Advertisement
Published: February 22nd 2010
This blog is also written by Chris and, of course, edited by me.
“Why on earth would you ever want to go to Scotland?” asked an English friend of Kate's.
We now know the reason why: it's the UK's best-kept secret.
UNESCO calls Edinburgh - yes, the entire city - a World Heritage site due to its impressive architecture, which seamlessly blends modernity with ancient structures. Edinburgh Castle, atop the Castle Rock, is still used as an army barracks and national memorial. Various cathedrals dot the Royal Mile. And we saw everything about 300 meters up after climbing the Sir Walter Scott monument, whose impressive height makes up for the excessively narrow circular staircases that forced me to turn sideways in order to scale them.
Edinburgh is naturally a tourist's haven. Its marketing, in the traditional Scottish spirit, is based on
omnipresent persistence. Every three stores along the Royal Mile sells either kilts, cashmere scarfs, or both. They all stock the same items. They're all priced the same. Clearly the angle is that, while the first fifty-seven stores may not convince you to buy a plush Highland Cow, the fifty-eighth damn well might.
“You're seriously going to Glasgow? Really?” asked pretty much everyone, including the kindly old innkeeper who let our room in Edinburgh and became a wee bit incredulous when we told him our travel plans. Thus, we allotted less than twenty-four hours there. Basically, we walked around and ate dinner. Glasgow was a surprisingly fashionable city, with an impressive number of posh shops. Or at least the people would've looked fashionable if they weren't all bundled up in wool coats.
Next up was Inverness. I'll forever keep with me
three memories of this place (to which Kate and I plan to return in a few years - we were that captivated). First, sailing out on Loch Ness. We didn't see any monsters (except thousands of them... in plush form), but I'll never forget the estates dotting the far side of the loch, waiting for them to pass between the beams that framed the ship's windows.
Only the second thing topped that: we played at Urquhart Castle, spitefully blown up by its last inhabitants so Jacobite rebels couldn't have it. The Scots seem to be entirely cool with random people trampling inside castle ruins and climbing its walls. We also visited Culloden Battlefield, site of the last hand-to-hand combat in Britain's history, which heralded the end of the Jacobite rebellion and the utter humiliation of Bonnie Prince Charlie.
While steeped in history, for the exhibit was quite good (despite the
battlefield itself being covered in snow and ice), we had the following conversation:
“That Prince, he pretty much seems like a giant jackass, doesn't he?” I mentioned to Kate, after reviewing the fact that nearly every single one of his advisers told him he couldn't defeat the Brits' troops by marching about half of his underfed, underpaid, exhausted men through a swamp at night.
“Yep,” she murmured, “sure does.”
It turns out Prince Charlie's greatest claims to fame, aside from general jackassery and losing battles (and ensuring the Scots were not allowed to wear kilts for some time) was that he became the world's most famous cross-dresser. In order to escape England and flee to France, he dressed up like a maid. Naturally, France loved this and he became a celebrity there.
The final memories from Inverness concern its eating establishments. Random points: McDonald's in Britain is not only edible but delicious; Cadbury actually makes more than creme eggs; some restaurants bring flowers to girls on Valentine's Day, ensuring you don't have to; and sketchy-looking Italian restaurants located only on the second floor of a building, after climbing stairs flanked by flashing blue Christmas lights, are
we found Nessie!
she was hanging out in a pond in Drumnadrochitfronts for the Scottish mafia.
(My theory? The business is only a front! The food is meant to deter customers!)
We had dinner at Casa Italia. The undercooked garlic bread, which tasted like ashtrays, rivaled the barely cooked veal covered with cheese shavings that I had. Still, even though the food was horrible, we ate quickly and quietly because two burly men behind us carried on a conversation. Naturally, we were the only ones in the establishment.
“My friend, he will be here,” glowered the large Scot.
“He had better be, for his sake.” The second Scot was sure of himself, but demonstrably less sure of his soup. I saw the entire thing go down in the reflection of the electronic - not electric - fireplace hung on the wall, broadcasting a static image of a roaring fire.
We scrammed pretty quickly and started packing for France instead.
Back to Kate: I cannot believe Chris left of one of the most important (and perhaps scarring) moments of this trip. HE MADE ME EAT HAGGIS! And not just one bite. Oh no. He made me eat TWO WHOLE BITES. I'm not sure I
will ever forgive him for that. For those of you who aren't well-versed in Scottish food, haggis is chopped up sheep heart, lung, and liver mixed with oatmeal and spices and cooked in the sheep's stomach. Ours was served up with neeps and tatties (mashed turnips and potatoes). While it wasn't as horrible as I was imagining, I can guarantee you that I will never, ever be eating that dish ever again. I suppose that was payback for me not letting him buy a kilt. Skirts for men are just not practical in Scotland in February!
Advertisement
Tot: 0.122s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 17; qc: 68; dbt: 0.0664s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
Aunt Marie
non-member comment
Kate-I can see you two are quite a pair. Have fun-got your postcard.