Embracing Albion
An excerpt from Pammy Por La U.K.!, a memoir of three weeks in Great Britain.
Part One: The Road to Inverness
Albion: The primal archetype of the Celtic world. Albion in its origin was the Form of forms, the original pattern for all that flowed into creation of the unique and magnificent wonder known as the Celtic spirit.
I was up before the sun that Saturday morning at Eden Green, my bed and breakfast in Keswick, in the Lake District, to guarantee as best I could that nothing would keep me from my destination of Plockton. Plockton, a tiny town in northwestern Scotland … "the Jewel of the Highlands." I called BritRail and was assured that service was back to normal after the delays caused by the crash of the small plane the night before. I quietly slipped out from Eden Green, walked down to the bus station and held up a penlight in the pre-dawn so I could read the posted schedule. Satisfied that I would have plenty of time to make my connections, I returned to Eden Green for breakfast and checkout. My hosts wished me luck, one of their adorable daughters peeking shyly at me from behind her mother's skirt. I thanked them for everything, shouldered my large backpack and made my way down to the bus stop, enjoying the views around me in the bright sunshine that indicated another splendid day.
It's fortunate that I allowed myself a few extra minutes, because as I waited for the bus I suddenly became aware of something in my pocket. I'd forgotten to return the key! I grabbed the pack and ran back to Eden Green as fast as I could – if I missed this bus, I would be in big trouble – returned the key, ran back to the bus stop with only a moment to catch my breath before the bus lumbered around the corner. An indication of the aerobic backpack workout the fates had in store for me later in the day …
I arrived at Penrith station and decided that I would catch whichever train came first – Glasgow or Edinburgh. Both cities offered connections that would get me to Plockton, Edinburgh offering the most direct, the Kyle line of ScotRail. According to the schedule, however, the Glasgow-bound train would be first. I was pleased that I would at least get a glimpse of Glasgow, and I settled down with a CD on the portable player while I waited for the train.
And waited …
And waited …
And more passengers arrived, and we all waited. And we started speculating about what was going on. I told a couple of people sharing my bench that I'd heard there might be troubles caused from the plane crash the night before. "Rubbish!" snorted an older woman who had come to visit her son. "It's BritRail. Hasn't been worth nowt since Virgin took over." Despite my concern, I couldn't help but laugh. Somehow I would've expected such pique more from our third benchmate, a husky punk covered with an assortment of piercings and tattoos. He and I grinned as the woman continued to rant about the evil empire Virgin spreading its tentacles over every aspect of life in Britain, with no regard for the people, customer service, and so on.
Finally, we heard an announcement—an apology without explanation for the interrupted service, and that the next train would be bound for Edinburgh. I decided to go for it; I was late already, and who knew when the next train for Glasgow would arrive? I was anxious, but I held fast to a vision of relaxing in Plockton, gazing at all that Highland beauty …
The train pulled up to the platform, jam-packed. There were a few available seats in the smoking car – my first lesson on just how seriously the Brits embrace their inalienable right to smoke. Now, I'm not a smoker, but I'm also not particularly bothered by smoking. I don't really believe it needs to be banned from entire towns or that smokers should be reviled. (Some of my best friends smoke.) Obviously, it would be ideal if people didn't smoke; but they do, so there you are. All that's needed are effective ventilation systems.
However … you ain't seen nothin' till you've seen a packed BritRail smoking car. One big cloud, mind, billowing out the door into the tiny vestibule at the end of the car, where the bathrooms and exits were located. The door to the smoking car was stuck open, so the smoke was unavoidable. I quickly opted to follow the example of a few other people and stand in the vestibule rather than immerse myself in the cloud for a seat. At least we could crack a window and get some air as the train moved along. I crammed the pack into a corner and balanced myself for a few hours, watching the scenery whiz by, taking in big gulps of air from the window, still dreaming of the Highlands …
The Edinburgh station was almost frantic with activity, packed with people running here and there. I shouldered the pack and rushed to a window marked Information. "How soon is the next train to Plockton?" I puffed, when it was finally my turn.
The wide, mild girlface lost a smidge of its initial merry greeting. "Ach, ye've missed tha' last train today," she replied dolefully.
Blink.
"W – well, what about tomorrow?"
