England and Scotland for Dad's 70th
Day 11 - Sunday - Scotland
Today's trip is north to Blair Castle and whatever
adventures lie from
here to there and back again.
But first, a leisurely morning of breakfast (this
morning Rhona's in on
the porridge and I'm still out) and getting ready, a recovery period
from yesterday.
It's a beautiful sunny day as we leisurely cross the
huge firth on a
huge bridge (like the Golden Gate, but I can't remember the name) and
head north. Lots more beautiful scenery, yellow and green fields,
grazing sheep and lambs (Rod still telling me I can't have one), and
Rhona points out the city of Perth, her hometown.
A bit more down
the road, and we stop at a local theater with a nice landing
overlooking the Tay river. We enjoy "tea on the Tay," and even
get to watch some salmon jumping up stream.
Back on the road, I read aloud a sign pointing to
Blair Castle,
"Highland Games Today!"
Rhona's head snaps around.
"Is that
what it said?" Rod joins in on her "Oh, no!" wail.
Rod and Rhona's biggest concern all day yesterday
was the number of
people from Glasgow hitting the beach on holiday (and me bracing myself
for the less-than-empty beach Local
Hero experience). While it
was Memorial weekend in the States, England had their own holiday
weekend (bank holiday or something) this weekend, which Glasgow was
also celebrating. Edinburgh, being the cool Scottish city they
are, had their own holiday weekend the week before. Rhona (a
physical therapist) switched days, working last weekend and staying
home this coming Monday with me and Dad. Rod (a veterinary
pathologist lecturer) couldn't switch because he has exams to give this
week. In any case, Rhona scheduled our day so that we would be
arriving at the beach after most people would have left, and her plan
succeeded.
Highland games at Blair Castle, however, was beyond
their expectation.
The Highland Games is a huge local event, sort of
like a county fair,
where people from all over the area come to watch and participate in
the sporting events (all kinds of Scottish thingy throwing), dancing
(highland dancing over crossed swords), and general revelry. Rod
and Rhona feared the crowds would overtake the Castle. Dad and I,
on the other hand, were thrilled (more lucky happenstance for Dad).
We get to the castle parking, and are relieved to
see the games parking
is in another lot, the farthest from the castle. Rod and Rhona
leave me and Dad to tour the castle, they having visited it most
recently as wedding guests (and danced at the huge ballroom, Rhona told
us proudly).
The castle was Dad's favorite aristocratic residence
by far -- the Wedgwood-flavored dining room of white mouldings
enhancing the light green walls, and the gorgeous inlaid wood furniture
and European antique clocks throughout the rooms. A helpful guide
explained to us the complicated story of the latest duke (the 11th one)
to take residence in the castle (when he bothers to be in Scotland --
his
real home is South Africa). The 10th one (well liked by the
locals because he lived in the castle) died unexpectedly recently and,
not having any children of his own, forced the people in charge of that
sort of thing to trace back through his family to find the next in line
-- offspring from the 4th duke's brother.
Before meeting Rod and Rhona for today's picnic
lunch, we slipped over
to the front of the castle, where we just missed the Duke's
processional (complete with highland musicians and the local army) down
the hill to open the highland games. The militia was just
returning to the castle, and I was trying to get one of the soldiers,
in uniform kilt of course, to pose with Dad for a picture, but he --
after a quick pose with a wee little girl -- was pulled away by a
kilted
captain directing him inside. I sighed disappointment, and the
captain smiled broadly and said in even broader Scottish, "I'm
here!"
So he posed with Dad for a great pic.
We walked to the field where Rod and Rhona were
waiting for us at a
picnic table, Rhona serving out egg mayonnaise sandwiches, candy bars
and apples, and Rod lamenting the most
common fatal ailment of every dog that playfully ran by. Then we
stopped by the games gate (Rhona completely intent on crashing it --
she had no interest in spending much time or any money for something
that would really only interest friends of participants who spent the
whole day there watching). Considering the limited length of time
we would spend there (we had plans to visit a distillery before it
closed this afternoon), the cost at the gate turned us away.
So
we travelled uphill to check out the gardens, and realized our hill
overlooked the games -- Dad got to see everything from highland dancing
to hammer throwing, aided by Rod's binoculars. As we began to
leave, Rhona, hearing some Scottish music, got excited and pulled Dad
back to the cliff to watch the band playing what she considered real
Scottish music -- not solo bagpipes like you hear outside train
stations in Edinburgh, but the full drum and bagpipe marching music.
A quick visit to the garden, which was just
beginning its rebuilding
program (small lake, lots of baby trees, and a high stone wall with a
sign requesting all visitors close the gate -- to keep out the baby
tree-eating deer), and we're off!
When we arrive at the Blair Atholl Distillery and
step out of the car,
we doublestep back from the smell of the whiskey in the air.
Everything made of wood -- fences, trees, stems in the rhododendron
bushes -- are black. (The mash in the air attracts yeast that
live
on the wood and turn it black).
Dad and I take the tour (Rod and
Rhona opting to walk around the town), despite the incredibly
thick-accented ticket salesman telling us woefully that the distillery
doesn't actually run on Sunday (if we'd buy more whiskey, they'd run 7
days a week, he tells me). Alas, the ticket salesman is also the
tour guide -- we'll never understand a word he's saying. And we
don't -- half of it, at least -- but Dad is endlessly entertained by
the
man's proud enthusiasm for the place, as if he owned it. He
proudly explained that the taste of the local water makes the whiskey
better, the wood enhances the flavor of the aging, and the two things
you much know about whiskey since it does not age in the bottle: drink
it right away and buy another bottle. That way, they can keep the
distillery open 7 days a week. He went on to explain how a single
malt whiskey is superlative to a blend and the longer it's aged, the
smoother it tastes. We finished the tour with a tasting of a
generous shot of an 8 year-old single malt whiskey, which Dad and I
winced and coughed down. The guide poured a second taste for some
enthusiastic visitors and another for himself, again happily toasting
"Slunge!"
During our drive back, we swing by Scone (rhymes
with dune -- the food
rhymes with gone, the town rhymes with dune) Castle where kings of
Scotland were crowned. A herd of sheep standing on the long
driveway block our car for a few moments (Rod instructs Rhona to honk
the horn or they'll never move), and we pull up to the closed
gates. We can't get in, but Rhona proudly points out the castle
and houses, and I point at the peacocks and one white peacock.
Further down the road, Rhona directs our attention to the world's
biggest beech head, and, a few streets from their house, a couple of
stadiums used in Chariots of Fire
(a fabulous surprise to me).
After dinner (another gastronomic triumph topped
with a sigh-inspiring
melt in your mouth lemon and blackcurrant souffle -- Rhona is amazing),
Dad retired for the evening while Rod disappeared into the study to
work on a chapter of a text book he's been invited to write for his
colleague. Rhona and I chatted endlessly about life in general,
until Rod stuck his head in the door and asked us annoyedly what the
devil we were doing up at this hour ("Talking!" we told him). We
turn in at 1:30, after Rhona and I ran upstairs like, according to her,
"disobedient school girls!"
Tomorrow is our last day in Scotland (boo!).
England and
Scotland for Dad's 70th
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