Palermo - Primo Giorno - Benvenuto a` Palermo!

I sprang out of bed on Friday like a shot, at 7:15. The alarm may have helped. I had it set to 'obnoxious'.

What a week! 10-hour days, trapped in a dungeon, guard and all, working my way to the weekend, both hoping and dreading today's arrival. I planned to mail my receipts off to Phoenix, and ship myself some of the souveniers I had accumulated over the past few weeks, so that I could give them to the kids and whomever else was deserving upon my return. OK! I bounced out of bed, killed the alarm, and had my tea. While it was cooling, I went through my bags to make sure that I hadn't forgotten anything. I sent my contact at home a quick text to make sure that the package would be well-received (no problem). And what the heck was he doing up at 2:40 anyway? I also wasn't sure if the hotel would kick me out when I closed the receipt, so I wanted to be prepared and fully packed in case I had to lug everything around town.

Adrenaline coursing, assisted by the tea-kick, I jumped into the shower, grabbed my pack, gave the room a once-over, twice-over, and screeched to the hotel front desk. Parking validated, I hopped impatiently in the next line, Inglesi [I will use this, it's shorter and less clumsy than "Englishmen/women" or "English people" and less formal than "the English"] eyeing me, like, "Mate, ..." Didn't care. Stuff to do, stuff to do... The checkout line finally parted, and I asked in my best New York accent wheyuh da pohs tawffis wuz. (-eyuh will be my triphthong for that uniquely New York ending of "where", "there", "hair", ...). Naomi tittered behind the desk and directed me to "Doubleyou Haitch Smith" on the high street. I got my sheaf of hotel receipts, made sure of my reservations for next week, was told they would be happy to print my itineraries, and was allowed to stay in the room even after I'd closed it out. What a great group of ladies! I bolted out the door, ran across the street (yes, looking RIGHT, then LEFT), and muscled, huffed, and puffed my way the three blocks to the High Street, backpack full of receipts and tourist crap from Wales, Scotland, and England weighing me down. But not for long! I got to the five and dime and noted the line outside. Dum de dum... I had plenty of time to spare, so I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Starbucks, a welcome change from my typical vending-machine fare at work. Plus, Starbucks is the only place I have found that has actual drip-coffee, as opposed to americano. I usually do the acrid espresso bite of the americano, but I was in an 'American' state of mind today, getting ready to go to the airport, show my passport, and the like. So I pushed through the familiar green-and-brown doors, glanced around the comforting yet plastic decor, noting the bright green mermaid-adorned aprons which clad the college students working the bar. I guess the UK missed the memo on the big apron switcheroo that happened last year, to brown. "Good morning," a friendly but acne-ridden teenager piped up, "What can I get for you?" I ordered a venti coffee and a crumb cake. When I looked in the bag later (outside back in front of the five-and-dime), I discovered that I had received a venti coffee and a coffee cake. No crummies. That's all right. I like both. Sigh.

I ate and drank, quite gauchely, in the American fashion, I gathered, from the expressions of the Cheltenhamians waiting alongside me at the W.H. Smith entry. Well, it's not like I offered them any! Maybe I should have.... I dusted the odd coffee-cakey flakes off my jacket just as the manager was opening the portculli guarding his shop. The crowd bolted (well, an English bolt, more like a riot-in-single-file) in, eager to get their chores out of the way. I, however, knew that I had yet another half-hour until the post office counters opened, so I leisurely (right!) finished my coffee, flung my rubbish in the street bin, and made my way into the main store. W.H. Smith is all over the place in England. Every airport has apparently at least two, every town at least one. I bet they're owned somehow by the "Virgin" conglomerate. Ha! They are 75-25 partners in the Virgin record megastores, just looked it up. Anyway. I wandered about, instantly dazed, trying to figure out why candies were next to asthma inhalers which were next to wrapping paper which were across from different candies. I eventually found the packing supplies. Bubble wrap, ginormous envelope, medium box, tape, ... That's about it! Juggling my goods, I asked a helpful-looking older stockeuse where I might find the post office counter. She directed me upstairs, which had me tapping my foot on the escalator and humming. Oh. Yeah. Whistling and humming does not happen in England. Unless I am around. Got to the PO counter, behind which there were five clerks readying their tills. I asked James, the one closest to the small prep table that thoughtfully was set up before the queue marker, if I might borrow his stapler. He *saluted* me and bowed and handed me the stapler. Oh. Kay. Thanks. Got the receipt packets together, stapled, numbered, bundled, and in the bigass envelope. Taped. Addressed. Done. Onto the goods... I had a 2-foot table for an 18-inch box. Augh! I went into a frenzy of wrapping and packing, bent useless staples, tape unstuck from every edge of the table, popped and pooped bubble wrap, ripped and wrinkled bags, folded and crumpled giftshop receipts, scraps of cardboard from the box panels, the odd teabag or granola bar wrapper escapee from my backpack, all eventually spilling out onto the floor, creating a constellation of pure American presence. I stuffed that box as full as possible, taped the sh*t out of it, wrote my address at the HI and Zyg's address in Palm Harbor in the proper places, in the requisite BLOCK CAPITALS, with my purple-assigned Sharpie. Thanks, Mike, for that.

Backpack repacked with my rubbish, the extra bubble wrap left for the next needy soul on the assembly table, and all my goods' barcodes ready for scanning at the register, I picked up the envelope and box and queued up, behind the four folks who had arrived to witness my pirhouette of inefficiency. James came back around the bulletproof post office barrier to retrieve his stapler, as he was ready to open. I handed it to him, over my forearm with a severe nod, and then thanked him again, with a little bow of my own. I got called by register #5. Cashier #5 seemed like a nice older lady, and she was extremely helpful. I put the postage for the envelope (airmail, about 3 GBP or so) on the work cc (yes, a swipey card, but she was all over it after a little tutoring from the supervisor). Well, that was 20 minutes I'd never get back. We chuckled about how long the computer took and the fact that she had to walk across the back of all the other cashiers, down to Cashier #1's station to mail anything in a POST OFFICE. On to the box! I weighed it (3.6 kilos). My goodness! Cashier #5 wasn't sure if she could even mail something that heavy. Let's see... 10 days, no. 15-day? No. Ah, we can send it by sea. It would be 6-8 weeks, and about 47 GBP. WHAT????? The time didn't really bug me, because I wasn't going to be home until April most likely, and wouldn't see the girls until a week or so later, but $75 to mail about 8 lbs? At the longest/cheapest? I don't even think there was $75 worth of stuff in the box! One fourth the weight was due to things I'd appropriated gratis like guides, ticket stubs, etc. She assured me that if I kept it down to 2 kg or less I could ship the smaller parcel for 21 GBP, but faster [Still 42 GBP for my 3.6 kilos worth of stuff]. WHAT??? I'm pretty sure that US Mail ships 4 lbs for about $15 overseas. I know I sent a friend in Germany a 4-lb box PRIORITY for about that, not too long ago. Oi veh. Just charge me, #5. No big deal. And walk over to #1's station to do it. I escaped from the WH Smith and made my way back to the hotel, somewhat relieved. That's 8 lb less stuff I have to figure out how to pack in my bags! Got on the Internet and emailed the front desk my documents to print [Don't ask why I had to do it this way]. I went downstairs with my luggables, got Zoe to print out the confirmation documents, and I was off! On my way out, again!

The drive to Stansted Airport felt longer than it should have, but it went pretty well. I got petrol in Cheltenham before I left, and although I had to go through Oxford to get to Stansted, I resolutely routed around the town because I didn't want to spoil my experience the next weekend. The radio and traffic kept me nicely comatose for the 2 1/2 hours it took to drive to the airport. I got to Stansted reasonably early, about 1:45 in the afternoon for my 4:15 flight, but I figured better early than late. Parked in Pink Elephant (long-term), the pre-reservation worked well, took the shuttle bus to the terminal, and parked myself at Caffe Ponti with a nice hot bowl of pancetta and bean soup, a BLT on honeygrain bread, and a coke-zero. Good enough. I figured I wouldn't be eating until about 10-1030 *if* I could find any food (Scotland arrival and the Burger King 'meal' haunting my GI system). I got my boarding passes, then wandered around Stansted looking for a couple of silly pins for the Chucks. Eventually, 2:30 came around and I went through security, running my pack through the xray machine and giving the attendant my plastic baggie with the toothpaste, deodorant, mini-mouthwash, dayQuil gelcaps, and emergency asthma inhaler. All went smoothly. I was half-anticipating a disaster. I'd read the horror stories about Ryanair on the Internet review site and just winced whenever I looked at the Departures monitor. Sure enough, I saw Palermo flash yellow and go to a 15-minute delay... Oh, wait! It went back to normal! Hm. I went through the international departure area (no attendant at the UK outgoing border, surprisingly) and made it to my gate, with plenty of time to spare. I queued in the Non-Priority-Q area, near what appeared to be a group of Sicilians! Ha. Let's see if I can describe this without playing into stereotypes.