The smile crinkles disappeared from the sky blue eyes altogether. "I'm sorry, the train doesnae run t' Plockton on Sunday."
I swallowed. "Y-you mean," I went on, fighting the Mary Tyler Moore tearful quivering that had crept into my voice, "that I can't get to Plockton until Monday?" The mournful cherub face nodded, the blonde curls shook slightly.
I stepped away from the window and found a small corner where I could lean against a wall and privately let all my little clouds of Highland mindpics dissipate. "The train doesnae run t'Plockton on Sunday." The line looped in my head over and over, accompanied by a flurry of chatter from the analytical side of my brain, what-to-do, what-to-do, until finally the A-side came through loud and clear:
The bus!
Yes, perhaps there was a bus! And perhaps I could still catch it today.
I raced back to the Information cherub, who fortunately had no customers at her window at the moment, and I posed the question to her. Some of her initial merriment returned. "Oh aye, I'm sure there is," she replied, happy to be able to say something positive.
"Sooo …. can you tell me where I might catch it?" I prompted.
She brightened again. "Oh aye, there's a bus station at th' top of the stairs." She pointed in a westerly direction. I thanked her and tore up the stairs, which led me up and out into the street, Edinburgh proper. I took a millisecond to gasp at the city, at busy Princes Street, at Edinburgh Castle looming protectively over all, a hilltop centurion. What fun it would be to explore it all further when I came back through in a few days. But that was all the time I had. I looked around and spotted a bus sign to my left, and sprinted to the office below it. "Is there a bus to Plockton today?" I gasped.
"Oh, aye," a dark, petite girl behind the desk answered, and I sighed with relief. "I'm sure there is," she added vaguely, and my hackles stirred. "Not from here, of course, but I'm sure there is."
"C-can you tell me how I can find it?" There, I got it out without a trace of hysteria.
"Ummmmmmmmm … " She turned a musing into a 37-syllable word, " … you might try around the corner, near the Tourist Information centre on Princes Street."
No time for thanks, sarcastic or otherwise. I dashed back out to the street, ran around the block, upset but still dully aware of Edinburgh's beauty all around me. The afternoon still glowed brilliant with blue skies, but the sun was significantly lower. It was getting late, and Plockton was still hours away. I gave up on the idea of searching for another bus station (I have no idea what she meant, I saw no signs), and ducked into the TI, which was mobbed. What on earth was going on that day, I wondered. From the conversations around me, I gleaned that many people were stuck in Edinburgh and scrambling desperately for rooms. I went to an information desk and put my question to a brisk young woman in a tailored suit. She pored through numerous books and finally found an entry about a bus to Plockton, leaving Inverness on Sunday at 2:00 p.m. There also was a direct bus from Edinburgh, but the last one for the day had left. I was wearing down from all my dashing about, and decided that arriving Sunday afternoon wouldn't be so bad. I asked her to write the time down for me, and I almost felt foolish as I asked her once again, just to be sure. I was aware that I sounded like Bill Cosby speaking to a small child, but I didn't care – I didn't want any more slips! "Are - you – SURE – " I Cosby'd, " – that – this – is a BUS – and that – it DOES GO – to PLOCKTON – on SUNDAY?"
"Oh aye," she smiled, with a slightly indulgent laugh at the daft Yank, scribbling down the information. Greatly relieved, I stepped away from the desk and found a phone, to contact my host in Plockton and explain the situation. She was very kind and sympathetic, wouldn't charge me for the cancelled night, and would look for me the next day. I then called every hotel and b&b in Inverness; I thought it would be helpful if I could get that far in what was left of the day. Trains ran from Edinburgh to Inverness till nearly midnight. Unfortunately, I found no vacancies in Inverness. What was going on, I wondered to myself once again. It was late October; how impossible spontaneous travel must be during the height of tourist season. I realized there was nothing for it but to join the throngs downstairs and vie for a room in Edinburgh. My little visions of the Highlands, having tentatively crept back, were shoved aside by a glum picture of myself on a train station bench for the night.
