Scotland

After a leisurely morning, a partly cloudy and somewhat windy morning greeted us on our first day of trekking. We watched the steam engine arrive and take on water and passengers before chugging away. We spent the next several hours making our way generally north east along a well developed trail that is used extensively by mountain bikers, runners, local people out for a walk, and people like us. The terrain was easy, and our surroundings were quite beautiful, consisting of several varieties of evergreen, scotch broom, gorse, heather, and birch. There were a lot of birds and a few deer. Nearby, the occasional antique steam engine puffed its way along bearing tourists. Our destination

We were in Scotland and so an occasional nip seemed appropriate. Marsha and I came prepared with a small flask, while Scott and Sarah produced one large enough to hold about one and one half liters. While shaped appropriately, it hardly met the definition of a hip flask.

We had yet to see the River Spey, and we wouldn’t encounter a distillery for

another day or two, a

deficit overcome with advanced planning that

included sufficient quantities of that golden liquid that was so elemental to our surroundings. Our destination was Boat of Garten, a small town that boasted a railway stop and our accommodations.

We rose to another day of clouds, some sunshine, a bit of wind, and temperatures in the low 60s. It was ideal for another stroll along Speyside Way. Boat of Garten, with its quintessential name, is a tiny community of less than 1,000 people devoted to people who come for recreation or to visit distilleries. It is charming, surrounded by woodlands and ponds, its citizens clearly devoted to the environment. Adjacent to our accommodations was a station for a steam driven locomotive.

The steam engine operates along the Strathspey Railway, an historic route that runs approximately 20 miles. As we were about to depart, the engine arrived pulling several old cars to take on water under a large hose connected to a water tank that tipped out over the engine. All that was missing was Racquel Welch. We watched them take on water, shovel coal into the furnace, and manipulate dials and levers to move the engine and its cars down the railway.

Our hike was through forest that is ancient, its understory consisting of moss and lichen covered stones and stumps, small shrubs, Scotch Broom, and the occasional tiny wild flower. We encountered numerous bikers, many on e-bikes and very few hikers.

The area is renowned for osprey that were extinct at the beginning of the 20th century but have managed to gain traction again over the past 50 years or so. We had a brief glimpse of one and heard several. The Osprey is almost common in Portland, so it was interesting to see how the restoration of this bird in Scotland has been seen as so important.

We arrived mid-afternoon in Nethy Bridge where we had a bit of trouble finding adequate beer. Marsha and I became safely ensconced in a room designed for disabled adults with a toilet that refused to flush. We dined across the way on mince and tatties, a concoction of bits of beef, potatoes, and vegetables such as turnips touted to be a house specialty and indeed is common everywhere. I remain unimpressed, the beef acceptable but uninspiring, the potatoes what one might expect from an unimaginative cook, and the tatties boiled or cooked in a manner that would discourage the most intrepid eater.

Eggs over easy are unknown in Scotland, and so I faced them in a sunny side up version, yolks cooked hard presenting one with a sodden, sullen mound of yellow, and the whites reduced to a rubbery consistency that lacked taste or character. I don’t really know how they do it, making eggs in such a fashion that no one would ever want them again. On the side were the ubiquitous sausages and bacon, the sausages sometimes decent and the bacon consisting of slices of fried ham. Toast was either white or brown, never buttered, always dry and tasteless. If jam was available, large quantities helped.

At a tasting, the connoisseur of whiskey uses a protocol that begins with a glass shaped like a tulip the bottom of which is filled with a small morsel. The glass is then lifted to the light to observe its color, a pointless exercise in some instances where artificial colors have been added in order to maintain consistency. The dose is then swirled and the glass again lifted to see whether the whiskey has “legs,” dribbling down the side of the glass in strands indicating a more syrupy texture, or not suggesting a lighter or thinner concoction. One then sticks ones nose into the glass to determine hints of citrus or chocolate or nuts or whatever. And, then one quaffs either with two or three little sips or one large gulp. A small water dropper allows one to add a drip of water that is reputed to “open” things up. I confess openly that I am far from a connoisseur, merely one who likes to get enough, or sometimes too much.

We had our own whiskey tasting on the deck at the back of our accommodations in Nethy Bridge utilizing generous pours from Sarah’s version of a hip flask, a container large enough to easily accommodate more than one bottle. If I were to be candid, the tasting experience was eye opening, lasting into the wee hours with much jollity and very little observation of the accepted protocols. Things were ragged the following day.

Breakfast was watery, tasteless scrambled eggs and questionable sausage with toffee yogurt accompanied by thin slices of dry, brown toast. There was coffee along the side that reminded me of Boyds that had been left on the burner until it had adequately thickened. We shared the area with locals who gather there to socialize.

