Day Ten--The Ferry Dance

This post is post-dated for Saturday, September 8, 2007 (a long time ago!). Pictures to post later…
We drug ourselves from quite good sleep at 5:15 am and were on the road by 5:45. Way too early so we made some quick coffee to take with us. The ferry ride from Stornoway to Ullapool is about 2 ½ hours so after filling the hull with cars and trucks ( I can’t believe the ferry can transport so many huge cargo truck!) we ate breakfast in the cafeteria. Then we went to the lounge and Dave slept on the follow with a rolled up jacket as a pillow, while I wrote and read. We arrived in Ullapool in the northern Highlands about 10 am, to begin or very long day of driving south towards Ayrshire. Ullapool is a cute harbor town. I can imagine it in its hay day as the British empire ships docked here bringing their bounty from far away lands and sailors to boot. It’s a pretty little town surrounded by forests and mountains. Dave and I both remarked to one another how happy we were to be back in the large pine trees and forests. I think the Highlands are our favorite part of Scotland. We love trees—I mean REALLY love trees—and there are a lot of them here. We feel easy and comfortable and at home in very green treed environments. That may sound silly, but the lushness of vegetation has always brought me peace and comfort. In contrast, I feel least comfortable in the desert. In fact, I hate the desert. The drive out west to California is the worst drive ever. Nothing but desert to lead the way. It’s parched, hot and empty. When I think of trees I think of the Ents in the Lord of the Rings. They belong to the landscape and have seen so much change. They are like old, wise friends. If only they could speak what they could tell us! Here in this part of Scotland I’ve noticed they fence in their forests. Or is it that they fence out people? Whichever, we’ve found it interesting that large fences are erected around forest clusters. Our drive towards Inverness was quite lovely. Inverness itself is a fine small city with a beautifully historic town center and buildings lining the river that runs through town and opens onto Moray Firth. I was reminded as we passed the turn off for the Cairngorm mountains and neared Loch Ness, that this part of Scotland likes their “monsters”. Two of Scotland’s most beloved and mysterious monsters live in these parts—Nessie and the Big Gray Man (aka Yeti). As most people know, Nessie is the Loch Ness “monster”. While in a hotel in Sleat I passed some time reading a small booklet about the Loch Ness monster and I have to admit that the evidence for its existence could be compelling. Scholars think Nessie is probably a kind of water dinosaur called a . The depth of Loch Ness itself is about 700 (or more) feet—which for a think long lake is mighty deep. There have been all sorts of sonar equipment employed, and pictures taken, and other scientific study done, and most people still think the reality of the creature is bonafide. Whether it is real or not is not my business here, but I can’t help wanting it to be true. Doesn’t everyone? There’s something so exciting about the thought of a prehistoric creature still living among us, concealed. We only stopped once on the drive that borders Loch Ness—just to snap a shot of Urqhart Castle and the loch beyond. But I kept peering out our car window as we drove south quietly hoping to be that special person that gets a rare glimpse of the monster. Is that so wrong? It was like indulging in a really scrumptious piece of chocolate—I couldn’t help my greater curiosity. But alas, no Nessie. The other great local “monster” is called the Big Gray Man of Ben Macdui. His more general name is Yeti. Yes, that oversized hairy mountain creature that the liked of Reinhold Messner have been hunting for centuries. The lore of the Big Gray Man seems to go back to the 19th Century around here. I’m sure it’s older in toerh parts of the world. One of the books I brought along with me on this trip is an entire book dedicated to the Big Gray Man by a writer who lived near the Cairngorm mountains (the Big Gray Man’s stompin’ ground) most of his life. It’s really a fascinating book without any certain conclusions on his existence. He is supposed to talk the Cairngorm mountain range, and in particular the mountain called Ben Macdui. The story is enough to make me want to venture out tot eh Cairngorms for a backpacking trip! I just love this mysterious kind of stuff , and I think deep down most people do. It connects us with something mythic and extraordinary. If this big foot exists we’ll probably never know. But isn’t it fun to imagine it foes? I thought about all these things as we headed south back towards Forth William where the World Mountain Biking Championships were still on. Dave was hoping to get up for an hour or so to see the competition and maybe watch a glance of the US team, since at least one of the US team member was from our town. But parking was full and they were busing people up to the competition at the Nevis ski resort and so we opted for a quick lunch in town instead because we needed to get back on the road to make it south before night fall. We stopped at Glen Coe again to snap some more shots of the moody mountains. This time we noticed tons of cars parked on the side of the road. Seems with such a great weekend with clear weather brought out everyone from the cities—including all the motorcycle clubs. We passed so many motorcycles it was mind boggling. Dave was jealous and really wanted us to be out there, too. And though I do think it would