First off, we (people of Mediterranean ancestry) tend to have a far darker complexion than most of the Inglesi I have seen and met. So there's a clue. If you are in England and see a group of Caucasian people who are significantly darker than most of the others you have seen recently and clustered (packed) tightly in a group, you might assume they are of a Mediterranean group, or at least a group familiar with the idea of close contact. If you know about cultures, you might guess they were Greek or (southern) Italian. I think that's reasonable. Second, of course, if you are familiar with it, you would recognize the Italian language being flung back and forth, with the aid of hand gestures where appropriate, between members of the first huddle, from the first to the second, from the second back to the first, from the first via the second to the end, from the end to the people at the vending machine 15 yards or more away, ... Wow! At least it sounded like Italian. With a few twists, maybe, softer 'g's and a little more elongation on the vowel sounds than the audio course I'd had, which was a little 'clipped'. But the elongation could have been an exaggeration due to the excessive volume. I was sure I'd find out. So I was in the line, between cluster 2 and cluster 3, in amongst the fair-skinned folk of Winter, who had a great deal more space between them. Even queued.

I observed the groups in turn and was pleased! I thought ahead to my forthcoming sojourn with these intimate, passionate people, moaning about soccer and children and parents to (apparent) strangers, and felt a little fuzziness spread over me. Whoohoo! Behind me in the line was a pink, blond girl (about 22), and behind her was a dark, short older lady, who seemed to be fuming about something. She placed her hand on the young girl's shoulder and demanded "Scusa, dovelagented'lbiletto?" I have never seen a more panicked person in my life. She went from pink to transparent green. The older (Italian) lady crinkled her frown into what was supposed to be a smile and repeated the question a little slower, a little more formal, and with some accompanying hand gestures: "Dov'e 'l'agente del biglietto?" I sort of understood the first time, and I definitely understood the second time (Where is the ticket official). I sort of shifted my feet: "Signora, gli agenti non sono qui adesso. Deve aspettare. Le posso aiutare?" It wasn't quite right, I don't think... But she got it. Wow! My first Italian words not to myself or in text form! Yay! She decided I couldn't help her, and followed my gesture to the front desk. She demanded something of me, and it was a LONG sentence... I thought from context she was asking me whether I would hold her place in line when she went to talk to the Ryanair people. I asked her to show me her ticket (Non la capisco, ma ... per favore, fa vedere il suo biglietto a me). I saw the 'Priority-Q' stamp on it, so I motioned her to that place. I had to point at the words on the ticket, and then at the sign and (very short) line for priority boarders. She grinned and arrivederci'd me and the girl and sashay'd over to the other line. It looked like she ended up next to another Italian lady, so they talked for a while. Well, that went well. "Um, don't speak Italian?" I said to the younger girl. She replied "No, not a bit." It turns out that Henny (whose name I got a little later on) was off to visit an Internet friend in Palermo. She'd gotten a school break and decided to cave in to the Italian charm (OK, I'm making that part up). Seriously, why not? It was a great time of year to get the hell out of Germany, which is where she was from, so seemed like a good plan to me! I told her so, and I also complimented her English, which was way better than mine. That seems to be a pattern in Europe. Everyone speaks English better than me. I also realized I can't hear German accents, they're too natural to me. Thanks, Dad!

We eventually boarded the plane, on time, more or less, and got seated. I ended up next to a couple of English ladies, on holiday together. They'd been to Sicily before (Palermo), and decided to go back for a second shot to Corleone and Siracusa for their 2-week holiday. Neat! The lady in the middle seat regaled me with stories of her trips to Kazhakistan (she'd just gotten back) and the U.S. for her work. She also gave me a few pointers on dealing with H.R. (yeah, so watch out, work!) because that was her position. And I remember neither her nor her companion's name, which is a real shame, because they were both truly lovely conversationalists. The lady in the window seat toyed with the idea of ordering a Ryanair pizza (which both the lady in the middle and I chastised her pretty roundly for - we were on the way to ITALY). Eventually, there was a lull between the Kazakh stories and my Alaska and Cheltenham and France stories, and I fell asleep. I awoke as we were 'nearing' the Palermo airport, or so the announcement indicated. Descent was fine, landing had a very loud ripping squeal come from the front landing gear, as well as a tremor and shake which rocked the plane. But it was ok after about 10 seconds, and we trollied up to the gate. The flight attendants prepared for debarkment in short order. We filed off the plane, and as I stepped off the ramp onto the airport 'ground' (runway), I felt the familiar tingle and rush, a little more pronounced than usual. This wasn't just a new, different place, this was a special place.

Shuffled across the border (another tingle saying 'grazie' to the guard!!!), stamped and herded through the gates, I continued on through the 'Arrivals' area of the Palermo airport. I looked for signs saying 'Pullman' or 'Autobus', which would direct me to the fastest, safest, and cheapest (!) way into town. I threaded through the multitudes of people hugging, kissing, and crying on each other as their long-lost relatives came home at last. I mean, it had probably been *weeks* for most of these people. Drama drama drama. Hahahaha. Now I know where Mom got it from. A little sadness bit me just then. I had no family waiting to see me on my arrival. I'd never met any of that side except my Aunt, toward the very end of my mom's life, and my Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle, near the beginning of my life. I sighed and passed a hand over my face. Ah well, the insistent signs (in *Italian*!!!) directed me out the door, past the taxi stand, down a very dark sidewalk-alley (a little creepy!), and into an area with a couple of benches and a list of times. I had 'lost' an hour flying, so I looked at the bus times and checked my watch, and saw that a bus would be here pretty shortly. Hooray! I sat on the bench, enjoying the warm weather (probably about 60 degrees F). Oh crap! I don't have any money! Dammit! I ran back to the terminal, cursing the currencies in Europe. How did people do this before the Euro? Then I chastised myself... I have made some pretty strong statements regarding the demise of culture in Europe as tied to money - no more franc, no more lire, no more mark, ... soon, no more pound. All right, grumble grumble... I ran in the arrivals level and looked around, no ATM! Up the stairs to departures... Damn! Damn! Hey, there was a girl in the information booth... 'Scusi, Signora, dov'e la machina de... non so la parola! Di ... ehrm ... soldi?' She smiled, 'C'e un bancomat.. BAN-CO-MAT.. li, li.' She pointed at a softly glowing red "Banco Sicilia - Bancomat" sign. Yay! I breezed through the menu and got some funny-money - Ha! I didn't see a notice of a surcharge, so I just grabbed the cash and receipt and ran back to the bus stop, almost bowling over a couple of Inglesi along the way. "Scusi! Prego!"... Up into the bus, 5.60 euro to the driver, I stumbled on 'centi' (cents, also 'hundreds'). I wanted to use Fritalian 'centimi'. Hee hee. Money money money. The plural of 'cent' in Italian is formally 'cent', according to the official currency site. Ah well. I got on the bus and plopped down next to Henny. The middle-seat lady came on and plopped across the aisle from me. Window-seat had decided to take the train instead of the bus. We had a couple of interesting conversations with middle-seat's bus neighbor, at the opposite window, who was an American au-pair working in Sicilia, and we talked about Henny's small home town in Germany. Nice quick ride. It was very dark, so there was nothing to distract us from the conversations. We started making stops, eventually, after about 30 minutes (it's 30 km or so from the airport to downtown Palermo). My new au-pair friend mentioned that since I was hungry (I had mentioned it, twice), I might want to get off at Piazza Politeama instead of Stazione Centrale, because the theater district would be a better source of food, or partying if that was what I had in mind. Ha! I assured the ladies that I was going to get some food at a decent hole-in-the-wall (hopefully!) and leave the partying to others, or to a longer stay. I didn't want to lose 3 hours the next day to a hangover.

