Of Castle Ruins and Standing Stones
Daily Blog #6 — Three Weeks in Scotland in a Manual Car
It’s official. We’ve hit 100 days on our Grand Tour and I thought I’d celebrate by going back to the beginning to where we started and give you my own perspective on our debut escapade (if you missed it, catch up on my husband Ian’s version here). Already we’ve been to 11 different countries and slept in over 24 different beds, but Scotland remains a highlight of our trip and I still miss having scones and a cup of tea while writing in my journal.
Prior to our departure, I visited our library for books on touring Scotland and searched the internet to see what the indie voyager blog circuit recommended. Somewhat unsurprisingly, all Scottish tours have somehow been reduced to a standard recommended route between major cities with the top ten list of places to see clearly outlined. It’s as if the highway system was optimised for huge tour buses of camera-toting tourists and after driving it myself, I can tell you that taking a turn off of one of these highways can be a form of mild culture shock, not only because your fellow drivers include sheep and massive tractors with little care for your rental car comprehensive damage policy as they pass centimeters from your side view mirror.
After populating our personal Google Map, I outlined our twenty-two day road trip with the mind to balance between the Must-Sees and our own desire to escape. We’d give ourselves a few days in Edinburgh to recover from jetlag before starting in a clockwise direction around the West Coast, hopping up to the Orkneys and then swinging downwards through the East Coast for a capstone family meetup in Edinburgh. Although it would have been nice to start the trip with family, we knew the exhaustion of travel combined with my still unresolved regret of leaving a beloved job would likely make me a fragile creature for the first couple days. Arriving just the two of us would allow me some time to grieve alone.
Waving a final goodbye to Ian’s family with promises not to make them reenact the Taken movie, we boarded our flight with high hopes and our Celtic blood stirring. Some 20-odd hours later, we lugged our packs the thirty minute walk from the train station to our lodging which included four flights of stairs. Determined to try to adapt to our new timezone quickly, we splashed water in our faces and went back out to find dinner. Our reward was a sunset and mashed potatoes I swear melted in my mouth as angels sang. We could have slept on the floor that night and been happy.
We spent our first couple days adjusting and walking the entirety of Scotland’s capital. Ian is rendered a zombie by lack of sleep and we’d learned through prior trips he can’t push through jet lag easily. This left me alone most mornings to do yoga, write in my journal, and mentally process what I had just helped accomplish. Saying you’re going to leave everything behind and being faced with it in reality are different things. The final couple of weeks in our apartment surrounded by friends and family had been a blur and in those quiet mornings, sipping tea and doing downward dog, it became clearer and all the more precious.
Eventually though, I’d poke Ian awake and encourage the living dead to rise so we could go explore the city. It would grumble, shamble it’s way to the shower, and a little while later my husband would emerge with a weak smile asking for coffee. Over those four days we walked the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, tasted the difference between single malt whiskeys and conquered the enormity of hiking Arthur’s Seat. Evening would find us holed up enjoying a good book and delicious brews. With some sadness we found the four nights passed quickly and we prepared to pick up the pace with some regret.
Sitting in the comfort of home months prior, I had elected to rent a manual car for our road trip since automatics were double the price and that represented several days at least of food and lodging. As the only manual driver in our family, I recommend it as a cost saving measure however I may have regretted my decision for a hot full minute as I pulled out of the relatively safety of the parking lot. Ian started giving instructions in an increasingly panicked voice as my left hand insisted it really hadn’t gone to school for this whole gear shifting thing. Both feet were fully engaged on remembering the dance steps of brake, clutch, power, release to avoid sliding back down the hill into the honking Scotsman behind us and all the while my brain was screaming: “Why are you on the left side of the road!?”
We survived, but according to my Fitbit, my heart maintained a solid 100 beats per minute for the 2 hours it took to get us out into the countryside so I guess that’s one way to burn off a morning scone.