I stood in the queue for nearly an hour before I was able to speak with someone, a sharp, efficient woman who seemed to know her job and the city and surrounding area inside and out. The b&bs were completely full, even the hostels were crammed. (I felt sorry for two young Asian women next to me, who had very limited funds and had counted on the hostels. I wonder where they wound up that night?) My attendant was finding nothing but incredibly expensive hotel suites, for several hundred pounds for a night. I was just about to agree to one, and was contemplating what I would have to sell to cover the loss when I returned home, when she came up with a hotel near the zoo. The rate was a bit high, but affordable. "I'll take it," I sighed gratefully. She made the arrangements and gave me directions. A short bus ride, and I was there. Postehouse: a soulless, though not unappealing Edinburgh edition of what I later found out is a chain of hotels throughout Britain. My room was modern, quite spacious, and boasted two things that cheered me immensely after my stressful day: a small fridge with wine and chocolate, and excellent water pressure! So I washed the BritRail smoke away, cracked open the wine and chocolate, combined them with my leftovers from Keswick, watched a Halloween South Park episode on cable, and turned in early so I wouldn't miss the morning train for Inverness. Highlands visions crept back into my head, and I no doubt slept smiling.
Sunday morning I checked out bright and early, and reserved a room for the following Tuesday. Why worry about finding another room upon my return to Edinburgh after dreamy days in Plockton? The desk clerk made the arrangements and called for a taxi to take me to the train station. I stepped outside into yet another lovely sunny morning. Refreshed and not so frantic, I now was able to enjoy seeing Edinburgh a bit more. I noticed pretty winding side streets from the taxi, cobbled roads, beautiful old stone houses, charming b&bs. Yes, it would be a fun city to explore.
I made it to the station in plenty of time, boarded the train when announced; the train left on time, and my spirits rose as I watched the scenery unfold, the relatively flat land near Edinburgh giving way to mountainous terrain.
We arrived on time in Inverness. I walked out into the streets of the pretty town, following signs around a couple of blocks until I came to the tiny CityLink bus office and terminal. I approached a dark, lean, serious-faced man behind the counter, who wore a blue uniform and cap. "When's the next bus to Plockton?" I asked.
I wouldn't have thought it possible, but the man's face became more serious. "Ah, there's nooooo buss to Plock-tonnn," he intoned in dour singsong.
Blink.
"But … but Edinburgh said … " I stuttered, turning Edinburgh from a city into a gossip-mongering harborer of misinformation and treachery.
"Nooo, there's nooooo buss tha' goes to Plock-tonnn," the attendant repeated, sounding note-for-note eerily the same as before.
I began to get angry, the day turned black. "Look," I dug out the slip of paper, "this is what they gave me at the TI in Edinburgh."
The man barely glanced at the paper. "Ah, she must've meant th' train," he replied, maintaining the confounding monotone. "An' tha' train doesnae run to Plock-tonnn on
Sunn-dayy."
"I know, I know, I told her bus, she said it was a bus," I wailed, Mary Tyler Moore having returned to my tone, my fingernails digging into the wood of the counter. I noticed how chilly the office was; maybe that affected one's thinking. Maybe he wasn't hearing me correctly.
"Ah, noo, there's nooooo buss tha' goes to Plock-tonnn," he repeated; uncanny, like a recording.
I didn't know what else to do, so I backed away out of the office, and spent the following ten minutes or so storming around the streets of Inverness, murderous thoughts of the Edinburgh TI centre attendant filling my head, the beauty of the town lost on me. What was I going to do? Then I calmed down and recalled my experience with the Information cherub—you had to know what to ask for, and you had to ask for it in just the right way.
I returned to the CityLink office. "Can you tell me if there's any way I can get to Plockton today?" I asked calmly, no hysteria. I tacked on an affable smile.
"Welllllll, th' buss doesnae stop in Plock-tonnn. But it stops at Kyle, which is five miles away from Plock-tonnn."
"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO IN THE FIRST PLACE?? FIVE MILES IS NOTHING, I CAN GET A TAXI FROM THERE!!" my mind screamed.
"Okay, thanks, that'll be fine, one ticket to Kyle please, one way," I said politely, glancing around to make sure that nobody had overheard my mind. The attendant nodded, even-faced and official as ever, and informed me that the next bus wasn't until 18:00. For the first time, I felt an irritation at the lack of a.m. or p.m. reference, being in no mood to calculate what 18:00 meant to my traditional watchface. But I smothered my annoyance, smiled, and went back to the train station to check my belongings in a locker and do some sightseeing.