We pulled into the P.za Politeama stop, and middle-seat, au-pair, and I bustled out of the bus, the ladies getting their bags from the undercarriage - nothing stolen. I bid them adieu (arrivederci) and they wandered off, one to the west, the other across the piazza for the next bus. I gazed at the Teatro Politeama for a while, it was lit pretty well from the street and the few roof lights, the horses coursing out into the night sky, definitely a presence in the Piazza, but I definitely wanted to see it during the day. Turning southward, I followed the au-pair's suggestion, heading along via Maqueda, toward downtown. Sure enough, not more that 5-8 minutes later, I came upon Teatro Massimo. Wow! Massimo indeed. The thing was huge! Opera must be a BIG deal around here, pun intended! I don't think it was as big as l'Opera in Paris is, but man! The way it was offset, and the curves of the building, under the soft-amber/golden lights. It hulked and gracefully arched at the same time. I was going to learn that that was a hallmark of Palermo - its paradoxes in architecture. Breaking myself of the trance, I continued an alley or two further south, and picked a suitably dark but well-populated one, with chairs and tables spilling out into the streets, gelato-eaters and wine-swillers raucousing up the evening. There should be a good place down this one, I thought. I knew what I was getting. In Italia, pizza, primo, presto. I kept walking, passing a few likely suspects, and then an open kitchen. An old dude shouted 'He, signore! Volete mangiare ?" "Oui-SI!" Only slightly more hungry than mortified, I followed him around the front and then the back of the kitchen, into the restaurant. A shabby, balding, cheesy-moustached maitre d' type seated me, glanced around nervously, and ran back to the entryway. The back one. Perfect. Probably waiting for the 'cleanup' crew. He eventually came back with water and a slight tic under his right eye. I ordered una pizza vegetariana and un 'mezzo' del vino rosso. (Half-carafe, about 2 - 2 1/2 glasses). I swear, he YELLED the order for the pizza 'Paulo! Una Pizza Vege!" "No, no! Vege!" "VegeTARIana!" His voice obviously carried out the door, through the alley, and in the door to Paulo. 5 minutes later, in a little more disheveled state, the maitre came back with the wine and plumped the carafe down on the table "ecco!" "Posso?" I doubletook. Oh... the water! "Oui-SI, puo! Grazie!" "Prego..." He wandered off, distracted. The diner next to me had jerked his head up at the French. "He, bonjour!" he said. "Bonjour, " I replied cautiously. The guy rapid-fired French at me in a very pointed accent. He was Edouard, Eduardo here, or Edua, or Pinche, a Senegali, evidently, working here in Palermo as a dishwasher. I thought I was holding my own, but not too well, when he surprised me with a 'ainsi, es-tu francais?' I nearly spat. 'Euh... non, je suis americain. Gerhard.' Wow! Now that was a compliment!

The pizza arrived, and Edouard ran off to the kitchen, mealtime done. He had mentioned that they should be picking up very shortly with the after-opera crowd, and the boss (maitre d') was tasked with waiting for some kind of delivery. Uh huh. I dug in, knifing and forking it. A 12-inch piece of absolute perfection. Chantrelles, buffalo cheese, sweet red pepper, red onion, tangy blackish/purple olives. That was it, and not much of the toppings or the cheese. The crust was well-done, almost black on the edge. Heaven. Unexpectedly thin - I had been told to expect focaccia in Sicilia. And this was thin as a cracker, but pliable and chewy under the crispy. Oh my gosh. I was *sad* when it was gone. I ate the crust. I would have eaten the crumbs. I finished my second glass of wine and poured myself the half remaining. "Posso?" I realized he was motioning to the now-empty plate. "Si, si, puo, grazie, signore." I felt goooood. About 10 minutes later, I went exploring for the dude, because I needed caffe and gelato! He was still pacing around outside, looking down the alley very anxiously. "Scusi, signore, posso otenere del dolce?" He turned as if struck. "Prego, prego..." He dragged me back in by the hand, lightly tapped it, and sat me down. He asked me what I would like. I asked for gelato di cioccolata and un caffe doppio. He nodded and dashed off, no yelling, came back in like 45 seconds with both. I did like a double take and was too stunned at the speed to even say grazie. He ran back to the front. Okay... I ate the gelato. Not so great, it had some ice chunks in it. The caffe was excellent though, perfect offset to the wine and a good kick to get me moving. Which I did. I tracked the man down again (not too hard to do), and saw that some guests had arrived in the front, two tables worth, about 4 each, in the past 10 minutes or so! I told him I had to go, and the pizza was wonderful! He nodded and gave me the bill, unfazed that I had to chase him down. 20 euro, even. I was a little suspicious at the 'even' part, but paid and tipped 20%. Why not? Overall, great success! I grabbed my pack, buona notte'd the new guests, silently wishing them luck with this odd, but mostly-nice guy. I hoped his 'delivery' was a success. Back to the Teatro!

I had read on the Internet that one does not hail a cab in Palermo, one goes to a taxi stand. Since I was not familiar with the bus system, and I am somewhat familiar with the way cities work, I figured there was a taxi stand at the Teatro Massimo. Sure enough! After a suitable 5-minute awestruck dumbness at the majesty of the thing, I found a likely dude leaning up against a minivan, smoking. "He, ciao!" I said, picking up on the lingo (he was ok with it, evidently, probably gets He'd all day). I asked him "Quant'e per l'Holiday Inn?" He told me, 16 euro. I gnashed my teeth internally. I had figured it was about 2 or 3 km to the HI. OK, ok... I'll splurge it. "Bene!" "Bene?" he asked, sort of shocked. He let me in the front and I clambered on in, tossing my pack in the back. He started off in Italian, then after a glance in the mirror, saw the French pin on my bag. "Tu parles francais?" he asked excitedly. Sigh. Yes, and English too. We talked mostly in Italian with a few French words thrown in. I learned Inghilterra, and stumbled over his 'doppo' (after, but he defined it as 'apres'). It was a great ride, mostly him quizzing me about the US and England. I told him he must look me up when he got to Disney World, and gave him a card. Marco, nice guy. He gave me his email and phone in case I needed a cab later on in the weekend. Ciao! He got a 20 from me.

Finally. I stumbled graspingly into the HI lobby. Buona sera! Confirmed my reservation, got the key, denied the breakfast... I did ask if 15-20 euro was reasonable for Teatro M to here. The clerk said it's usually 15 during the day, 20 at night. So I did ok. Relatively. I buona notte'd my way out of there. Got into the room and slammed/bolted the door and plugged in/turned on the computer. Wifi, no problem, perfect! Email check, quick call to the girls...

"Guess where I am? Oh... you guessed."

Ha. A good good day.



Album link: Facebook "Sicilia - Mamma Mia!"

[GJF: Written 4 Feb 2009.]

Dollar, Scotland - Castle Gloom and Dollar Glen

I woke up on Sunday at 7:15, galvanized to go. I ran out with the nonessentials to the car. Well, I say 'ran' but it was more like skating and sliding across the frozen car park. On the way back in, I reassured the lass at the desk that I wasn't quite ready to check out just yet, and grabbed a coffee to take back to the room while I puttered around with the shower and getting dressed and cleaned. I had packed the stupid deodorant in the car! Dammit! I got my backpack and the plastic bag with the rest of my stuff together and hustled to the desk, checked out (no swipey needed, no additional charges beyond the deposit), slipped and skidded back out to the car, and chucked my stuff in the trunk. I fished out my deodorant and froze my nipples off deodorizing (it was -1 (30 F) out!). Brrrrrr! I jumped in the car, cranked it, and planned my day as it warmed up.

Not that there was that much to plan. I had wanted to drive over to Dollar, the town below Castle Gloom, about 12 miles to the east of Stirling, right along the A91. From there, I would tour the Castle and if I had time, I'd walk up and down one or the other of the Glens surrounding it. I let the car warm up. According to my thermostat, it was exactly freezing out. Well, hopefully it would warm up a little bit. I didn't think the Castle would be more than an hour or hour and a half, and a 'glen' didn't sound all that imposing... (Ha). I popped the car into gear and took off, north, then east. The road was clear and the Highlands were misty. A perfect brisk morning. Snow on the hills, a little dusting on the sides of the road... Ahhh. I passed through a couple of small towns, most of the people I saw either pulling into churches or wandering around in front of churches. Small towns, happy people, travelling to be inspired... like me! 12 miles of speed-limit-50, then 30, then 50, then 30, then 50, then 30... Aha! A sign, turn left... NOW!

I followed the small streets through Dollar north to the castle. And when I say small, I mean that a standard bus would have filled the walled street. Dollar is OLD. Stone half-walls crowded either side of the streets as I got closer to the Castle. Wait a minute, what did that sign say? Park here, but additional parking 550 m further on? Well shoot, I can go park closer! What's a little slush on the road? I was in upstate NY for 10 years, right? Wrong. I should learn: castles are built on very STEEP mountains or hills or sheer rocks. Yeah. OK, I made it about 300 meters up the hill, until the slush got about an inch and a half deep. Then I stood still, then I started sliding backwards. I'm sure I mentioned the road was almost exactly a car and a half wide? With rocks on the one side and a fence made of *twine and furring strips* on the other side (the side steeping down to the glen, rocks, and water 30 yards below)? I thought I did. So I did what any red-blooded American man would do who had rolled a car off a mountain before (not in this blog, sorry). I pressed the brakes down, turned the wheel, pulled the parking brake, and put the stick into neutral. I slid back a little, then settled. I guess enough snow and slush got under the tires to stop my descent. The slope wasn't that steep, probably 15-20 degrees. Right. I did not see any way to turn around, so I decided on the slide-slowly-back-down-and-change-my-underwear-later ploy. I slid, 3 yards, ok, enough! Stop. Turn wheel. Start another slide. 5 yards! Too much, fence too close! Brakes. Still sliding... Stop. I proceeded in this fashion until I got to a small notch in the road. I slid-backed in (didn't ding any of the boulders on the side of the road), and had enough room to turn about. Great. Now I was sliding headfirst, slowly, down the hill. At least it took the pressure off the steering, that was a plus. I got back to the lower car park and settled into a parking spot. Ok, I walk from here. Checked the Chucks. Ok, I walk through the glen from here, no way these are gonna make it on slushy concrete. D'oh! I should have 'Scotland is a wee bit moist n muddy' tattoo'd on my palm. I had a perfectly good 'new' pair of running shoes in the trunk. But I'm a little stubborn. And a little sentimental. Those hitops have seen a lot, and they deserve the grand tour before they go out to pasture.