Our walk from Nethy Bridge on the following day led to Grantown-on-Spey, only about seven miles distant. It took us through a mixture of farms, woodlands, and pathways along the River Spey. The scene was entirely bucolic, with small herds of sheep and their odors, the occasional cow, two horses, many birds, and swarms of insects at the beginning. It was late spring with most trees either leafed out or budding. The woodlands were a mixture of pines, birch, and understory. There was an intense green color that seemed to be enhanced by partially clouded skies.

Grantown-on-Spey is a larger community, but our accommodations were quite old. Our rooms were located among a warren of hallways and staircases, comfortable with floorboards that creaked and moaned with every step. Dinner at a downtown establishment was “solid,” mine a pie filled with chicken and gravy accompanied by Vandekamp beans, fries in a small metal basket, and a tiny cup of thick, syrupy gravy whose purpose remained a mystery. At the side of our hotel was a generous sitting area equipped with weathered, beaten down tables and chairs, grass in need of clipping, and access to a nearby park where wood pigeons were a constant presence.

The following morning was not to be a walking day given the distance to our destination and our circumstances. We had great difficulty finding transport to Dufftown, our host trying indefatigably to find a cab. Uber was non-existent, and the only cab driver that could be found had consumed an excess of alcohol the night before and was unable to respond. Eventually, we found ourselves seated all by ourselves in a modern, double decked bus that barreled down the road at a frightening pace and deposited us in Dufftown. We changed buses in Aberlour not far from the distillery of the same name with a picturesque view of a Church of Scotland edifice.

We walked for some distance to the Glenfiddich Distillery at the edge of Dufftown where we each ordered a flight from a list of options that ranged in price from 38 pounds to several hundred pounds. A flight consisted of four tumblers each filled with about one half ounce of a particular variety. Knowing what was expected we all lifted our tumblers to see the color and legs, stuck our noses in there, and then drank. Our samples ranged in age from 12 to 21 years. Interestingly enough, the younger samples were sometimes the best. Not far above the distillery are the ruins of the Balvenie Castle, ancient and once occupied by the Black Douglases.

 

The country side is exquisitely beautiful, with myriad shades of green, gorse in full yellow bloom, birch and pine trees, and the occasional look at the River Spey. There are sheep in small herds. Along our walk to the distillery we came across three large Highland Bulls grazing peacefully behind a barb wire fence.

We became better oriented, getting around the country side by bus and on foot. While taxis and Uber are difficult or non-existent, bus service is very good. And, so it was that we went back down the road to Aberlour where we visited its namesake distillery and sampled three drams of whiskey. One was its 18 year old version, confirming my long held belief that it is exquisite and my sad conclusion that it’s out of my price range.

Whiskey dominates just about everything, and everyone seems to know more than I do. I try to act sophisticated and I try to nod or interject something intelligent during exchanges, but I readily confess that I’m not detecting the apricots, peaches, nuts, or chocolate. I can detect peat, but so can anyone who can smell a campfire. I can also usually say whether I like it, but I’m not certain how far that is getting me in the eyes of the real connoisseurs.

Dufftown is small and picturesque, its structures and homes all built of stone. In the main square is a clock tower similar to those in many of the other small towns or villages we’ve seen. The surrounding countryside is farm or woodlands, bathed in the various shades of spring. Gulls congregate around the distilleries, often in large, cacophonic flocks.

After saying unkind words about Scottish food, we dined one night on excellent fare that included pork belly, prawns, squid, and side dishes such as hummus. In Aberlour Marsh and I shared linguini with prawns that was excellent. There is hope, even in Scotland.

While it’s easy to assume that the Scottish people speak English, there are actually three broad languages that are still used and spoken. They are Scottish English, the language we have encountered most often, Scottish Gaelic, and Scots. The latter two are minority languages, each punctuated by numerous dialects and variations that must surely torment a linguist. In many cases, we speak to people in a form of English easily understood but we’ve had numerous exchanges where one might as well be speaking Latin. Most Scottish speakers, regardless, are colorful and expressive, some exhibiting a certain pleasing lilt. Several men, many who seem to have had a love of the cigarette, speak in a brogue that by itself is entertaining and often unintelligible.

We left Dufftown on our last day of walking using a trail that follows an abandoned railway that once followed the River Fiddich downstream towards its confluence with the River Spey. We gained access to the Balvenie Castle along the way, inspecting its interior with a certain awe and reverence for something so old once occupied and defended. It was a relatively easy stroll. We heard but never saw the famed red squirrel and we were otherwise accompanied by multitudes of song sparrows, finches, wood pigeons, and other birds. The woods were dense with trees, ferns, and where sunlight penetrated wild flowers. Our destination was Craigellachie.