have been a fun holiday to tour Scotland on a motorcycle, I have to be honest that there were many times it would have been mighty chilly. So anyway, we decided that we might be too pressed for time to walk the Lost Valley trail—as tempting as it was. Glen Coe itself is steeped in Scot history as the place where the Jacobite rebellion led to mass slaughter. The Glen Coe massacre is legendary and, I believe, a rousing point for Scottish pride. Many highlanders were slaughtered here by the English--all over who should hold the crown to the kingdom—William or Charles. Anyway, I’ll let you look up the history for yourself. Give it a quick search on Wikipedia. In 1929 H.V. Morton in his famous book In Search of Scotland wrote this about Glen Coe: “Glen Coe is…awesome, it is stark, it is, like all the wild mountains of Scotland, a lesson in humility. Man has never existed for it; it is, at least in sunlight, not unfriendly so much as utterly oblivious of humanity…. Glen Coe in sunlight does not make a man shudder because it is beautiful. It rather encourages him to sit down and look at it for a long time as you sit down in the sand and look at the Sphinx, wondering what he can see in the sky. Perhaps it is God.” So, as we approached Glasgow we noticed teams of people leaving the city for the countryside. It was a mass exodus of cars, and all the hotels lining Loch Lomond (the closest loch to Glasgow) had “no vacancies” signs out front and full parking lots. I was glad we had spent most of our time in non-crowded locations. Tonight we arrived at Whitestone Cottage, about a half mile or less from the entrance to Culzean Castle and a mile from David’s ancestral castle. Whitestone Cottage’s claim to fame is that it was Robbie burn’s mum’s home. This is Burn’s country in Ayrshire, so all around are places where Burns wrote his poems or gained inspiration for writing them. For those of you unfamiliar with Robert Burns, he is the poet Lareate of Scotland. Almost every town in America with Scot inhabitants—or people of Scot descent—has a Robbie Burn’s Night in January—on his birthday. Even our town has one. So, we stayed at Whitestone—a small cottage that was very sufficient, if a little damp inside. Somewhere along the ways there has been water leaks, so when we entered we felt the dampness. But for one night it was great. The real purpose of staying here was that it was so close to the ancestral castle of the MacIlvains—Thomaston Castle. Not much is known about David’s ancestors. Somewhere along the way MacIlvain was bastardized into McAlvany. But even MacIlvain was a bastardization itself, and way back McAlvany was of the MacBean clan. So we claim the MacBean tartan as our won. Thomaston was passed to the MacIlvains through marriage, but it was thought Thomaston was originally built by a nephew of Robert the Bruce. Thomaston is in ruins, but we were intent on visiting anyway. But more on that tomorrow. My own Scottish lineage is tied to the Hay, Stewart and MacTavish clans. After settling in Dave watched the World Cup Rugby match between the US and England (England won) and I slept. I did catch a bit of the game though and Dave and I laughed at the arrogance of the English Rugby announcers and how they patronized the US team. It was very British of them. I was wiped out from the journey, but we were also hungry and decided to hunt out a feeding ground. So we headed a few miles south of the cottage towards the Turnberry Golf Resort. I knew Turnberry was famous, but being that we are not golfers I hadn’t even considered that it would be near where we were staying. We reached the resort quite by accident, just as the sun was setting. It was marvelous. The sun was gorgeous and the resort itself—set on a hillside—glowed a peachy pink color. We decided to stop there for dinner. We had to wait for a dinner seating, but we put our names in and sat in the Ailsa lounge and had drinks. This was probably the best and most enchanting part of the evening. The Ailsa bar has huge bay windows overlooking the ocean and Ailsa island beyond. Ailsa island looks like a hige lump of an island plopped out into the ocean. Supposedly, it is the best place in the world to quarry lawn bowling stones, but what do I know about these things. There was also a lovely lighthouse on the coast. It was magical with the sun setting and the sky throwing off the most gorgeous peachy hue. We sat there and I had a mint julep and Dave a neat whiskey while a pianist played old standards. I couldn’t have asked for a better evening. We later ate dinner and Dave was in heaven. His favorite food of late is foie grois—which I find repulsive—and they had four dishes with it. Dave had them make a trilogy of the foie grois as an appetizer and then he had one as a main entrée. He had wines to match and we laughed because Dave said that if one wants to make an indecent monetary proposal (i.e., lots of expensive food and drink), it must be preceded by at least 3 whiskeys (he had already had three today between watching the Rugby match and then at the Ailsa lounge). This place was expensive—especially when we calculated the exchange between the pound and the awful dollar (yes, we actually do this kind of stuff). But all’s well that ends well, and this was a terrific ending to a mighty journey. Later that evening we began counting the Americans we crossed at Turnberry. I think the whole of the resort was full of them. Which was ironic for us because they were the first Americans we had really come across on our trip. If you’re American and you love gold this is THE “It” place for you.