I walked over to the fence and opened the rickety gate, passed through, and began the descent into Dollar Glen. I checked the map, conveniently posted about 5 yards along the path. There were about 7 marked points along the path, which ran in a circle, crossing the stream four times (there was an S on the east side of the loop). It looked like the east route was a little shorter, so I decided to take the west loop first on the way to the top (castle), and then take the east loop back down later after my visit. I squelched down the hill, squeezing water from the mud and moss with every step, more and more little rivulets and drips with every foot further down the glen. When I got to the stream level, there was a little stone platform jutting out to give the hiker a view of Dollar Burn. Now, I don't know what 'burn' means in Scottish, but I assumed it meant 'cut' as in a steep-sided stream cut through a hill, like a gorge. Becacuse that's what I saw. Fast-flowing water, lots of mossy green growth, branches fallen across the creek, and (imagined due to the temperature probably) a heavy loamy smell in the air. Quiet, peaceful. The water rushed below me and the overcast light filtered through the light canopy. Nice. I moved on, south to the first bridge, and began to cross. I heard a yip and a bark, saw a border collie rushing along the path, followed by a runner. Both came on the bridge, so I sucked in my gut and held onto the rope rail to let them pass. The runner said 'Good Morning', the pup gave me a cursory sniff, and off they ran, up the west bank and out of sight. I plodded on, up the steps (boards set into place with rebar crosswise and filled with dirt) to the top of the glen. I was treated to a view of farmland off to the west, with snowy hills in the near-distance and a rude stone wall separating two estates. Northward, skirting the glen, I could peer down and see the trees and branches and nature's green chaos vying for light and water, moss creeping up the slopes. Once I crossed the highest point, I could see the castle to the northeast. A welcome sight, because the damp was starting to chill my hands, and it was still just at freezing. The castle peeped in and out of the branches for the rest of my northward jaunt, down (squish) and then up (oof!), until I got to the second bridge. I remembered that there was a 'falls' marked here on the map, so I studied the babbling creek running down it's rocky inlet at the north of the glen. I wouldn't call it a falls, but it was charming and cute. More of the ubiquitous moss filled every available niche on the falls, with the overcast silver giving it way more brilliance than it ought to have. What was this place like in the Spring or Summer? I tried to follow the creek further north, there was a footpath, but my feet betrayed me and I went down. Hard. And cold. Ouch. Left leg crusted over with slush and peaty earth. Hands just about frozen, shirt wet... Well, that was enough of that! Up to the north side of the castle, and hopefully a heater. Serendipitously, just as I got to the gate of the castle, the runner and his dog were having a chat with the caretaker, who introduced himself to me as (another) Ken. I took a short break and sat outside the castle on a bench while I waited for Ken to right himself and open up. He came out a few minutes (surprisingly short time) later and beckoned me in. I went through the main gate into the courtyard, ready for the Introduction.

Ken and I talked for a little while in the main Close of the Castle. We discussed the Union flag over Castle Stirling and the Historic Scotland flag over Campbell, and the political ramifications of the Saltaire (St. Andrew's Cross, for Scotland) flag flying. Apparently HM Government is sensitive to flying the Scot national flag due to the separatist sentiment in Scotland. They're allowed to fly it on St. Andrew's Day (in November) and that's about it. On UK holidays, the Union flag is flown, and most other times, the Historic Scotland flag. I did tell Ken about Cardiff and the preponderance of the Welsh flag. He raised an eyebrow and said "Well, that's interesting, isn't it?" He sold me an entry ticket and a guide book (no audio here :-( ). Then Ken took the opportunity to 'chat with' (monologue, but not in a pedantic way) me the archaeological theories currently in fashion about Castle Campbell.

Castle Campbell is old. It's passed from family to family, eventually ending up as part of the Argyll estate in the mid 1700s, along with Argyll's Dwelling which I had seen the previous day in Stirling. It's incongruous, though. The Stewarts had a presence there during their tenure in the 1500s in Scotland, and they feasted visitors in the (smaller-than-Stirling) great hall. Italian influences were evident on the archways off the Close, and the towers came from different ages, from the 1400s (!) to the early 1600s. Extensive interior works were completed by the Stewarts, moving a bit of functionality here or there within the castle, digging cellars under the great hall, extending the gardens. There was a massive fire and some destruction in the early 1600s which led to a rebuilding of one of the tower spiral stairs and a redistribution of the brig (holding cell), guards quarters, and kitchens. The upper floor of the main tower was the Master Quarters, and there were two 'Green Man' faces on the ceiling which looked like they could function as lamp hooks. The stairways were quite wide and generous, the windows opened on pleasant but not-fantastic views, and there was a sense of tranquility to this Castle that wasn't present at Stirling. First, Stirling castle supported a huge population, the grounds are enormous. Second, Stirling castle was an integral part of the town. Its waste ran into and its retainers were in and amongst Stirling's population daily, if not hourly. Dollar is a little further removed from Castle Campbell. It's still in view, and a very short ride, but the glen provides a physical separation that Stirling doesn't have. Ken went on to tell me about the caretaker's quarters (his home), installed by the Crown when they acquired the place, located on the north end of the castle, second and third floors. I commented that that would give a person a lot of peace and solitude, and probably would not be a bad way to live, especially if you had friends in town, but could 'escape' back home. We batted back and forth the pros and cons of such a life and living in an old stone structure with 19th century wiring. Eventually, I screwed up the courage to mention that I was a bit thirsty and would very much like some water or tea to drink. I was told that the warning not to drink the water here was rubbish and Ken had subsisted on the tap water for years. He'd hunt me up some water in the tea room. I ended up buying his last two diet Cokes for 1.40.

OK, I was ready to explore! Ken had me thumb through the guide book. As I got to the portion about the cellar storage areas, with my guide reading over my shoulder making little comments like "oh aye, you've got to check out those seams between the rocks!" or "you'll love the ceilings at the top!" he suddenly remembered something and dragged me back into the gift shop. Ken said, "Hey, I've got a little mining headlamp I can lend you. If you'd like?" Hell yea! I thanked him profusely. Now I was an official Castle Underground Explorer! I climbed up the stairs, noting the alcoves for guard placement. I also noticed that the floor numbering in the guide book did not quite match the number of landings on the stairs. I think the book called the Master Quarters the second floor, but it was the fourth landing. The rooms (floors) were vaulted and spacious, and surprisingly well-lit from the meager light glittering through the single window on each floor. The first floor (third landing) appeared to have been a barracks, at least evidenced from the brig hole near the stair. I had seen a similar pit in Castle Campbell and Castle Cardiff. I guess that was standard procedure, just throw the incarcerated down into the hole. Easy-peasy. The stonework was tight-fit, and looked somewhat freshly mortared. Renovation at work, no doubt. The second (fourth) floor's ceiling was immensely vaulted, with the two Green-Man decorations, and I could see the bore holes in their mouths for chandelier or lighting hanging, of course. I put the mining lamp to good use and jumped a few times to get a little closer for some better focus and detail. After the Master Quarters, I continued up, to the roof. Surprise! There was a shingled attic with access from the roof (boarded up at present, with a note 'Leave the Bats alone, they're protected!'). But the view from the top was majestic and soggy and ... dare I say ... gloomy! I descended the stair well, noting at one of the guard alcoves above the second landing and below the third that there was a very curious juxtaposition of silvery snow-blue light from the window and warm orangey light from the gift shop. The two hues were perfectly divided by the stair's center column. Wow! Down a little more, out into the Close, to the remnants of the Great Hall. This ruin had a lot of character and some tough bones! Along the tumbled hallway, there were steps going into four cellar chambers. I silently thanked Ken for the lamp again and ducked in to find dry, spacious storage areas which were used for salting meat or laying aside grains, I suppose. Probably beer-brewing as well! I went back out into the Close and was somewhat cheered to hear high feminine voices, a group of about 4 girls, I guessed, approaching for their turn at the tour.