It was a lovely day but very chilly, and a surprising number of businesses were closed that day. I walked around the town, had tea, read, wrote a bit, and eventually, it grew close to departure time. I retrieved my pack from the locker and walked back to the bus terminal.
"Y'runnin' away from home?" a voice hailed me.
I turned and saw a cheerful man, probably in his mid-thirties, approaching. "No, just catching a bus," I replied.
"Well, y'got time for a drink before y' go?" he asked, indicating a small pub I hadn't noticed, just a few feet from my bus stop. I agreed; suddenly, a drink and chat sounded great.
The pub was tiny and dimly lit; nothing fancy, but comfortable. Two men sat at the bar, which was being tended by a woman who looked like she could be related to one of my favorite Brit performers, singer Kirsty MacColl—an aunt, perhaps. As I lumbered in with the pack, one of the men said, "Ach, where y' goin'?"
"Plockton," I answered, swinging the pack down to the floor smoothly. The pack and I had quite a symbiotic rhythm between us by this point.
"Plockton?" the man echoed, eyebrows raised, unsuccessfully smothering a snicker (and frankly, I don't believe he was trying all that hard!). "Well, I hope y' like sheep!" He and the other man at the bar laughed companionably.
I held my hands out imploringly. "Now who amongst you doesn't love sheep?" I demanded, beaming a huge smile; and they roared with laughter, as if I'd just regaled them with a story of immense wit worthy of sharing with their mates and claiming as their own. Ah, that single malt!
My friend ordered drinks for us, then excused himself to pop next door for cigarettes. While he was gone, the second gentleman from the bar (who hadn't spoken yet) stepped over to my table. He leaned down and took my hand in a show of Old World manners, and asked in a slurred burr, "What's yer name, lass?"
I told him, smiling, as I studied his face: long, rectangular, ruddy and lined with what looked to me like more good times than bad. He put me very much in mind of TV John from BBC's Hamish Macbeth, with his tall stature, tam and comfortable clothes. He blinked, perhaps in an attempt to focus the deep blue eyes as he continued, "An' where ye from, then?"
"Chicago," I replied.
"Ach, Chicago, thass a remarkable city," he said, or something to that effect. He then held my hand gallantly and kissed it. "I wish ye safe journey, lasss," he murmured, the effort of the gesture leaving him somewhat unsteady. I thanked him and he returned to his seat at the bar.
"Hey, who was born in a barn?" Kirsty's Auntie snapped from behind the bar as my friend returned—he had left the door open. He apologized, pushing the door shut. We only had a short time to talk – he was originally from Glasgow and worked in the fish industry, a salmon factory. He had done some traveling, to Canada and Australia.
All too soon, my bus pulled up outside. Such irony—all day, I couldn't wait to leave, to get on to my destination. Now it was time to go, and I wished I could spend a bit more time with the pub's lovable denizens. A classic lesson of the adage, "Enjoy the journey." Still, I was anxious to get to Plockton. I felt eyes on me as I hoisted the pack, and I knew I wouldn't have to wait long for a wisecrack from Barfly #1, the joker with the sheep comment. "Eh, ye got a dead body in there?" he said. His friend chortled at his rapier wit, and Kirsty's Auntie rolled her eyes as she swiped at the bar with a cloth.
I affected a burr of my own. "Ach, no," I answered, gesturing at my burden, "this is me extra sheep in case they don't have enough of 'em in Plockton!"
The laddies roared once again at my comedic brilliance, and I shook my head in disbelief. Sure was hard to leave such a terrific audience! They held up glasses and wished me safe journey, Kirsty's Auntie giving me a wink as she poured another round.
My friend helped me board the bus, and I thanked him for the drink. I'd settled in my seat and was considering a CD, when he suddenly appeared on the bus with a brown paper bag. He'd purchased chocolate and a local newspaper for my trip! So thoughtful. I watched him leave the bus, and I looked out the window at the tiny pub, feeling all aglow … I took it all in as the bus pulled away from the terminal, through the streets now alight with the illumination of a small city's Sunday evening … out of the town to a ribbon of road surrounded by foliage, lit only by the headlights and a full moon … and I felt chagrined at my earlier peevishness and impatience. I'd let an unexpected delay in the wrong beautiful Highland town unleash a bit of ugly American. I'm grateful to my friends in the tiny pub for reminding me of what's really important. You keep your head in a dark cloud, you're going to miss all that's pure dead brilliant just beyond.