I’m still convinced every rental car has a yellow license plate so natives can steer clear of us, but once we left the chaotic nightmare of the city, my white knuckle grip started to relax and by the end of the trip I felt like a pro. We nicknamed our little four door car Coop and we swiftly developed a bond with it by cheering “You can do it, Coop!” up hills and apologizing profusely when I stalled it at intersections. The single lane roads became a favorite of mine as it happened because I could see people coming most of the time and could just scoot my butt over, trusting them to know what they were doing. It even provided for some couple bonding as Ian would break the relaxing ambiance of the road by yelling “Left!” anytime I drifted too far towards the ditch or hedge zipping by us. He was quite proud of me if by the end of the day he’d only had to do it twice.
Following our stall and start departure from Edinburgh, we visited Stirling Castle on our way to Trossachs Park. The evening sunset found us enjoying the stellar hospitality of Margaret who greeted us with tea and scones. She and her husband chuckled and appropriately praised my driving heroics before recommending we walk up to the local castle for dinner. Lambs frolicked in the fields as we enjoyed a leisurely stroll, sharing the road with passing horse riders who waved as they trotted by. I ordered the roast lamb for dinner with only a small pang of guilt which evaporated with the first bite. The chef admitted in a somewhat conspiratorial tone that he sings, “Mint sauce!” to them as he walks home.
“So they know what’s what.”
The Scots know how to do breakfast, but Margaret was a special star on the trip. Fresh quiche, fruit salad, delicious yogurt, and thick coffee greeted us the next day as she chatted with us about the trip we’d planned for the next six months and assured me the hike we planned wasn’t that rough of a go. We promised to return by dinner time and set off for our hike up Conic Hill. I slipped back into the car and took a deep breath. Ian put a hand on my shoulder and said, “I believe in you,” as I put the key into the ignition and braced myself for another day of driving.
Conic Hill overlooks Loch Lomond and reaches 361 meters (1,184 feet) into the sky above Stirling County. For me, it was indeed a rough go of it and I admit, on the way up I may have composed a small blog post about my experiences hiking with my husband entitled: The Tale of the Antelope and his Water Buffalo Wife. I staggered to the top and looked out across the world in awe.
The feeling of being remote at the foot of the Highlands was somewhat broken by a film crew setting up on the path as we descended, but standing in the middle of the woods at the end of the hike, I felt a stillness in my soul that told me we were doing alright. Our evening in the local pub near Margaret’s was filled with local musicians playing for the joy of a shared pint and my heart filled to the brim with gratitude.
We departed Margaret’s with our stomachs and hearts already missing her warm hospitality. We followed the beautiful coastal road the long way around the westside of Scotland through Lochgilphead up to Oban with a brief stop at my clan’s seat at Inveraray Castle. Oban was our gateway to the Isle of Mull where our hike still remains on the top five of our favorite side trips, harrowing hiking experience aside. The island was gorgeous and quiet in comparison to our next destination of Skye with more sheep and less tourists.
Between Oban and Skye, we followed the major highway into the valley of Glencoe, the site of the Glencoe Massacre and incredible examples of the beauty of the Highlands. Such impressive mountains — they just shoot out of the land and seem to climb forever into the clouds.
We followed our GPS down a small one way road to find the location for the fictional Skyfall Hall in the recent James Bond movie and met a couple of fellow travelers enjoying the bonnie weather. The camper van life is alive and well in Scotland, but after seeing their tracks in the heather and trash on the road, I must agree with some local Scots that unless restrictions are applied, they could damage the beauty we all flock to see.
Our arrival in Skye included the sound of 70 motorcycles on a charity road trip for CSF Leak and let me tell you, following them for miles into Skye was probably the closest I’ll get to the Tour de France experience. We had chosen a small shepherds hut for our stay and pulling up, I was in love already with it’s view over the river, tiny house appeal, and resident heron doing flybys. The sunset later that night sealed the deal.