Ken, aided by his Caretaker Radar-Sense, bustled out from the gift shop/tea room and made ready to welcome his next set of guests. A girl dashed in and then dashed out of the Close, before he got the chance to say 'boo'. He chased after her, then shuffled back into the Close, somewhat dejected. "Ah, they wanted to walk the glen and the hill, first." He came over and confided, "So, you know how I told you not to bother with the gardens because of the weather?" I nodded. "Well," he winked, "I 'forgot' to mention the poop shaft and the Pulpit." I blinked. Did he just say... "Aye, there's a cut in the glen out past the garden and a bridge to a stone arch. Now, we know that John Knox spent some time here, and there's a tradition that he preached from that arch and platform, but according to the historians, he would have been in the hall, and that's all rubbish." I thanked him again. Sure, I'm interested in history! If the founder of the Church of S had associations with this arch, it at least deserved a picture. And I must admit, I was curious to see this crease that they think might have been the wastewater sluice. Why not run it right to the castle? I went out the castle garden gate and promptly slipped and fell (that's 2!) on the slushy cobble walk down. Dammit! Left side again! Grumbling and thanking Knox or whomever that my camera was slung to the right, I righted myself and slid a little more cautiously to the stone formation. I wasn't sure if the stones between the mortar were carved, blasted, chiseled, hewn, or natural. I'm not a geologist, nor am I an anthropologist. It was pretty cool, though. It looked like it had been assembled in 2 stages to my untrained eye. The sluice was overgrown with more moss and lichens and was well-shadowed. No petrified Stewart number-2 that I could see. However, the view from the Pulpit to the castle was impressive, as was the glen overlook from there. I think that this halfway mark, between the silver-lit world of stone above and the vibrant green mire below, internalized for me the true mournfulness of that gray behemoth on the hill. I picked my way back up to the castle and hunted up Ken and returned the head lamp. I said I was heading back down to the car park. He smiled and shook my hand and bade me to tell Dunedin halloo when I got back. He also asked whether I was planning on sliding down the road or going through the glen (I think he'd noticed my snowy mudded pants). I shook my head and chuckled and said that it didn't matter too much at this point, eh? Ken kind of studied the back of his hand and fingernails. He deadpanned, "Aye, and I noticed a couple of wee-car tire tracks on the road up this morning. Looks like two cars tried to make it where they oughtn't have." I grinned back and said "Yeah, I think that was all me, brother. I'm really happy I didn't take your fence out." He replied, "Aye, even though we haven't had the fun of pulling anyone out of the glen in years, I'm glad you made it back down." We shook hands again and I left for my descent back down Dollar Glen. I made my way out the north end of the castle grounds, 'baaa'd at the surprised sheep, and hooked right to get to the east footpath. This bank turned out to be orders of magnitude more interesting than the west.

The soles of my shoes stuck in the loam and slush, but it wasn't quite as wet as when I come up the west side. Ken had warned me that the view back up to the castle from this side wasn't quite as grand, but I would have to disagree: with the canopy fallen for the winter, this angle on Gloom was spectacular! I stood in the hollow below gazing up at the walls and windows and stones, with the tree's fingers seeming to suspend the pieces in midair. It was grand. I followed the path up and down along the creek bank, crossing one bridge made of twine, wire, and stone, passing a small fork down to what was probably another burn, and then onto... wait! Another burn! I doubled back, cursing at losing myself in reverie and the green high of nature's spectacle. The glen was just so alive! Even without animals prowling about and the trees asleep, the moss and ground cover gave it such a ... life! I went down into the Burn of Sorrow. The creek cut vertically through the west wall of the glen, making a small falls and looking like a miniature of the Argo's path through the Clashing Rocks. That was seriously the first thing I thought of: Greek seas, with sheer rock faces separated by churning straits. It was the charcoal-colored stone and deep green mosses, the sound and sight of the water coursing, and my mood, of course. I looked off to the south and saw fallen branches and tumbled boulders, leavings from when the creek was broader and mightier and pounded this hill to dislodge them. Everywhere there was an emerald carpet. I thought forward to Ireland, as well. Is this the kind of deep all-covering green I would see there? To find this much life in January, the dead of winter, with slush and snow all around and the temperature hovering at the freezing point... It was unnerving. The Celts must have known something that we and their modern scions have lost. A little humbled, a little put off, I drank the scene in as removed from it, and climbed back to my woven stone bridge. That was the last major stop on the way out of the glen, except the final climb, when I wanted to follow a footpath to get the view from the glen's highest point, and slipped and fell to my knee (left, of course, and that was 3!). That was it, it was time to go. I scrambled through the gate and to the car. I popped the second (and final) diet Coke procured from Ken and started the car. Let it warm up. Looked 'round. Got in. Took off. South through the windy Dollar streets, back to A91, back to M80, ...

The drive home, during the day, was significantly faster than the drive to Stirling. Considering I had added about 15 miles to my drive, and it took me 45 minutes less time, I was in a fine mood the whole way. I guess Sunday drivers don't make it out to the motorways. I listened to a few noncommital book reviews on the BBC, a gardening show, and a review of Frost/Nixon, which I decided I might go see on an off night. At first, I tried flipping the station for some music, but since I'm not a Technohead nor am I an 80's freak, I stuck with the calm English voices on BBC-4. Oh yeah! I'd forgotten that 'Lost' was to be on Sky-1 Cable this evening. Whoo-hoo! And it looked like I'd make it with plenty of time to get rested and ready! I stopped off for petrol around Blackpool, got a quick bite there, and zoomed the rest of the way without incident, except the normal annoyances of drizzle and mud-spatters from the cars ahead of me.

When I got back to Cheltenham, after saying hellos to the desk staff and dropping off my stuff in the room and showering, I ran out to get some take-away food from Prezzo's. Pizza (personal) and chicken med-salad. M m m m M! And another soda. I was ready! I even plunked down 70p in the vending machine in the lobby (yes, they had put a vending machine in that weekend, probably so that the staff didn't have to talk to people unnecessarily) to get a Cadbury Dairy-Milk candy bar! Oh boy! I went to the channel guide. What? No Sky-1? Maybe one of these other arcane abbreviations means Sky-1. Never mind that Sky-3 is spelled out fine. Call the desk. "Hallo?" a warm Northern Irish voice lilted. "Hiya, Brooke, this is Gerhard." "Oh, hallo. Can I help you?" "Yeah, what channel is Sky-1? On the tv?" "Oh, I'm sorry, the rooms don't get Sky-1. We have it down here in the lobby if there's something you'd like to watch after the football is over." "No, thanks, Brooke."

Damn.

[GJF: Written 27 January 2009]

Album link: Facebook "Castle Gloom and Dollar Glen"

Stirling part 2 - Landmarks and Monuments, The Haggis and Dinner:

And yes. I went into the Gift Shop first. I bought a few mementos for my daughters, a pin for the Chucks, and a Castle entry ticket and audio guide reservation for the tour. I was told I should go meet Ken in the main receiving area and I could get my guide from Mary, at the booth. All righty then! I was in business. The Castle outer entryway is impressive, and I had already gotten a sense of the weight of the place from walking around the perimeter and hillsides all morning, so I was ready to see the insides, the guts, where the magic happens. Ken greeted me warmly, and he pushed a 'free' ticket for a later tour to Argyll's Lodging on me.

Now, I have heard stories about the Scots (mostly from the English), and I was very wary of the word 'free'. But I grinned and accepted it, especially after he explained the ulterior motive: employment. Apparently Historic Scotland (as opposed to the Royal Scottish Historical Society, politics - sheesh!) is trying to press HM Government for more funding based on the vast multitudes of tourists they have to accommodate with their limited funding and staff. Ken and his comrades' goodnaturedly pushy modus operandi had achieved their body count quota and then some for Argyll's for the quarter, but they wanted to show off that they could overachieve! I'm in for that - stick it to the Man (or the Woman, in this case, I suppose)!

I stopped off in the Unicorn Cafe, off the Outer Close, for a couple of (berry) scones, coffee, and sausages. Very good, and subtly flavored. Well worth the price. The proprietoress prided herself on getting local baked goods and her staff's home cooking recipes. To the castle!

The tour was exciting, the architecture amazing. Scottish humour pervaded the audio tour. The background dialogue of reenactment of Castle life was rife with overexaggerated Scot brogue (I'm sorry if it's a different word) and little insinuations about how James Stewart (VII and II) 'left' the Scots. It was highly intelligent, engaging, and sometimes hilarious. The story of Mary, Queen of Scots's baptismal banquet for James in the Great Hall had me chuckling out loud. It was the best audio programme of any of the sites I had been to to date. We were introduced to James, James, Mary, James, Charles, and the whole lot of royalty through the lasting architecture (dubbed the National Art of Scotland) they left at Stirling. I saw the French and Renaissance influences in the buildings. The detail and warmth belied any relation of these folks to their tight, cold neighbors to the South. It was almost a Latin feeling of family and squabbling and childishness and outdoing your rivals/forebears. Very comfortable.

As far as the feelings the buildings gave me, what pervaded it was the 'oh my gosh, they carried all this up here? They carved into WHAT? They rebuilt how many times? They went through how much sorrows and still rebuilt? THIS became a garrison?' Arching ceilings and images of Unicorns, Lions, everyday and mythological beasts, cold stone transformed to tell the stories of the generations, as each left its mark on the Castle. After the tour of the four main buildings, off the Inner Close, I walked around the outbuildings and parapets of the Castle. Along the back walls, there is an almost-sheer 100-foot drop to the base of the hill. I went through the kitchens, the barracks (converted by the English to officers' quarters, while the Great Hall was converted to a mass barracks), the smithy, and assorted other Castle functional buildings. What a difference from Cardiff (the only other example I have of a war-castle)!

