Scotland III: Wick and the north

After braving a whole dining room full of grumpy old people to get my breakfast, I left tiny Castletown for Dunnet Head, the actual northermost point of "mainland" Britain. Castletown has a small harbor two minutes drive away, and this area was actually a major producer and exporter of flagstone back in the 19th century. New York and Sydney were paved with these stones:



The place also has nice, sandy beaches:



Dunnet Head, which is farther north than John o' Groats. It's damn windy up there. The land you see way out at sea is the southern tip of the Orkneys:



There's a lighthouse at the tip of the peninsula:



On the way there I passed a herd of Highland cattle, locally known as "Shaggy Coos". I find the appeareance of these animals hilarious and I love them to bits. With hair like that you just know these cows would be playing guitar in teenage rock bands if they had opposable thumbs and a brain slightly bigger than a walnut (all experience with actual rock bands tells us that this, and a pulse is all it takes).

Yes, the wee ones ARE that cute:



The hard rock version of Bambi:




After Dunnet I drove to John o' Groats, which is considered the northermost point in "popular culture". When illustrating that something applies to all of Great Britain for example, one would use the expression "From Land's End to John o' Groats". The place itself is nothing to see, just an ugly, utterly charmless clump of buildings. I didn't even stop the car, just pressed on south towards Wick.

It was on the outskirts of Wick I made the mistake of filling petrol at a local Tesco. I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary while driving the last couple of miles into town, where I got some maps and brochures at the tourist information. I then drove across town to the Heritage Center, which has won several awards for its exhibits. At this point, all was still well.

I spent about an hour wandering around the huge building, taking in the various displays about life in the north. In Wick it was all about the herring. In the 19th century more than a thousand boats fished here in the summers, and this little town took in about 1/3 of the total herring catch in Scotland. The sea giveth, and the sea taketh away, however. During one horrible August storm, 18 boats and 37 people were lost.


This wall/corner/door is actually formally a street in itself, and is recognized by Guiness as the shortest street in the world at 206 cm. The building has the address 1 Ebenezer Place and was built in the 1880s.



An old classroom. The cane, the cane *droolz*



The little sods got medals for good work. Loudly and clearly rewarding achievements... now there's a novel idea for the commie bastards running the Norwegian school system...



This plaque from an old Norwegian company caught my eye:




How sweet to be an idiot

Afterwards I went out to my car again, and it was here tragedy struck: I could not get the damn thing to start. At the Tesco I'd just assumed the car ran on petrol, since no one at the rental company had specified it was a diesel (when I've rented diesel cars previously they always took care to point this out), but now an icy suspicion was dawning on me. I started looking carefully around the car and inside the door there was a small paper thingy with specifications. It read, in tiny, tiny letters: DIESEL. At that very moment I happened to look at my car key (who the fuck reads what's on their car keys anyway???). The key brick read in large, friendly letters: DIESEL.
Long story short: Since I had no signal on my cell phone I got the incredibly nice people at the museum to help me, and after a little over an hour a towing car came. After some further complications due to a distinct lack of communication between the insurance company and the driver of said towing car, I was taken to the local Ford dealer's workshop.

Maybe I misinterpreted some of what had been said, maybe I was just being paranoid (and heaven knows I'm utterly ignorant about cars), but I was really, really scared I'd fucked up the engine beyond repair. I was having nightmare visions of having to stay in Wick for days, or having to get the car taken all the way to Edinburgh for repair, running up four digit bills in the process. Imagine my relief when they told me it shouldn't be more than a few tenners and not more than an hour's work. The total bill came to slightly less than £30, plus the value of the gas on the tank, which had to be emptied - another £70. Still, this came as a HUGE relief to me and I was positively giddy with joy when I left Wick.

Also on the bright side, was that I got to talk to several of the very,very nice people who work at the heritage center. Again, one of the resident little old ladies had taken me for an American, but when I informed her I was Norwegian she beamed at me and said "ooooh, well you're doubly welcome then!" I talked to several of them at length, and they all confirmed they felt as Norwegian as anything. They were certainly not Highlanders, nor did they have any warm feelings for the Celtic culture or language. They were people of the north, and they were proud of their Norse heritage.

Scotland II: The North

Ok, brief summary of today's adventures... I'm currently sitting in the hotel pub of the St Clair Hotel in the tiny village of Castletown. Nice enough place and reasonably priced. I've come up from Inverness, and I've hit just about every museum and historical marker along the way today.