We spent four nights in Skye which is currently struggling to handle the record number of tourists flocking there annually. Police are known to turn people away at the bridge if they do not have accommodation booked to prevent people from having to sleep in their cars on the side of the road. So imagine our surprise when we initially found Skye rather unimpressive due to the sunshine — it turned the heather a dry looking brown and we weren’t sure what all the fuss was about. Coming back from the central town of Portree our first day, we picked up a female German hitchhiker who told us tales of stunning countryside that neither of us could seem to see in the hills around us which seemed small compared to our recent Glencoe tour. As we drove out to the Neist Point Lighthouse the next day however, our impression changed completely.
Gorgeous greens and epic sea cliffs with frolicking little lambs greeted us and as we returned to our lodging that evening just as the sun was setting, the change in light made all the difference with the heather turning a lush gorgeous purple. Skye was being coy and saving her best performance for the end.
Of course, no visit to the island is complete without a hike through the Fairy Pools. Overrun with tourists and with cars parked along both sides of the single track road for a solid half mile, I immediately understood why our local host told us they’ve never bothered to go. Growing up in a small mountain town that had its own battles with people spreading human ashes over mountain meadows and illegally camping along delicate creek ecosystems, I felt a wave of guilt picking my way along the well-worn path down into the valley. If there were fairies here, I’m sure they’ve long ago fled from the bathing families and tripod-traipsing photographers.
The waterfalls are lovely though and as we waited out the crowds by sitting and appreciating the splendor around us, I reminded myself to be grateful that in the age of the internet when someone could say they’ve seen photos and that’s enough, there are still people who long to see it with their own eyes. I’m no better or worse than the people walking by us — all of us are drinking in the sights to help quench our thirst for what lies beyond. As the last touch of sun lit up the valley, I reminded myself to be kind to my fellow travelers.
And to listen to my husband when he asks for me to take a photo of him on a boulder.
We set out the next day up the North Coast 500 route after a morning tour of the famous Castle Eilean Donan. Much acclaimed, the NC500 route departs from the major highway routes and up into the wild reaches of the true Scottish Highlands.
Cyclists, motorbikes, convertibles, and brave campervans make their way from Skye up to Ullapool and around the top of Scotland with a stop in Durness for the self-acclaimed Best Chocolate in the World.
I was both excited and terrified of this portion of our drive since it was reported to include some of the most dangerous driving in Scotland and also some of the most stunning scenery.
The first day had us turn off the A87 highway onto A890 to go up over the Bealach-Na-Ba Pass which gave us a spectacular view of the valley out to Skye. The road is rated one of the most dangerous for drivers and after braving it on a bright sunny day without a cloud in sight, I can understand why. Originally built in 1822, it features hair pinned turns, steep gradients, and is single track with passing places scattered in a haphazard fashion.
I’ve never felt more like a manual-driving badass.
We had spectacular views the entire day as I quickly exhausted Ian with my exclaims of joy and awe. We pulled into Ullapool feeling pleased with our progress, but ready for sleep only to discover that our lodging for the night was another hour up the road. Grabbing a quick dinner, we headed back onto the road to race against the sun. I’d avoided night driving to this point and I had no wish to attempt it in the middle of nowhere without GPS signal.
The sunset however had other ideas. Fingers of light and a warm strong wind blew across the hills and valleys, transforming the landscape into something unearthly. Ian practically had to drag me back to the car, although the appearance of the dreaded midges helped.
Our host for the evening was a gruff man coincidentally also named Ian who welcomed us with a stern lecture on the dangers of trusting Google Maps for anything related to time estimation when it came to driving in the Highlands. As he served us tea in his dining room, a carload of French youths called to let him know they were still an hour away. He barked at them that it was in fact three hours and while he wished them the best of luck, he wouldn’t be waiting up to greet them since they’d likely arrive after midnight. Ian and I sipped our tea quietly with amused expressions.
“Now then. What time is your ferry tomorrow? 5pm? Right, well you’re properly screwed. You’ll have to leave here by 8am at the latest and even then, it’s a risk. How are you on driving?”