I checked my watch and noted that it was almost time for my 'free' tour! I hustled to the receiving area and queued up with the rest of the group. Our guide for the walk down to Argyll's was Allan, another extremely good-humoured Scot who said he'd walk us through the graveyard adjacent to the castle, as it would be more exciting than the road from the car park down (the way I had walked earlier). We all filed down a side stair from the Castle to the graveyard. It was a bright day, clearing as we got closer to noon, but I swear chill winds found us just on the occasion of stepping onto that mossy walk through the headstones. It also started to cloud up a bit. Undeterred, Allan walked us through the graves, and he told us the story of Drummond, an uptight Church of Scotland (Presbyterian to us in the US) supporter, made his fortune publishing religious pamphlets, who didn't like the idea of people picknicking and generally having a Scot good time along the embankment next to the Castle. There had evidently been a swath of unused land between the old cemetery and the hillside. Naturally, this guy bought up the land from the town (at an exorbitant fee) and extended the graveyard to cover it. He paid to have bodies and memorials relocated there and built an enormous pyramidal crypt (the Star Pyramid) with two great bronze eagles guarding it. It was built to honor people defending religious freedom in Scotland. Kind of a nice gesture, but I bet the living people missed their park too.

We eventually meandered our way to the street (Castle Street) and faced Argyll's. Now this place had some history. It had been through four or five owners of three different families, ranging from 1600ish to the mid-1800s! The original owner, when the residence was a smaller but fashonable L-shaped two-story, went with King James to London, if I recall correctly. The second owner, Sir Alexander, was involved with Nova Scotia and that failed attempt to allow Scots some colonization privileges. Then it passed to the Argylls, who successively expanded and extended and modernized it until the present day. It fell under government control in the 1800s and was used as a hospital. It was a hostel in the early 1900s, and now Historic Scotland has been restoring it so that we could see what life was like in the late 1600s in Stirling for the Earl of Argyll. It was a wonderful tour, and the H.S. people have done a remarkable job, getting furnishings and wall hangings and the like together. It was a very satisfying cross-section of upper-class colonial-era Scottish life.

By the time I got back to the Castle, I hunted up Ken, my gate-guard pal, and asked him where I could find some haggis for lunch. I told him I wanted as authentic a haggis I could get at a restaurant or pub. He tried to send me off to City Centre, but after having spun around THAT commercial district the previous night, I assured him that I didn't want American-spiced or English-blanded haggis, I wanted something he would go eat. Ken mumbled something about not eating haggis all that much, but if I were insistent, I could go to Whistlebinkie's just around the corner. Which I did. And I got The Haggis.

I walked around the corner, following Ken's instructions (I had actually passed Whistlebinkie's earlier that day), it's on St. Mary's Wynd or whatever road becomes St. Mary's Wynd along the face of Castle Hill. I walked into a front room with the standard pub layout, a couple of tables, bar, the difference from most of the English ones being the smell of cooking food that underlay the beer and sweat. I asked the barlady if I ordered food here, at the bar. She looked me up and down, and curtly jerked her thumb and pointed me to the back. 'The back' turned out to be a surprisingly well-lit dining area! I had sit-down service, and I confidently ordered The Haggis, please... The server (he) said very good, sir, would you like 'neeps and a wee bit of 'tatties with it? I asked quietly whether 'neeps meant turnips or parsnips. He winked and then whispered: "It's always turnips, sir". I said, ok, I'll get the 'neeps, but no potatoes, please. Very good! He brought me my coffee, fork and napkin, then returned with The Haggis about 10 minutes later. I had spent my time staring at the other diners. A couple were eating haggis, noone was dead or gagging. The soup seemed pretty popular, looked like chicken and rice. Most people were having tea, a couple of coffees, a few beers...

It was delightful. I think the server stared at me to see my reaction, especially after I took a picture of the plate. Sure, it had that livery flavor, and the consistency was slightly like chewy sand, but that is not a bad thing! When I went in for The Haggis, I wanted to leave myself open to the impressions that the Scots were trying to make with it, what culture there was to keep there. The Haggis is a big flying finger to other cultures, I think, all the while laughing at themselves for eating it, and everyone else for fearing it. Don't fear it, it's a lovely light-livery, peppery, oat stew. It's yummy, and more flavorful than anything I had traditionally English (with the exception of the extraordinary medium-rare ostrich with its brownish jus and roasted leeks and turnips I had at Storyteller in Cheltenham, but I think the chef snuck a French demi-glace on that one, and I'm not so sure that ostrich is traditionally English anyway). It's also a forkful-by-forkful helping of Scottish stubbornness and resourcefulness, as well as a reminder of hard times. It was very rich, however. I finished The Haggis and left the 'neeps.

Let's suffice to say that The Haggis stays with you for a while. I knew that I should have gotten a pint instead of the coffee, but... I also wanted to go to the Settle Inn. So I thanked the server and the barmaid on the way out (she was much happier to see me go, oddly), and made a left on St. Mary's down to the Settle Inn. I strode in. I walked up to the bar and asked the barmistress to recommend me a good local beer. She responded by asking me if I preferred a lager or a darker beer. I replied, the darker, the better! So she poured me Thripp-somethingorother ale, which was light for an ale, but very good, not too cold. I chatted with the regulars, a Bruce and a George, and a couple of local kids, a John and a James, had a pickled onion (whew!) and mentioned that I was from Dunedin, the sister city of Stirling in the states. I asked if I could take a few pictures, and they said certainly! So I got a few shots of the inside and hung around for about an hour/hour and a half. Pint drained, and getting on to 2:30 or so, I reluctantly left this cozy, charming pub for the cold outside world, determined to tick off at least one more sightseeing destination - The William Wallace Memorial Monument.

Now, James and John at the Settle warned me that it was the Mel Gibson monument. It looks so gothic, so imposing from the base and from across town... I figured it would have some gory history, maybe a burial chamber, arms and armor, bloody stories of war, ghosts... No. It had 237 steps, though, to the top, and a somewhat-sanitized audio history of Wallace and the Bruce and other Scot points of interest. It was definitely a worthwhile stop in that it gives an unrivaled view of Stirling and the highlands to the North. On a cloudy afternoon, near sunset, the river goes aflame with the right angle. Majestic, commanding, and COLD. I talked with a couple of American tourists being herded by their aunt who were amazed by the view also. They told me about L.A. and I told them about Dunedin. I think they won. On the way down the hill, I bumped into a couple of German tourists who were in my Argyll group, on their way up. They said they didn't want to climb all the way to the top, and I hesitated to tell them that there was really no other point in going. I'm sure they figured it out.

After climbing down the 237 steps and then half-sliding down the Memorial's hill, I was damn near frozen. Got in the car, revved the engine, and cranked the heat. I would have grabbed the exhaust pipe if it had been reachable. I spun off, and took the roundabout Northern route back to the hotel, catching some awe-inspiring views of the Highland foothills (again). I knew that I'd be coming back along this route the next day, to get to Dollar and Castle Gloom, and it was getting quite dim, so I decided to just get back to the hotel, rest my legs, and wrestle with the Internet.

I had decided that dinner would be at the well-lauded Clive Ramsay's in Bridge of Allan, the charming upscale shopper's delight to the north of Stirling. I got the Internet working, using a kludge or two, talked to the girls (Guess where I am! Oh...), lay down for a bit, then headed off. I had heard that Ramsay's tradition is 'fresh' produce and marvelous ways of using it, so I got the seasonal 'fresh' platter. Yeah. Some ham, cheese, and fruits. Not exactly reasonably priced. I mean, it was good stuff, but for a cold platter I could have probably thrown together in any deli from Long Island, I was less than impressed. I should have gotten some more haggis. Anyway, it was nice to get some fresh fruit after so long, I had been pretty much sticking to salads and roasted veg in England, and we can all guess that England and Scotland tend to be very meat-heavy. It was probably a wise choice after such a heavy lunch. Yeah.

Back to the hotel. I barely remember hitting the pillow, 'Castle Gloooooooom' running through my thoughts.

Album link: Facebook "Twinned City"

Album link: Facebook "Castle Stirling, Argyll's Lodging, and Braveheart"

[GJF: Written 26 January 2009]

Stirling, Scotland part 1 - pre-Castle

All right, Great Britain is North-South LONG.

Anyway, the trip that MS Tripplannerorwhatevertheheckthesoftwareis told me would take four hours and 50 minutes took six hours and thirty minutes. After work. With very little sleep. I drove up the M5 from Cheltenham, to the M6, past Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Blackpool, and into Scotland. Got 'petrol', then proceeded onto M74, to M73, to M80, to A91, to Stirling. Listening to BBC Radio the whole way. 80s music. Dry repetitive news (think CNN Headline News without the commercials). Augh! I had left work at three in the afternoon, planning on having dinner in Stirling, after the typical POETS lunch (stuff from vending machine and convenience cantina). So I was absolutely famished. And cranky. And sore. And retaining water in the ankles. Ugh. I must have stunk too.