Inverness, please accept my humble apology. Next time, the drinks are on me!
* * *
Part Two: Plockton at Last!
Loch Ness at night, in the light of a huge, pale moon … magical. The moon was so bright, I could see quite clearly as the bus rolled through the peaks and valleys, clearings through the trees offering fantasy views of calm waters, winking, glinting, reflecting the moon's silver. I'm quite certain that I saw Nessie, too; but as I was unable to snap her picture, you'll just have to take my word for it.
I puzzled over our rumbling vehicle's sporadic speed, first up, then down; sometimes we stopped altogether. I sat up to peer through the windshield and learned that the cause was occasional sheep taking it in their heads to stroll across the road. Such an odd sight; back in Indiana, where I grew up, you just didn't see sheep out by the road after dark! I wondered why they weren't at home in their barns, settled in for the night. I thought of the Inverness pub mate's sheep jokes; perhaps he hadn't been joking so much after all.
After many twists and turns, the moon slipping lightly between small clouds, the body of water grew larger; and I knew we must be approaching Kyle of Lochalsh and, across from it, the Isle of Skye. The bus pulled into a parking lot. I carried my pack to a nearby hotel on the bay … a grand place, warm and welcoming with its bright lights and laughing voices carrying out over the water. I went inside to ask about a pay phone, but the kind lady at the desk would have none of that—she'd be happy to call for my taxi herself. I thanked her and explained that I needed to get to Plockton—and I cringed and waited for her to tell me that taxis no longer service Plockton, that all roads to Plockton close during months containing more than two syllables, that Plockton had been renamed Brigadoon and had disappeared for another hundred years …
"Right," the concierge said without missing a beat, squelching my inward disaster-prep. She picked up the phone, called a taxi, and told me I might have to wait awhile but that a taxi would be along soon. I chose to wait outside, to enjoy the beautiful night. I sat on a picnic table, gazing out at the Isle of Skye, the sounds of hotel activities blending with the soft lapping of the water at the shore. Soon I heard a car approaching. I turned to see a nondescript sedan tearing up the drive, a hubcap flying off with a loud pwrannnggg that reverberated over the water. A woman got out and went into the hotel, then returned with the concierge. My taxi had arrived!
My driver was chatty and friendly as we wound our way toward Plockton. She had moved to the area from Edinburgh simply because she fell in love with it. She had decided to give it a year, and if things didn't work out, she would leave. She soon met another taxi driver, they fell in love and moved in together, and she's very happy. I listened to her pleasant story while laughing at the sight of the ubiquitous sheep – now sound asleep by the side of the road, their blissed-out little white faces surreal in the taxi's headlights.
Within ten minutes, we arrived in Plockton, and my taxi pulled up in front of The Manse, situated across the narrow road from the Plockton Inn. I paid my driver, gathered my belongings and rang the bell of The Manse. The door was opened by my host Ariana, a youthful woman with long, ash blonde hair and an indeterminable accent. She greeted me with, "Ah, you made it. Chicago was just on TV!" I stared at her dully. "It's that new Michael Palin series about Hemingway," she explained, ushering me inside. "They were talking about when he lived in Chicago, and I thought of you."
"Oh, yeah, he lived in Oak Park," I said, thinking how surreal it seemed to be talking about Chicago now, after my long day, surrounded by this land of mysterious lochs, the remote roads seemingly owned by sheep and Highland cattle.
Ariana showed me to my airy, comfortable room. She suggested I grab supper at the Plockton Inn if I wanted. I wouldn't need a key, she added; she doesn't lock the door. (At this, Chicago's status changed from Faraway Land to Different Planet in my mind!)
I put a few things away and walked over to the inn. I was seated at a table near the bar and ordered fish and chips. I looked around the room, all in a glow, listening to a CD someone had selected … I kept reading the name "Plockton Inn" on the sandwich board sign that was propped up against an opposite wall, having been brought in from outside for the evening. I was so delighted with everything, and so happy to finally have made it, that I became weepy! I suppose a lot of people might have thought I was miserable and wondered what was wrong; quite the contrary. Perhaps because it had taken some extra effort to get there, to finally be in Plockton was that much sweeter.