He helped us sort it out, eventually fixing on a 6:30am wake up although there was a tense moment when Ian said, “Well, Google Maps said it should only take about 6 hours.” Our host fixed him with a bushy eyebrowed stare for a moment while I said gently, “Yes dear, but you know, he does live here…”
I felt a small surge of pride later when our host gave a nod of approval after finding out that yes, I did drive manual, yes I learned in the mountains with ice and snow, and yes, we had come across the Bealach-Na-Ba Pass earlier that day without a problem.
You have to earn respect in the Highlands.
The next morning we stumbled downstairs to find Ian had laid out a huge spread of food including real espresso made using a Moka pot (one of my favorite ways to prepare coffee). We tucked in all our stomachs could take, took his last minute instructions for an excellent meat pie shop along the road, and then hit the road.
While our drive from Skye to Ullapool was beautiful and very impressive with grand mountains and sweeping vistas, I have to say the route from our host home in Achiltibuie to Durness was some of the most incredible country I’ve seen in my life and after my recent visit to New Zealand, that feels like saying something.
We followed the coastline on roads that Google insisted didn’t have names, Coop darting amidst cliffs, waterfalls, and hills. Following our host Ian’s excellent recommendation for meat pies at Lochinver Larder, we rolled into town just as the power went out. We took our pies to go cold on the road and continued onto a section known as B869 Drumbeg Road which featured more switchbacks, the odd rogue camper van, and several moments of Ian yelling, “Left! Left! Left!” The Scotch broom was in full display everywhere with tiny little flowers showing their heads dancing in the sunshine. We passed herds of ewes and their lambs, frosty white against the green landscape. As Ian said passing them for the millionth time, “These sheep just do not give a rat’s ass about cars.”
The fear of missing our ferry kept me behind the wheel so I regretfully have few photos of the day, but as we hit the top of Scotland, we got our first taste of standing stones and chills went up my spine.
Despite the fear of god from our host, we arrived several hours early for our ferry and crossed over to Orkney from Gill’s Bay without incident. We enjoyed four nights of glamping at an organic farm on the island, snug in a little eco-lodge.
Orkney was once the center of a major Neolithic population and the locals joke that you can’t scratch the surface of the earth without finding artifacts of their ancestors. The landscape is hauntingly flat and misty with long bridges connecting the scattered islands. We spent each morning in the open air kitchen of the farm with our fellow campers including a very chatty Australian gentleman Ian nicknamed Crocodile Dundee. Ian couldn’t escape the man each morning; without fail Dundee would find him and as Ian attempted to politely slink back to our lodge, Dundee would continue peppering him with history, questions, and politics. Eventually, I’d have to politely interject that we needed to hit the road for the day and Ian would sink into the car shaking his head asking, “Why does he always find me before we’ve had coffee?”
We dove head first into history while at Orkney by visiting the Ring of Brodgar, Maeshowe Tomb and the Tomb of the Eagles. Particularly special moments included was the day we spotted a pod of Orca off the coast of Viking ruins and later on a seal dipping in and out of the waves.
It was incredible to see just how much Neolithic people were doing, running around building and creating architectural wonders hundreds of years before the Egyptians built their pyramids. Our guides told us Orkney was a massive trading center and they’ve found evidence of massive trading going on from the Netherlands, Sweden and southern England.
Turns out Scotland really is the center of the world.
We wistfully waved goodbye to Orkney from our ferry back to the mainland on a rainy Sunday morning and meandered our way down the east coast to Dingwall, a small hamlet just west of Inverness. I was excited for the next home away from home however: a real Scottish castle.
After so much glamping and shared space with hosts in their homes, the sight of a hotel room was heaven, nevermind that the castle wasn’t a castle as much as a country estate and that the “king-sized” bed was actually two twins pushed together. To us, just the fact we could close a door and not extend ourselves socially any further than required was a relief. We devoured heavenly cheesecake, spread out across crisp white sheets, and an enthusiastic bartender happily gave Ian a proper education on how to drink whiskey.