I pulled into the Express by Holiday Inn in Stirling, after some time driving around Stirling, moods ranging from panic (I'm Lost!) to zombiedom (I'm Asleep!). Got checked in, a lovely Scot lass at the desk made sure that I was okee. I tried to get the Internet going. Wait... wait... no confirmation! I called the desk and got a jovial Scot who was all too happy to tell me that he dinnae ha' the authoriteh tu du anehthin' abuut the compuutehrr. Persahveer, he said. So I tried again, showered, waited, and tried Internet again, ... dammit! And again! All right, I was hungry and it was 10:15. I went back to the desk and asked where I might get something to eat for dinner. I got a blank look. I asked again. "Ooooo!" The lass informed me that there was a Nando's chicken and a Frankie and Benny's New York Grill just 'ruund the cohrnehrr. (All right, I'll stop.) These are two of the same chains that keep me alive in Cheltenham. I was disappointed. Apparently the Express by HI is on the 'wrong' side of town for the traditional eating establishments. I asked for a map and directions to a restaurant. I had read about the Settle Inn and its quaint old-town surroundings, so I asked how to get to St. Mary's Wynd. Another blank look. The staff there had no idea where that was! They looked on their Internet (GRRRRR!) and found me some directions.

Driving around downtown Stirling at night, on ice, is an experience. Tons, and I mean a LOT of young Scots milled through the pub district, running out into the road, carousing and falling on the ice. However, I did not see a likely eatery, nor did I find 'St. Mary's Wynd'. I finally chalked the experience up to posterity, and, not wanting to brave the pandemonium of a college bar strip while exhausted and starving, I meandered my way back to the hotel. On the way back, I got two visual treats: Castle Stirling at night (there are floodlights set into the cliff) - Wow!, and the small burg of Bridge of Allan, just to the north of Stirling - a happy accidental detour. Two blocks from the hotel, I happened across a Burger King. Fine. I had not eaten at Burger King (other than some jalapeno/cheese poppers when Ihling was jonesing for a Whopper in December) yet. I got a double bacon something or other and some fries and a ginormous soda. I also ordered a luxury millionaire's pudding, but I cuunae have one, as the ice cream machine was broken. :-(. I raced back to the hotel and scarfed the food. Not bad, about the same as what we get here, except - the fries were actually CRISPY! I paid later for it, though.

The Internet was still hanging. Try again. And again. Finally, I thought it might be the company card, so I tried my personal card. No dice. G'ah! To the pay-computer in the lobby! I checked my personal email and sure enough, the transaction went into my personal card! WTF? I took the login/password down and returned to my room. After the login, the Internet was hobbling, but functional. Wow! I retrieved my corporate email and saw that eight 8 acht ocho huit otto charges came through onto the corporate card (! @ 9.99 GBP per shot!). I immediately sent an email to the ISP (The Cloud), my corporate admin assistant, and the credit card company that these were duplicate charges and should not be applied as the sessions would not be used. I figured it out on Saturday, by the way... The Cloud's protocol is such that it must suspend on any 'dead' time on the connection (like waiting for a web page). My workaround: make a voice IM call to myself and mute the speakers. That kept the connection alive. Anyway, Friday night, it really sucked and frustrated me enough to call it a night (11:30).

When my alarm went off, I wasn't sure what to do first. I settled for eating 'breakfast', a bowl of cereal - I figured I'd get something more substantial later on. I knew I wanted to see two things today: Castle Stirling and the Wallace Monument. I had hopes of getting to Castle Campbell, but I know how these things work, and two major sights a day are about right for me. I knew the two landmarks in Stirling opened at 9:30, so I had plenty of time. I sat in the hotel car park and studied the map. I could see the Wallace Monument from the HI, and I knew from my meandering experiences the day before that the Castle was behind me and off to the left. Wow! There was snow on the tops of the hills! But the car park had melted, more or less, so the roads were ostensibly ok. I took a good look at the foothills to the Highlands to the North. I knew that I would be coming back to Scotland to explore those slopes, glens, and their lochs, and uncover their secrets and charm. But unfortunately, not this weekend. So I gave 'em a silent nod and agreed with myself to bide my time so I could do a proper treatment some day (or week, or month) on vacation. What a magical sight, to see the mists and fogs spilling through the glens and valleys into the plains. Snow dusted hilltops, whose pale imitation I hadn't seen since North Carolina in the winter 4 years earlier. (I had been to Alaska since, but that's way more rugged and jagged, and a different kind of romantic).

I wound my way to the Wallace Memorial, a very straightforward and well-marked path from A91. It looked like it wouldn't be too crowded and reasonably easy to get to, and I had an hour or more to kill before it opened, so I decided to scope out the Castle too, and then decide what to do first. Sigh. I took off from the Monument, and immediately got horrendously turned around in Stirling. You'd think a fricking CASTLE cut into a MOUNTAIN of ROCK 100 feet high or more would be easy to find! I ended up to the south, in a town that looked like a series of housing projects (sorry Bannockburn, village of). I did find a free car park to turn around in, though! Free parking is like gold in the UK. And so, I got to Castle Stirling, 5 miles or so from the Monument, in about 35 minutes. I just parked in the Castle car park and paid the guy his 2 bob (don't use 'quid' in Scotland!). Since the Castle wasn't open at the moment, I decided to take a little walk around town to see what I could see. Driving up to the Castle had treated me to old cobbled streets and stone buildings and shadowy alleys, half-seen.

I hopped/hobbled down the hill from the Castle. I passed the Portcullis, a fancy restaurant, the graveyard (awesome!), Argyll's Lodging (more later!), the Jail, two burned out stone shells - homes of a moneylender and a merchant, and came to a series of what looked like 150-year-old townhouses. Between each entrance was a 5-foot square archway into different courtyards. Since there were no gates, I figured I'd walk in and take a look around. The alleys UNDER the townhomes twisted into private courtyards, which all came together into a 'common' court at the center of the city block. Amazing! Each block was like its own little fort. Obviously, these areas were still in use, strewn with household garbage and barbecue grills and other rubbish, but to someone who hasn't said 'boo' to 3 of 6 of his neighbors in the past 6 months, it seems a very community-enhancing way to live. Still lots of privacy, the Scots cunningly designed the courts to be closed, yet open. I slunk back out to the street before they started a 'Kill the Yank' parade.

Seriously, the strongest emotion I picked up from the Scots I met was bemusement, not anger. Even when I went into my atrocious Scottish accent with George later at the Settle Inn (hey! HE was doing an 'orrible New York accent, followed by a not-too-bad Southern (US) one), noone got touchy or upset. I think they save their anger for sport competitions and the English. Two things I learned about Scots this trip that I find very admirable, and contrast with what I have picked up from the English: 1. They laugh at themselves, often and loudly. Therefore, they are not afraid to make gaffes or mistakes. I would go so far as to say that Scots find themselves genuinely hilarious, and a great cultural pursuit is to put oneself in as funny a situation as possible. 2. They are the only people I have met thus far that would say "Och! See that wee rock up there? Aye, the one jutting 100 feet straight up! Let's we go build a castle on top! Nae, roads are for pansies! Well, get on with ye! Go!" And yes, they do use 'wee'. I got a 'wee' map at the Castle, and was offered a 'wee' bit of 'tatties with The Haggis, ... :-)

Some of the townhouses had been converted to businesses - a bagpipe seller/repairer, a grocer, Boy Scout association, and the like. I stopped an gazed for a while at a post with a Unicorn on top. The plaque on the wall nearby said this was a rallying point for the old town in case of fire or other emergency. It also noted that the crier would come here with relevant news and that occasionally such news (mostly about Taxes, I would expect) incited riots from this point. Hm. Well. I wouldn't want to be a Royal Crier in Scotland, don't think. How many of those do you think they went through? How did they advertise for the position? "Well, there's *international travel* involved, expense account, *harrumph*no life insurance*harrumph*, ...." "Damn and damn, Your Majesty! We've lost another Crier, and this one was so promising... yes, torn limb from limb again."

I eventually wandered down to the base of the rock that the Castle was built on, and proceeded along St. Mary's Wynd (yes, it's RIGHT THERE, south face) around the hill, and up and down some public paths that crisscross the Castle mount. Now, I remembered seeing The Beheading Stone on the map, but I guess I didn't put two and two together, so I kind of stumbled across it, following the Mote Hill trail. :-) Nice views from there of the hills. Even though the Castle is directly next to Mote Hill, the view wasn't quite right, so I descended and walked along the back road (north face), up another footpath, until I reached the cut-road between the Castle and graveyard. So peaceful and quiet, and the altitude was a little higher than the road, so it was still a bit glazed, and the sun played whimsically over the frozen rivulets and also the towering castle walls directly above me. The trees cooperated and sent shadows skittering across the graveyard with every breeze. It was a great quiet moment. Then a few cars whizzed by, so I walked on. I came to a guide sign to the old Castle district, and what caught my eye was the last entry on the sign, about the local history (they're all great, but the last caught my attention):

Harry Turbine's Museum: Castle attendant Harry Turbine used to lie in wait for unwary tourists. Holding a roll of tickets, he looked 'official' in his black waterproof coat and peaked cap. He invited tourists to visit his museum on Penny Millar's Slap, a lane which ran from the Esplanade to Ballengeich. His museum turned out to be a collection of junk that had not sold at the local auction. When business was quiet he moved to Station Road where he issued unofficial parking tickets to unsuspecting motorists.

