distillery, hiking in the area and seeing and spending time at Loch Ness and exploring Urquhart Castle and possibly another castle or two.

One out of four isn’t good.

I will take partial blame for my total disappointment.

1. I guess I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up quite so much.

2. I should have mentioned in no uncertain term and with as much politeness as I can muster what I wanted to do while in the area.

3. I should have not acquiesced when my Aunt and Uncle suggested (well, more like insisted) I see someone about my toe – it is getting better and it will just take time and limping in order to sort it out. 

But failing to do any of the above led to today’s waist of time – I know I am being harsh, I know, in the grand scheme of things it isn’t that critical, or that dismal, but still it was disappointing.

Since I had acquiesced, my Uncle managed to make an appointment  for me to see his Chiropodist over her lunch hour at 1PM which cut our day in half an limited, a bit, what we did for the day.

Our morning was spent in a town called Findhorn – a place recommended by my Uncle as “quite interesting” – as it arose in the 60’s as a commune and still remains more or less a communal town today, filled with a variety of odd buildings made out of odd materials owned by people from all walks of life and from all financial levels.  By the end of our visit we were all rather nonplussed by the appeal and headed back to the B&B.

One thing you don’t want a medical professional to do when they see whatever part of your anatomy they specialize in is to 1. Seem shocked/surprised, 2. Cringe, or 3. Say something like “Och, that is bad”.   I think the Chiropodist did all three when she saw my toe.

Patched up and sent away with a second set of  bandages my Uncle and I got back to the B&B , picked up the others and headed out to Loch Ness.  Our plan was to go down the east  side of the lake (the one less travelled and therefore the nicer drive, given less traffic and tourists)  see the lake (and I thought Urquhart Castle all via another castle).

As we sped along with my Uncle at the wheel his explained, if we go via Cawdor Castle we won’t get home until rather late – so we all agreed to forgo the castle.

As we sped along down the east side of Loch Ness I wondered, are we going to stop anywhere and actually look at the lake?  Since you can’t actually see the lake from the road due to the trees (had it been earlier in the year, my Uncle explained, there would have been less foliage and you could see more of the lake). 

We did stop at one point along the Loch (at my request) and hopped out to snap a few pictures, before piling back in again and heading off for what turned out to be our second and (to my UTTER DISAPOINTMENT) last stop at Fort Agustus. Fort Agustus lies at the bottom i.e. southern tip (more or less) of Loch Ness and has a series of locks that allow boats to pass from the lower Loch Ness to the higher river.

Wandering about for a bit and then finding the ice cream shop closed, we piled back in the car for my much anticipated trip up the “touristy” side of the Loch and Urquhart Castle.

As we neared the turn off to Urquhart Castle I hear my Uncle say – that’s Urquhart Castle;  it costs a fortune to look around and it’s a lot to pay to see a pile of rocks.  And with that, the turnoff to the Castle blew past and I sat dumbstruck as my chance to see Urqart Castle disappeared in the rear view mirror.

Fighting to maintain my composure in the honoured position in the front passenger seat – I mumbled (whilst trying not to burst into tears) – is there no access down to the Loch? “Not really” was the answer I remember – possibly not those exact words, but that was the certainly the impression I was left with.  And my  disappointment was complete, absolute and unequivocal and I spent the rest of the ride trying not to burst into tears.

This is Loch Ness and the pile of rocks on the far shore is Urquhart Castle and THIS is as close as I got to them.