First off is the Fyrish monument, which I didn't bother to actually visit, since it's a long climb up there from the road. It was supposedly built on the orders of Sir Munro, a local bigwig who simply wanted to give the unemployed locals some work, and since they wouldn't take charity he had them build the monument, which commemorates his victorious military posting in India.




I then saw some signs for the "Pictish trail" or something to that effect. Ever the optimist, I decided to follow the signs and after some time on narrow, winding single lane country roads, I ended up outside Nigg Old Church. The church was empty, but open and I took a look around. Its main claim to fame is that it houses the Nigg Stone, a Christian Pictish slab with rich decorations. The stone is probably from the late 700s.

The Stone:



The church. It's often interesting to walk around graveyards, they can tell you a good deal about the local history. I noticed especially the high frequency of monuments and stones dedicated to dead children. Things can't have been easy in these parts in the 19th century.



Note the "dollar" symbol on the pew. Anyone who thinks you can't worship both God and Mammon clearly doesn't know much about the Scots...





This stone is known as The Cholera Stone. The story, as I recall it, was that they thought the disease was due to "unclean" air coming from the decomposing bodies and someone thought he'd seen it come out of the ground. So they promtly plugged the spot with a stone. Yes, they were that stupid.




After Nigg I kept following the signs and drove around on narrow roads. The scenery had a rugged beauty to it and it didn't take much imagination to see kilted or painted warriors running around the hills, sword in hand. This stone is called the Shandwick stone, and is yet another ancient Christian Pictish slab.

The stone is encased in glass:





It's always blowing in Scotland. If you look carefully you may see the ripples from the wind in the fields. It was quite a sight to behold, almost like a river of light traveling over the ground.





Balintore is a tiny settlement on the coast and has a couple of nice sculptures along the seaboard. This one is called Mermaid of the North:



This is the old church in Portmahomack, under which are the ruins of the oldest known Pictish monastery, probably built around 550 AD. There's a nice museum inside.



I then drove into the little town of Tain, where I walked around the local museums for about half an hour. Once again the resident little old lady started cooing when I told her I was Norwegian. She informed me her great grandfather had been a Norwegian timber trader from Aberdeen, and she'd been on a cruise along the Norwegian coast, and it had been oooh so lovely.

I then pressed on to Helmsdale to see the Heritage center there, but it was a bit disappointing. There were some ok displays, but it's too small to defend a £4 admission price, and there was just something about the place that rubbed me the wrong way, a certain smugness in the way the material was written. At this point I was starving, so I decided to find a place to have lunch. The first place I went into looked promising from the outside and had apparently even been featured on TV. However I saw no waitresses inside, and the inner half of the restaurant was plagued by a distinct smell coming from the restroom entrance in the corner. Disgusted, I left the premises.

Fortunately I hit gold with my next try. Let me highly recommend the Gilbert's tearooms, not just for good food, but for the bubbly, warm and very funny people who work there. I think I spent something like an hour and a half in there, most of it in friendly banter with the two women behind the counter, who were also engaged in a perpetual give and take with each other and with incoming guests. They were both hilarious, and I'm going to try and time either lunch or dinner tomorrow so that I can go back there. An additional bonus: They thought, from my accent, that I was Canadian. Close enough for me!

The Marengue dessert. Yum.




A few minutes north of Helmsdale lie the ruins of the clearance village Badbea. The Clearances was a process of forced relocation of much of the Highland population in the late 17oos, and it led to many people leaving the country altogether, migrating to Australia or North America. These poor fuckers got dumped on the steep slopes out by the sea and had to scrape by on thin soil and dangerous fishing. There were about a dozen buildings there and the whole settlement was abandoned after a century or so. It's a nice walk from the main road over the heather and down to the ruins, highly recommended!

The heather - or lyng as they call it. Yes, there are lots of Norwegian words in the Scottish-English language.



Some nice flowers:



A long, long stone fence, the building of which was the main source of income for the locals for some time:





Steep and windy, the location of the tiny settlement was reportedly dangerous for children and livestock, both of which had to be tied down at times:



This monument to the victims of the clearances was raised by a descendant of the villagers who came back from Australia; I think it was built around 1910. Of mild historical interest was that it mentioned that one of the locals had fallen at Waterloo.



This is all that's left of the old stone buildings:





The Highlands... dark, wild and ruggedly handsome:




I finally set off for Castletown, a tiny hamlet five minutes east of Thurso. The hotel restaurant had closed, so I went in to Thurso and managed to locate a Bistro where they mercifully let me in even though it was really half an hour past their closing time. I got me a nice tagliatelle, and the added bonus of two waitresses taking me for an American. All in all, not a bad day!