Ha! That says a lot about the character of this town, probably more than a novel would. Unfortunately, Penny Millar's Slap is no longer there, or at least I couldn't find it.

From that stretch, it was a quick climb back to the Castle car park.

Into the Castle I went.

Album link: Facebook "Twinned City"

Album link: Facebook "Castle Stirling, Argyll's Lodging, and Braveheart"

[GJF: Written 26 January 2009]

Cardiff, Wales - Sweet and sad

NOTE: No animals, people, or property were damaged as a result of Gerhard's driving to and from Cardiff on 17 January 2009.

All right! Time to go to another country again! Well, sort of. Wales is about an hour, maybe an hour and a half drive from Cheltenham. So for the folks in Cheltenham, it's kind of like going to Orlando. Or maybe Daytona. Or maybe Sebring. Noone was all that excited at work or at the hotel when I mentioned I wanted to go to Cardiff on Saturday. Well, screw them! I looked up Cardiff on-line, found the place I wanted to eat lunch, the perfect Japanese Tavern - I hadn't had Japanese food in a while, and this place looked really promising. I had a couple of pubs scoped out online, a backup lunch place (trattoria), a museum and a castle to see!

How bad could it be?

Well, let me start off by saying that my experience with the roads on the way to Cardiff was ... um ... good. You cannot go below the speed limit on a UK M- road. The other drivers will not let you. I am in a nation of mad people, at least behind the wheel. I will from now on, give the keys to any British driver who has all his limbs and faculties. You will never find a more experienced and stolid driver exposed to as many crazy and arbitrary laws as the Brits. However -- I have never been to SE Asia.

So I was moderately invigorated by the road trip and being forced to go 80 mph the whole way. I found a parking garage, zipped in, got the ticket, and walked off toward the castle. I estimated a half mile. As soon as I made two turns on the roads, I forgot where the garage was. Sh*t! Also, the main road wasn't where I thought it would be! Was that it, next to that bookstore-looking thing? To the bookstore-looking-thing! I entered, the Cardiff City Centre. Yes, the sprawl mall at the heart of Cardiff. A square mile of Body Shop, Starbucks, Costa, Bella Italia, and more and more. See the next blog post for a little more about this.

However, unlike the English City Centres I had been exposed to, people were smiling, heads were facing toward the sky and each other. Heels clicked musically on the ground, instead of crushing to the earth in spite and frustration, as in England. People smiled. One older gent looked at me and grinned mischievously. His eyes twinkled. He said "Excuse me, young man, you look a bit lost. Can I help you?"

I stammered. I panicked. I wasn't used to being treated like something other than a piece of furniture. I had been in England, for crying out loud! I finally said something about wanting to see the Castle (I remembered to make the a an 'ah' sound) and also managed to squeak out a thank you-cheers-wow-you-are-a-really-nice-guy! This fellow, Michael, explained that he was Welsh. And that was all the explanation he gave. Hm. He also told me the name of the street on which the car park I had used was. He offered to draw me a map. I said, no, thanks. I escaped from the unaccustomed kindness.

According to Michael, I was headed in the right direction (a first!), and I was one street off, because the council had put one-ways in to divert traffic. So, just at the other end of the mall (City Centre) should be the bend in the road I had anticipated. Now, I had noticed the one-way on the way in, and I know how it works in the US with alternate blocks. The blocks here happened to be a mile apart. That would put me on Castle St, kitty corner to the Castle.

Sure enough! I emerged from the arcade (Promenade, City Centre) kitty corner from one of the most impressive structures I had seen (minus two in London and several in Paris). Well, ok, the most impressive thing I had seen outside London, Paris, and the Gloucester Cathedral. But it was still damn imposing. Cardiff Castle. Immediately, I looked at the walls to see how old they were. I saw seams, so I knew there had been generational or even century-long gaps between occupations. I looked for ornament. I saw the clock tower, with its incredible color and detail. I knew I'd like this Victorian-ornamented, multi-age place.

I went to the Wales Centre first, to get some stuff for the girls. The ladies there were, of course, actively friendly and helpful. They made suggestions on different things I might like without being pushy or bored. In fact, they asked after the girls' ages and then they nattered back and forth about what they did at those ages, and the like. Amazingly nice. After loading up with a few things, I hiked across the street to the Castle visitor entrance. I don't remember how much it cost, maybe 8 GBP? And I really don't care. It was worth it. I was welcomed warmly by two guides (they introduced themselves, John (maybe) and Wes?) and told what the options were, I could pick up an audio recording and mosy around the grounds, leave for lunch, come back later, whatever, just return the recording first. Oh, and I get a tour too with the paid admission, just show up at the foot of the stairs around 20 after, 20 til, or on the hour and they'll take care of me. Oh yeah, and leave, come back, take your time, have a meal, whenever you like.

Wow! I think that was too much freedom for me! I got the audio recorder and walked the grounds, listening to the story of the Roman occupation of the Castle site (100 or so?), the eventual raising of the motte and bailey by Normans (1080 or so?). It continued with keep construction, castle construction, mansion construction, all of the excavations of the various foundations, and the rework and redecoration of the mansion in Georgian and then Victorian modes. Interesting stuff. They'd also had water damage so some of the ramparts (Ladies' Walk) was closed, and unfortunately the falcons were put up for the winter, so the falconry was deserted. Hm. I had a coffee and sat outside looking around this castle site and thinking about all the people who tried to build here and to settle and control this town. Hm. The views from the top of the keep were tremendous, especially away from the city (to the North).

Then I went on the guided tour, which was basically through the house. Or at least that's what I remember. Oh my gosh, what sumptuous decorations. The banquet hall, with the lineage traced of the fealty families, the library with the lineage of Princes of Wales, back to Uther, the harem room for ladies to lounge in, the gentleman's smoking room, with all the time motif of the clock tower. Incredible carving, detail, rich wood, gold leaf, vibrant color, consistent themes. For instance, monkeys in the library around the door frames were the single little bit of victorian abundance allowed in the otherwise stately Georgian drawing room (on the other side of the same arch, like the monkeys were poking through!). Speaking of the drawing room, with so much heaviness in the house, and so much ornate decor, it was a breath of fresh air to have such a bright and minimal room. Very impressive, Mr. William Burges (architect and designer for the 3d Marquis of Bute, owner).

After the Castle, it was time for lunch. My Japanese Tavern was on Mermaid Quay, which I thought sounded enchanting - I should have known better. After a 2 1/2 mile hike south from the castle, 1 mile through the remainder of the mall, and then 1 1/2 - 2 miles through the worst slums I had seen to date in the UK (and I used to hang out in Passaic, NJ, so I know slums), I made it to Mermaid Quay. A three story restaurant and cinema MALL. Oh, the radio station across the street? Yeah, they are opening a MALL in their grounds. So I looked through Mermaid Quay for the Tavern. The spot where it should have been was occupied by a 'The Real China' chinese buffet joint. Dejected, I moved on.

I spent about a half hour trying to follow the signs for 'Plass Roald Dahl' that I saw outside Mermaid Quay. Um, eventually I figured it out. It's that bare slab of concrete between the Millenium Centre and Mermaid Quay. Now, the Millenium Centre was all right, anything with 20-foot high lettering is ok in my book. It's a really cool forum for the people of Wales to have, and I'm glad they built it. And it's impressive. Is it worth traveling to see? Um, no. I saw the 'Norweigian Church' too, some big-deal replica of a genuine Norwegian Church. It looked like the Chapel my friend got married in in Dunedin, FL. I was so disappointed I didn't even take a picture. I walked back toward the main mall (City Centre) to find a Bella's or something to eat. I walked down the other one-way to avoid the slums, because it was about 3, and starts to get a little dim (yes, it was that bad). On the way, I remembered I did pass a 'Zushi' in the mall, a chain restaurant I had seen in London that was not present in Cheltenham. I had never been. I figured, what the heck, I'm here for Japanese. Once I hit the mall, though, there was a student demonstration against Gaza. I listened for a little bit, watched the bobbies eyeing the students, and the students eyeing the bobbies and the old folks. There was nothing being said I hadn't read, so my stomach took over again.

I found the Zushi. I bought it, I ate it, it was delicious!

I found the car, got it, paid after a modicum of difficulty figuring out WHERE to pay, and drove off to Cheltenham. A day well spent, but not worth repeating. Cardiff was just too sad, and the sweet Welsh people don't deserve that. Commercialization to death.

Interior Pictures were forbidden :-(. Try here: Google Images of Castle Cardiff Interiors

Album: Facebook "Caerdydd, Cymru"

[GJF: Written 22 January 2009]