The Scotland Travelbog

Uh . . . Blog

Or

How we survived the rampant stanchions of Heathrow Field and got on the AFC bus

How we visualized it:  Grab an energizing nap on the red-eye flight from Portland to London, hop off at Heathrow airport, toodle over to our gate to board our plane for the short hop to Edinburgh and arrive bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

The Reality:  AYEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! Two movies, three crossword puzzles,four apologies to our neighbors in the row behind us, and a decent airline meal (a cuisine d’oxymoron) eaten, we did indeed touch down in London nine hours later. Only to find:

We are several miles of hallways and a diabolical series of mazes created by an infinite number of stanchions and belts away from our connection.

We also got another reality check. The gate number for our short hop to Edinburgh wouldn’t be posted until half an hour before the flight. Which meant we had to plop down and keep an eye on the reader board. Luckily the professional conversationalist of our team (right, Carolyn) found a customer service representative and wheedled the information out of him early. We arrived in plenty of time to hop on a bus to an entirely different terminal and scramble aboard the plane.

After being overcharged for the cab ride to the Edinburgh hotel we went comatose for ten hours and, after breakfast, grabbed a cab to catch a train to Glasgow, where we’d join our tour group. This cabbie was honest (informed us we’d been ripped off by the airport taxi driver) and helpful. Armed with his advice we hopped on a commuter train and settled in to watch the Scottish countryside whiz past us. 

Personally, this was one of my favorite parts of the trip. As you may know, one of the Nettleton-Rose travel rules is that Mike gets a train ride and a boat ride on every vacation. Since this was a commuter train, we stopped at eight or nine quaint little stations for people to get on and get off. At the terminals there were helpful signs such as these.

Farther than “far out!!!” Waaaaay Out! Groovy, man. This was our first exposure to the different road signage in Scotland. We would have said “exit.” Of course it’s always useful to know a “way out.” Especially if trapped in a room with Donald Trump and J.D. Vance.

What else did we see along the way?

Sheep. More sheep than I will see for 

the entire rest of my lifetime. It's baaaaa'd you know.

As if by magic, it’s Friday and we’re enjoying walking the streets of Glasgow. We discover a Tesco (treats!!), several charity thrift stores, and our favorite restaurant of the trip: Café Antipasti.

We share several small plates and one has a red sauce that Carolyn claimed was among the best ever.

On Saturday we joined the tour group for a walk-through of St. Mungo’s Church.

Inside was every bit as garish as some of the stately homes.

St. Mungo is Glasgow’s patron saint and the prevailing honorary saint of legumes. That evening we had dinner with the tour group. (Lovely folks) We met Ken and Heather who became constant companions.

On Sunday the bus took us to The Isle of Bute and the stately home known as the Mount Stuart House. 

Proving again that nothing succeeds like excess, this tribute to the obscenely wealthy thumbs its nose at  peasants scrabbling for the last turnip in the garden. Me, cynical? Hell, no.

Monday takes us to the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. I'm pretty sure Rob, our fearless bus driver took the high road. 

In the afternoon we move on to Eilean Donan Castle. This AFC 

is unique because it occupies its own island. 

Speaking of Islands, the next day (Tuesday, for those marking their scorecards) finds us crossing a spectacular bridge to The Isle of Skye. 

Our AFC for the day was called Donvegan. Medieval  and totally free of dairy products and eggs. (Lame Scottish joke 23 in a series of 87. Collect them all.)

In Portree we visited the local chippy for a massive hunk of fish and crispy potato chunks. Portree is a scenic little town. Here are some of the harborside homes.

 We spent Wednesday night at the Gairloch Hotel in (anyone, anyone?) Gairloch.

 Impressive exterior. Tiny bathroom. We toured Inverewe Gardens and donated more pounds and pence to local souvenir vendors.

No trip to Scotland would be complete without seeing at least one of these. 

Yes, that is one hairy cow. Or, as the Scots so cleverly say it a "hairy coo." Officially it's a Highland Cow. Fred, to his friends.

Whew!!! I'm exhausted from revisiting the first half of our trip to Scotland. Carolyn will be along to narrate the second part. But first. Dia dhaoibh ar maiding. Which is Gaelic for "I am so outa here". Or possibly just "Hello."

(Clarification. AFC is initialized shorthand for "Another Feckin' Castle.")