Scotland I: Inverness and Dingwall

It's that time of the year again - my summer adventure in far off lands. Well, not that far off this year - just across the North Sea to Scotland. I flew in Tuesday, to Edinburgh airport. First off, let me begin this travelogue by asking you to join me in a loud and sincere prayer to the deity of your choice - from Jahve to Raingod Bob - that they strike, by lightning or whatever plague they fancy, the National/Alamo rental booth at the carpark. When I order - and prepay - a rental car more than two weeks in advance, I expect said car to be waiting for me, key in the ignition, when I get there. I'm not expecting red carpets, giftwrapped champagne bottles or a complimentary blowjob from the staff. Waiting in line for almost an hour because you fuckers are too cheap to put more than one person (and a senile old hag at that) behind the counter is NOT acceptable.

Ok, rant over.

Having fought my way through baggage claim, passport control (nightmare!) , customs and car rental, I ventured out onto the road. As with the other times I've been behind the wheel in the UK, the feeling is terrifying at first. This little voice in your head (one of many in my case) keeps whispering "You're on the wrong side of the fuckin road fer chrissakes!" and it's all you can do to keep the car in the right (meaning left) lane. The traffic circles are the worst, and they're absolutely everywhere here. The first few times you feel like you're trying to drive in a mirror, everything about the experience is just wrong.

Anyways, I got up to Inverness just fine, and checked into my hotel, the lovely little Mardon Guest House, where I stayed for two nights last year. It's a cozy little place with just six rooms run by a nice, elderly couple. The rooms are clean, the breakfast is good and there's free wireless. At about £37 per night for a single ensuite it's a bargain. I had a decent dinner at an Indian restaurant and even managed a walk around the center of Inverness afterwards. Sunset on the river Ness is a highly recommendable view!

Today I went driving, first up to the tiny village of Dingwall. The name is Norse, as are many other names in Scotland. I may have mentioned this before, but the Scots are fond of Scandinavians, and many here look to Norway, not London for political impulses. Since the north has almost all of Britain's oil, many see Norway's use of its oil wealth as the ideal for a future independent Scotland. Good luck to them, if only because an independent Scotland would make a Conservative majority that much more likely in what would remain of the House of Commons...

Dingwall's a nice, little place and it has a splendid local museum. The lady behind the desk was cooing when she found out I was Norwegian. She then waxed lyrical about the bonds with Norway, which are quite recent up here - the Dingwall area housed Norwegian troops during WW2, and commando raids into occupied Norway were launched from here. Indeed, her own father had been a participant, and some nameless Norwegian had once saved his life after he'd been wounded by a German bullet. Local girls had married Norwegian troops during the war, and she still had old friends living in Norway. The museum is free, but if you pop in, do put a few coins in the donation box, mmmkay?

The Museum entrance:



The oldest part of the museum is from the mid 18th century:



I swear... you won't find shop notices like this anywhere except in Britain. This is why I love the country to bits:




After Dingwall I drove up to a place called Rogie Falls, on the Blackwater river. I spent almost an hour walking around in the forest, taking in the scenery and breathing the fresh air. The falls are quite nice, and there are some nice views to be had. Blackwater is a salmon river, and on the side of the falls there is a salmon ladder. There's a suspension bridge across the gorge - emphasis on suspense, because that fucker moves when you walk across it.


Outlook from a point shortly before you get to the river:



I feasted on blueberries several times along the way:



The falls and the bridge:





The Blackwater after the falls:



The suspension bridge:



The view upstream from the bridge:



The first vantage point:



The salmon ladder:



The pic's too dark, so it doesn't do justice to the magnificent view this tree really was when I came upon it in the forest:



Here be trolls!




Afterwards I drove to the little town of Beauly, which has a slightly famous priory, or rather the ruins thereof. They started building it around 1230, and it was visited by Mary, Queen of Scots in the 1560s. I had lunch, or whatever you may call it in town. I went into a fish & chips shop and came out with the blandest, palest "chicken and mushroom" pie I ever hope to lay hands, and indeed teeth on. Even the strawberry milkshake was bland, and I threw it away after a couple of sips. Ugh!

The tomb of Lord McKenzie, some old chief who died in 1491. Five hundred years from now you're all cordially invited to stay the fuck away from wherever I'm rotting at the time.