I ordered a glass of wine and asked the waiter what was playing, and he handed me the CD cover: Sixpence None the Richer. I have since purchased the CD. I'm unable to offer an unbiased opinion of whether it's a genuinely good album … I love it because I put it on and I'm transported back to the warm, congenial Plockton Inn dining room after a long journey from Edinburgh.
I did my usual evening stroll before turning in. Such a quiet night, stars sparkling in the sky, the compact, tidy buildings of the town circling the road that curves around Plockton Bay. I met my first Scottish cat, a calico who slalomed between the bars of a black iron fence in front of one of the b&bs. I spent a few minutes with her, then completed my walk and returned to my room, admiring the furnishings, which included a small sink with beautiful ceramic tiles surrounding, an overstuffed chair by the window, good books, TV and tea things. Just before I fell asleep that night, I heard what could only be describe as a "Begbie" (see the film Trainspotting—you'll know what I mean) – a lone Scottish hooligan yell: "Rooaaaaggghhhh!!" I smiled in the darkness; the night was complete! I had yet to see it in the light of day, but I already knew that I was going to find it very hard to leave Plockton.
The next morning, I had a wonderful breakfast in Ariana's dining room. While I enjoyed all of my lodgings during my tour of the U.K., The Manse was my favorite. Ariana has managed to create an atmosphere that feels not only like you're in someone's home, but that you're in the home of a comfortable friend. The furnishings and décor are tasteful and coordinated, but not fussy. She successfully combines elegant items from a variety of periods and styles, which also reflect her life and personality. A huge bouquet of dried flowers fills a window. An antique frame holds a caricature of her and her pets, a dog and cat who roam the house. (The dog, Jenny, was a gregarious companion at the breakfast table—or should I say, under the table! Bunny the cat, much like my own feline, was beautiful but less sociable, and not crazy about the dog.) Ariana makes her own yogurt – delicious – and also offers fruit, cheese, mueseli (scooped from a large, colorful hatbox) and toast. She will prepare a full Scottish breakfast, with eggs and salmon, on request. She throws things together on an enormous stove and simultaneously prompts conversation with her guests, who all share one large dining table covered with a richly hued cloth. This particular morning, it was myself and a couple from Glasgow who were just traveling, no fixed agenda.
My weather luck took a little dip on my one and only full day in Plockton. Rain drizzled intermittently, and the sun peeked feebly through the thick clouds only a few times throughout the day. Ask me if I cared! I dressed for the damp and set out. I followed the road that circled the bay, passing many Highland cattle ("hairy coos") – they're everywhere. I went to the post office for postcard stamps. The woman behind the desk was listening to Gaelic singing on the radio, beautiful women's voices. She turned it off almost apologetically when I entered, and I asked her to leave it on, it was lovely, I wanted to hear it. This seemed to please her and she obliged, beaming. (Ariana later informed me that this woman's mother and father had been fairly well known Gaelic singers in the area.)
I left the post office and continued on. I started walking up, away from the main street, past an area with newer houses, till the road seemed to end at a farm, leaving no choice other than cow paths up the hill. I followed one that took me to the top, overlooking the town, Loch Carron, everything. Apparently, the spot is known for its view … a wooden bench has been placed there for hikers to rest and feast their eyes. I stood on that hilltop for well over an hour, turning slowly and snapping pictures as everything constantly changed right before my eyes … the sunlight, the clouds, the colors on the water … the mountains in the distance, the quiet solitude, only the sound of the wind as the clouds ebbed and flowed like cottony liquid, which makes no sense, but that's exactly what they were like. Darkening one minute, breaking apart for a glimpse of sun the next. The water, blue then silver, then nearly black, then sparkling a second's reflection of hide-and-seek sun … then blue again, and the pattern repeated. Which came first, the legends of Nessie and company, or the pure mysticism you experience as you watch this heavenly piece of the world perform its magic as you stand speechless, able only to snap the shutter? You snap away, hoping that at least one of your efforts will capture the place; because who's going to believe you otherwise?