Our eyes and minds were almost overfilled with sights, facts and figures by this point in the trip, but with only one day in the area, we left our castle nest the next day for a day trip to Loch Ness and Urquhart Castle. We dutifully read the info center notes, watched a small film on the Castle’s history, and clapped halfheartedly when the curtains swept dramatically back to reveal the castle ruins through the window. We walked down to the ruins with the crowds of tourists and mid-climb up to a tower, I stopped and looked at Ian.
“I think I’m done with castles.”
He chuckled and nodded with perfect understanding. It wasn’t that I didn’t think it was impressive or that the history of the clan battles over this point of land weren’t without merit — I just couldn’t absorb anymore information. Ian and I are both history buffs. One of our first dates, we’d geeked out together over bagels about the development of naval technology by the Greeks and Romans and how the introduction of fire water changed battle strategies. We’d each cut our baby teeth on castle fortifications, swords, and archery. One more plaque about castle siege tactics and I’d scream.
It was a turning point in the trip for us both. Suddenly, we could say no to another museum or a battleground. We weren’t on vacation, we were living abroad in interesting places. That week was a reminder that we were truly on our own without a return ticket and the pace was what we made it.
If we wanted to write and read all day, then that was our itinerary for the day.
If we wanted to visit something, we’d visit it.
But no one could tell us that we had to do something unless we let them. One of the reasons I’d created this journey was to let that voice that said, “I don’t feel to do that,” get stronger. My declaration that I didn’t need to see another castle was a tiny step in that direction.
We bounced down the road away from Inverness the next day a little drunk on our newly felt power. As we drove around the Culloden Battlefield parking lot searching for an open slot, Ian declared: “You know what? I don’t need to see this. We’re going to essentially walk around a massive field and frankly, I’m okay with the view from here.”
“No problem,” I said and practically peeled out of the exit and took us down the road through the Cairngorms National Forest. It wasn’t out of disrespect to arguably both sides of our personal heritage — it was a small rebellion from the tourists we’d felt we’d become somehow.
The next four days in Aberdeen were spent reveling in doing whatever we wanted rather than what the Top 10 Best lists said. Ian read and outlined new habits he wanted to work on developing like taking an evening walk and writing short stories to submit to online magazines. I finally conquered my Inbox by reducing it to zero and began enjoying writing emails to friends and family instead of avoiding long form digital communication. I read photography blogs and took time to critique my own work.
The West coast of Scotland taught us to be amazed in what nature could create.
The East coast of Scotland taught us to listen to our ourselves.
On our way back to Edinburgh to stay with Ian’s great aunt and uncle, we stopped at the British Falconry School and spent an hour with two beautiful Harris Hawks, learning how they’ve been used in hunting for centuries. Feeling the keenly intelligent eyes of John Boy fixed on mine mere inches from my face sent shivers down my spine. His weight on my gloved hand and response to my movement was like an elegant dance. Although I didn’t want to see what he would do to some poor rabbit, I understood the appeal of forming a bond with these majestic creatures and why they had been so popular with royalty.
Although it’s debated whether Hadrian’s Wall was constructed to keep the barbarians out of civilized Roman territories or just simply as demonstration of a Roman “because we can” attitudes of the day, the fierce but welcoming Scots have guarded their beautiful territory well and even tourism here feels it is on their terms. Getting off the beaten path doesn’t require much effort and having done both, a solid mix of the two seemed to satisfy.
One last terrifying drive into Edinburgh and we handed back Coop’s keys without a shred of regret. Although the road trip had been a long and comparatively expensive leg of our journey, both of us felt a profound sense of satisfaction and gratitude for the time we’d taken.
Suddenly, the dive into non-English speaking countries and complex train and bus routes didn’t seem to far fetched or challenging. We had conquered some fears, settled into a rhythm of travel both of us felt satisfied with, and came away with a deeper respect for one another and what we’d set out to accomplish.
Looking back now on Day 22 from Day 100, it was still the best decision we could have made.
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