Scotland IV: Cromarty

I've had a pretty lazy day today... had breakfast around 9, then I spent a few hours in my room, reading the latest Rebus novel and occasionally marveling at the horrendous boredom that is British daytime television. Around 1:30 I went back to the same pub I went to on Wednesday (Findlay), and again had a good, cheap roast duck lunch. I was joined by my old friend Pam (aka The Mad Celt), who'd come up from Aberdeen "to ruin my holiday".

After lunch and the obligatory insults we drove out to Cromarty, a cozy little village on the tip of the Black Isle (which is really a peninsula). Cromarty is well known for its Victorian cottages, many of which are probably holiday homes today, and its dolphins, which can sometimes be seen playing out in the bay. It is also the birthplace of the famous 19th century geologist Hugh Miller, and his home is a museum these days.

I rounded off the day by stuffing my face at the excellent McGonagall's in Inverness and am now about to tuck in with my beloved Rebus novel.


The view across Cromarty Firth



A memorial to the many locals who left for Australia or North America



The climate is so mild because of the Gulf stream, that even palms grow here (sorry, Mr Gore)



The local name for a small street is "vennel":



A "mercat cross" - mercat being the agreed-upon Scottish misspelling of the English word "market" and the cross conspiciously and completely missing from all such monuments. I'm still uncertain whether it's gross incompetence or sheer spite that drives the Scots to pull these stunts on unwitting foreigners.



Life could be tough, incredibly tough in these parts. Imagine being one of these parents:



Some purdy dog roses



Some nice buildings






Cromarty Harbor



Workboots on a wall - a common sight in Scotland, Pam told me. Musn't get the floors dirty, you see. From Pam I also learned about the concept of "Highland time", which basically means that if you ask someone to give you a fixed time for anything, the standard reply will be "It'll happen".



The entrance to McGonagall's in Inverness. Good steaks and the best damn Bearnaisse sauce I've ever had. It's on Bridge street and is a part of the city's oldest bar, the Gellions.