After awhile, I reluctantly decided to continue on. As I was heading back down, a young boy of about 10 passed me, drawing pad under his arm. I was tempted to talk to him, see if I could watch him work, then I thought better of it. He had that startled look on his face that I recognized (being an artist myself), that look of wanting to draw but not wanting to be observed. We nodded silently at each other as we passed, then went our separate ways.
The town had opened up for business by the time I returned, so I stepped in a couple of galleries. I finally found my Celtic cross – I'd wanted one for some time. Small, silver, crafted in Plockton, which makes it all the more special to me (particularly since I'd just been to "church"!). I also bought two small, easy-to-pack prints by a local artist.
I stopped at The Manse to drop off my purchases, then I took the opposite direction, to explore the other end of town. I found the train station at the top of the hill. Then I met up with a very friendly springer spaniel, who offered his services as a guide on an "alternative" tour. This consisted of him coaxing me (with barks and persuasive facial expressions) up small hills off the main road, through the foliage … into little clearings, where he would stand over a branch on the ground, tail wagging expectantly. I finally figured out that he wanted to play fetch … so I picked up the branch and threw it for him several times. He brought it back each time, then after awhile decided it was time to move along. He then led me back to the street, and we walked a bit farther … then he would repeat the process in a different clearing off the road. The last one he took me to, however, had something of interest: the Plockton World War One war memorial. I took a picture of it, thinking how glad I was that I'd run into the dog – I never would've seen this sight if not for him. As I headed back to town, he finally turned to go back home, I assume. I tried to snap a photo of my canine guide, but he literally wouldn't hold still long enough for me to focus!
By the time I got back, I was a bit peckish, so I returned to the Plockton Inn for grilled Mediterranean vegetables – quite good. While there, I struck up a conversation with a classy gentleman and his aunt, Colin and Isabell. Isabell (Auntie Easie, as her nephew calls her) lives in the house next door to the Plockton Inn. Colin was visiting her from his home in Paris. He had to catch a train later that afternoon and wanted to get in one more walk before he left. They invited me to join them, and I readily accepted. We stopped at Isabell's house first, to pick up her little dogs to take with us – two terriers, a Cairn and West Highland. I loved Isabell's house. I learned that it originally was the first Presbyterian manse in Plockton, before the newer one was constructed (which is now The Manse b&b, where I was staying). Isabell's home is the classic long, low style, white plaster walls, blue trim. The interior was simple, cozy and comfortable, lots of soft furnishings, dried flowers, and a striking stone fireplace with interesting decorations carved all around. I wish I'd had more time to examine them; they looked to be of Celtic influence.
Colin and Isabell changed shoes, we gathered the dogs, Isabell selected a walking stick from the assortment near the door, and we set out. I'm glad I went with them, because they took me to the other side of the bay, which is private property (they know the family who owns the land). I was able to see a whole different view, including the lighthouse. Colin constantly offered to assist his aunt, but she waved him off, insisting that she could manage just fine. I admired her independence … and I was all the more impressed later, when I learned that she's 84! I was amazed; I hadn't really thought about how old either of them were, they both seemed so youthful.
Our return from our walk was delayed somewhat, as one of the terriers decided he wasn't ready to leave. It took some concentrated wrangling, but we finally rounded him up.
One of the last things Colin mentioned before leaving was that Isabell was going to be receiving an honor from the Queen. "You mean, you'll meet the Queen?" I asked.
"Yes, and we'll have a lovely family gathering," Colin said.
"I don't know what I'll wear," Isabell remarked. I had to laugh – she sounded more put out than excited about the idea!
"Easie doesn't get to London very often," Colin added, smiling. He was in a hurry to catch his train, so I didn't get a chance to ask more about the honor. When I returned home, I sent an E-mail to Colin, and he responded with the following explanation:
Auntie Easie (Isabell Nicolson) is a huge favorite in the family and, indeed, in Plockton as well. She was given an M.B.E. in the "Birthday Honours," a very British tradition, and she goes off down to Buckingham Palace to receive her medal. Our family then has a get-together for a lunch, which should be a splendid reunion. She was given the Honour for, I think, "Community Services."