I sampled at lunch and then later in the afternoon two separate cask ales that are typical in the UK, the first a pale, featureless variety served at room temperature, and the second a stout, dark liquid also delivered somewhat warm. They are pumped by a hand lever, arriving without significant carbonation or alcohol content. It would take a significant commitment to acquire a real taste for them. The bars were covered in copper with large arrays of whiskey lining the walls. Lunch included a chicken burger that that was closer to an old, tired rooster while dinner was excellent trout.

Our accommodations were in an old mansion that was elegant, tastefully refurbished and adorned. I could almost imagine what it might once have been. It is reached easily enough by car but for the walkers a perilous crossing of a highway followed by a somewhat steep ascent along a gravel path were required. It was easy enough since our luggage had been earlier delivered,  but this was our last walking day and so our descent to find transport on the morrow would proved to be interesting. We dined in an old mansion with a restaurant at ground level and levels above that led to tasting areas where whiskey of one variety or another could be sampled.

Religion here, like most places in the world, has a long, complicated history. The Church of Scotland, Kirk o Scotland in Scots, became the national church by declaration of the British Parliament in 1921. While not controlled or financed by the government, its churches are commonly seen in the center of towns, often with square, squat clock towers but sometimes with soaring, graceful spires. The Kirk o Scotland, like many other Scottish Protestant denominations, is Presbyterian.

In that context, we visited the ruins of the huge cathedral that was the basis for Elgin being known as the Cathedral City. It was first constructed in the 13th century, an immense structure with three towering spires and possibly a rose window. But, beginning in the mid 16th century it deteriorated leading to collapse of its central tower in 1711 and destruction of its nave. Significant work has been done since then to discover and preserve its long history. Our visit was a fascinating look at what life may have been like here so many centuries ago.

Preconceived notions could lead us to think of medieval Scottish people as being humorless or devoid of imagination or unacquainted with the profane. In a display inside the ruins was a stone carving of a monk peering over the top of a ledge with a look of consternation or curiosity or perhaps lust on his face. He is fully clothed over the top of the ledge, but the curious might kneel down to peer underneath where his fully exposed genitalia are there in a state that leaves little doubt that something naughty was afoot. The creator of the carving possessed a sense of humor but also an appreciation of the irreverent. How very curious that it was a part of this magnificent old cathedral.

We are staying at the Mansion House Hotel, originally Blackfriar’s Haugh. When first constructed in the mid 19th century, it was a grand baronial manor near the Lossie River and at the foot of Lady Hill. Nearly abandoned at one point, it was converted into a hotel near the end of the 20th century.

The following morning, we boarded another bus that took us to Lossiemouth where we looked out over the North Sea. The tide was almost in, but there was almost no surf. Arctic terns nested and flocked, a harbor seal lounged on the beach, small crowds of people wandered about on the sand, and we took a leisurely walk.

Tomorrow we leave for Inverness where will have two nights before our road trip begins and we part ways with Scott and Sarah.

In a spring mist of light rain, we walked to the bus station for a ride southwest to Inverness, the capital of the Highlands. We passed through miles of lush, green fields of row crops and grain, freshly plowed fields that emitted the smell of new soil, and rows of harvested hay waiting to be baled. As we neared Inverness, we drove along Moray Firth that points out into the North Sea. Moray Firth becomes Beauty Firth a bit to the West. The River Ness flows to the North from the famed Loch Ness to pass through the city and into the Firths.

We are safely in the clutches of the Inverness Palace Hotel on the west bank of the River Ness. Across the river is the splendid Inverness Castle, and from the sidewalk we have a stupendous view. Our hotel presents itself as a stately place to lodge, but it’s old, stuffy, and dilapidated. I have a window propped open with a whiskey container and there are signs warning that our smoke alarm will go off if we shower with the bathroom door open.

We visited the castle, a misnomer since it was a courthouse and prison for much of its existence. It’s a grand, well maintained structure that isn’t that old. At one time, there was a large courtroom where justice was administered from a bench where a judge presided beneath high windows designed to allow light and prevent onlookers. Today, it’s used for exhibitions. There were broad vistas of the city and surrounding countryside from the top.

As we have gone further north and now find ourselves in the midst of the Highlands, it is common for things to be written in both English and Gaelic. And, we hear Gaelic being spoken. There is a fierce independence about it all, a clear effort to preserve and promote a language and culture that defines a good part of this area.