The remains of the priory:



This memorial is not, as you may think, to the fallen of the world wars (such monuments can be found almost everywhere here). Nope, this monument was erected by some local bigshot who fought the Boers in South Africa and although you probably can't make out the text, it's a tribute to the highlander fighting spirit.




I've just rounded off the day by feasting on a very good meal of duck's breast in plum sauce at a pub only two minutes' walk from my hotel. Tomorrow I'm driving north, to the very ends of "mainland" Britain. I hope to post more pics and stuff tomorrow night. Till then, tata!

Good stuff

It's nice to read some uplifting stuff in the newspapers for once. I recommend this story by travel writer Nicholas Kristof in the NY Times, about an Ugandan girl who could go to school because American children donated $120 to a fund, which bought a goat for her impoverished family. The girl proved such a good student she eventually won a scholarship to a college in Connecticut, and she just got her B.A.

I like the idea of helping people to help themselves, and to keep government out of it as much as humanly possible. Kristof lists some helpful sites, and I took a particular interest in this page, which gives you the opportunity to browse many different grassroots organizations to find the one(s) to your liking. I found this Kenyan project of interest, but there are many others.

After reading this I also went and donated to this group (another link I found at Kristof's page) combating the horrible but sadly neglected problem of obstetric fistula. I'm sure there are other worthy causes out there, feel free to add them in the comments section.

I know a lot of Norwegians are awash in cash during the summer months and ask only that you consider donating the price of a couple of pints of beer to some small cause you find worthy. If half a dozen people (probably the whole readership of this blog...) give $20 each, that's a new goat for someone in Africa. Who knows, it might make you feel better than that last beer, especially the morning after!

Pay me my money down

Back in December '07 I placed two small bets on the outcome of the presidential nomination contests. I put NOK 100 (almost $20) on Hillary (odds 1.40) and NOK 155 (appx $30) on McCain (odds 13!). The bets were placed with Bwin, a British company.

On Wednesday, the day after it had become apparent that Obama had a majority of delegates behind him, the Democratic race was "called" by Bwin, and my $20 was lost. However, I'd still not seen one dime of the money I was due for my brilliant bet on McCain. So I sent them this brief note:

"You've called the bet for the democrats, yet still haven't paid out my winnings on John McCain, who nailed the republican nomination with much greater certainty as long ago as February. What gives?"


Saturday, they came back with this pointless, formulaic answer:

"Thank you for your e-mail. We apologise for the delay in responding to your query and can confirm that in regards to the bet Who will win the Republican Party nomination? we have been informed by our book making department that the official result has not been given as yet, therefore we are unable to settle this bet. If by chance you know another verifiable source that can prove the contrary, we'll be more than happy to examine your inquiry once again. Please note that as soon as the official result has been stated this bet will be settled accordingly. Please do not hesitate to contact us if you have any further queries. Kind regards, Your bwin support team."


The "verifiable source" phrase made me blow a fuse, so I immediately sent off this reply:

"You've got to be kidding. If this represents the quality of research done by your bookmaking department, I suggest you fire them all and replace them with trained monkeys. Same quality, much cheaper.

My point was and is this: You have already notified me that the issue of the Democratic presidential nomination for 2008 has been settled in favor of "another than Hillary Clinton". This judgement is 99% likely to be correct, as Barack Obama has won the public support of more than half of the voting delegates to the party's nomination meeting in Denver in August. Only a major scandal that would lead delegates to change their minds (as they can do under the party's rules) will change this. So to all intents and purposes I agree that Clinton lost the nomination, as defined by the results of the nomination process through elections, caucuses etc.

However, under that same logic John McCain MUST be said to have won the Republican nomination. He secured a majority of voting delegates to the Republican convention as early as March 4, something most people not living isolated in deep caves would know. Again, I suggest you look into the monkey proposal.

Sources:

CNN from March:
http://edition.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/03/04/march.4.gop/index.html

CNNs updated and current delegate tally:
http://edition.cnn.com/ELECTION/2008/primaries/results/scorecard/#val=R

It is common knowledge to anyone reading newspapers that John McCain secured the Republican nomination way earlier and more securely than Obama did the Democratic one. To call the latter bet and not the former defies all logic. If you want to wait to call the bets until the nomination meetings have been held and the process formally concluded, that would be understandable and fair. But then you should use the same measuring stick for both bets and wait until August to call the Democratic nomination.

Regards,"

Today, shortly after noon, NOK 2,016 (appx $400) was deposited in my bwin account.