After leaving Colin and Isabell, I went to the local grocery store for a couple of items. I stopped to read a Plockton community bulletin board. One notice was disappointing: Calum's Leisure Marine Seal Trips were closed for the season. Maybe next time! (I understand that skipper Calum MacKenzie guarantees seal sightings or your money back. I don't think he's ever had reason to refund anyone's money!) Another notice was an invitation to Euell Bruce's 20th birthday part at the Plockton Inn (alas, it would take place the following week – I would be unable to attend!). It urged all guests to "congratulate Euell and wish him well with a drink or two—or three!"
I was returning to The Manse when I heard a commotion and a lot of giggling coming from around a corner. I watched as about half a dozen children ran around the corner toward me, laughing and chattering excitedly. They were quickly followed by the cause of commotion … a young Highland cattle, mooing loudly, stopping to stand right in the middle of the intersection. He was very cute, but quite agitated about something, and would have no one petting him or talking him out of the position he had taken in the street. A few adults popped out of some stores and b&bs to see what was going on. They were amused as I tried to reason with the cow, jumping away from him as he gave me an irritable mooooooo and shook his horns threateningly!
My last night in Plockton was spent with new arrivals at The Manse – two young women on a road trip through Scotland. They grew up together; one of them now lives in London, the other in Melbourne. We had dinner at the Plockton Inn (fresh Loch Carron scallops—delicious). We got talking over dinner with other patrons about a variety of topics. We discussed whether Australia or the U.S. has the most outrageous kitsch. The woman from Melbourne told us about a small train ride found on an Australian macadamia nut farm, the train built to resemble a string of macadamia nuts. She also described other giant fiberglass foods, such as pineapples and prawns … I suppose she thought she had me until I threw down the trump card: "But we have Graceland!" The whole room laughed, and she conceded!
Other conversations followed. My mention of being from Chicago brought the inevitable query about violence and crime in America. Someone timidly ventured an opinion that it's rather prominent, judging from the news. He instantly looked sorry to have said it for fear of offending me; he visibly relaxed when I responded, "Oh, violence in America, don't get me started. It's outrageous!"
Someone else said, "Ah, the NRA, they're really something, eh? That Charlton Heston!"
"Well, after all, he's Moses!" I replied in a thick and hearty Catskill comic accent. "If Moses says carry a gun, ya carry a gun!" and everyone laughed again.
I've come to the conclusion that many an ugly American preceded my U.K. visit! Once the Brits learn that you're an American with a sense of humor about America, they love you. I believe you can love your country and still be able to laugh at its foibles and
commiserate with like minds on its shortcomings. But perhaps it was easier for me because I felt so at home in the U.K. I don't hate my country, and I don't think the U.K. is better. I think some things are better and some things are worse. But Britain is more my style. I've always felt like a square peg in my homeland.
After dinner, the two young women and I strolled a bit then had drinks at the Plockton Hotel. (Drambuie in the Highlands! Nowt like it, lads and lasses! Highly recommended.) We read our horoscopes in a local paper on one of the tables, and the girls told me about how their families are pressuring them to "find good lads and settle down." One of them has a brother who fueled the fire by telling their mothers that if women wait until they're older to have babies, the babies will be deformed! We shared a lot of good laughs that night.
I left the women at the bar after awhile. I wanted to stay out later, but I knew I had to be up early the next day to return to Edinburgh. Early the next morning, I took a last stroll. I so hated the thought of leaving. I got back in time for breakfast—this time, the table was full, so I got to chat with more people. A couple offered me a ride to the Kyle train station, which saved me the walk to the Plockton station and also gave me the chance to see the Isle of Skye in the daylight.
The Kyle Line of ScotRail is the best—breathtaking views of the Highlands from Skye to Inverness. I caught the train at Kyle, making my way back from whence I'd come. Plockton was the first stop. I was sorely tempted to jump off, just a little bit longer! The sun suddenly decided to burst forth, casting a warm beam on Plockton through purple clouds. I craned my neck, soaking in the view … the train rounded the bend around Plockton Bay … and Plockton, truly the Jewel of the Highlands, moved up on my list from place-to-go to return-trip-required. How do you hug an entire village?
A man came through the train with packets of information about the Kyle Line. They contained a history of the line and an invitation to become a Friend of the Line, to keep it running. He was looking for any donation; the packet, which also contained a colorful map, was three pounds.
I gave him ten.
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