Long We Tossed On The Rolling Main

Friends, Romans, Countrymen...

I'm back in Glasgow! We left Stornoway by ferry at the ungodly hour of 6am this morning and drove and drove and drove through the centre of Scotland to return here, to home, and the chance to repack before I board a plane tomorrow morning for the Emerald Isle.

A few things I'll miss from my time in Stornoway:

1. The sheep!

They're everywhere! Mincing across the road as if they have no idea you're bearing down on them at 50 an hour. Better yet, not even bothering to get up from their afternoon siesta across the double yellow line. Lewis sheep look different from the normal countryside variety. They've got character. And My day will be that much greyer without them.

2. Sailing.

Stornoway is an ocean town. The island has so many seafaring connections it's unbelieveable. There are some seriously beautiful tall ships who come and set anchor here for a few months every year, the fishermen come home each day with the sea lions in their wake and the birds diving overhead, and the locals make amazing yard decor from old buoys and fishing net. A few days ago I had the pleasure of getting to temporarily play skipper aboard a 26' sailboat in the Minch. Several hours of pure bliss skimming before a stiff breeze up the craggy coast towards Harris.

3. The Sunsets.

That's all that needs to be said about them.

So I leave Lewis behind for my next stop, Dublin! Now, at last, after the madness of the Fringe Festival, I can settle down to being a budget traveler and spending as little as possible. But just when I thought it was safe to not go broke, I discover that the city of my destination has decided to host its own Fringe Festival in September.

Bastards!

I'm going to have a hell of a time restraining myself from seeing every show I can lay my grubby little mits on. Luckily I'm not staying long becaue of Laignee!

For Laignee's sake (You'd better still be keeping up with the blog, young lady. It was your idea in the first place.) I am roughing it by bus to the Southern countryside in search of a small bakery bearing her last name. Of course the national bus route to the place has just been cancelled, so I am on a quest to avoid walking the 50kn from Waterford on my own little tootsies by any means necessary. We'll see how that goes.

And then there's the matter of my European Union passport. I haven't been boring you all with the details of my family's trials and tribulations vis a vis the labyrinthine beurocracy inherent in any governmental department responsible for citizenship, because I wouldn't want to inflict that sort of torture on anyone voluntarily. However, the fight has been going on for about three years on and off, and now, when it matters most of all, we're at an impasse.

So some drastic steps have been taken, and some exciting plans have been laid. Like any surprise tactical maneuver, this one has daring advances to places nobody expects, long-lost reuinons with souls given up for lost, secretive documents which must be delivered safely to certain parties, and plenty of time doing battle with the Forces of Nature.

You are all in the dark for now for the sake of your own safety. Information will be dispensed on a need to know basis.

Remember: The codeword is "Badgers." We meet tonight at the sign of the Flummoxed Haggis!

Illness and General Debauchery

Time flies when you're staying on a remote island in the Northern Hemisphere with a man who's almost blown up a whiskey distillery on more than one occasion.

Or at least, I think that's how the saying goes.

Time spent thus far on the Isle of Lewis has been fantastic. The landscape is so ancient and full of tradition and history. Everything is beautiful. We've drove from coast to coast looking at everything worth looking at...which is everything. Standing stones far more extensive, impressive, and accessible than Stonehenge (Thank you, low tourist traffic!), blackhouse villages infused with the delicious scent of burning peat, bow-legged sheep grumpily vacating the narrow roads, white sand beaches pounded by wild, aquamarine surf and hemmed in with astonishing rock formations, and eccentric cottages populated by kittens and leatherworking milkmen drinking tea from champagne flutes.

There is a sense of belonging here. These people were raised on the island. Their anscestors have lived here for centuries. It is a world of old ways. Of craftsmen and farmers. People surviving by common sense and a unique relationship with the land they live on. It makes me realize how transient everything is in America. How scattered and young and chaotic. I've never felt as at home there as I feel I could given time to live here. It's bleak and wild and beautiful. The people are kind. Life is simple.

Apart from driving and exploring, I've had time to relax and read (It Ends With Magic by Spike Milligan, John Masefield's poetry, My Family And Other Animals by Gerald Durrel, and Contact Zero by David Wolstencroft) as well as wander aimlessly through the countryside.

Such a day was yesterday, when I set out for the castle around 12pm. The castle sits on a hilltop beside the harbor, rising out of a forest of birch and willow. The grounds go on for miles and are full of trails and adventuresome places. I wandered through many of them before ending up on a long track which ran straight into the distance. Shoes cast aside in favor of the deliciously springy turf and oozing mud, I must've walked for two miles or so before reaching a fork which would lead me back to the town centre.

Heading home, I couldn't resist the temptation to explore a small side trail which ran downhill into the underbrush on my right. Careful not to slip in the black mud and cake myself in earth, I proceeded down, down, down until I emerged into the most beautiful glade imagineable. Ancient trees with low, curving branches completely covered in green moss formed a canopy overhead. My inner imp took over and soon I was 20 feet up in the largest tree, cradled by the padded branches. These were trees that were meant to be climbed. You could feel it in them. Each handhold was perfectly placed, each low-slung branch just wide enough to lounge on in comfort, the trunk steadfast and strong. I've been branded a tree-hugger in my time, but many trees aren't that comfortable to embrace. Not so these. They were soft and warm and loving.

I gamboled for at least half an hour, delighted by my find, when the wind dropped.

For many, this would be a relief. The wind here is like a person all its own. A constant presence. A character. It buffets you from all directions wherever you are. A lack of breeze would be a relief, no?

Wrong.

When the wind dies a far more sinister presence is able to take it's place: The Midges.

Scottish Midges are very small, very sociable, and very toothy. They swarm one's head and any other exposed body parts, nipping like the Dickens, buzzing into nostrils and ears and eyes. They're enough to drive even then strongest man mad. And when the wind is gone, they arrive.

When I inadvertently stuck my head into a swarm of them I almost fell out of the tree. Swatting desperately at my face, I managed to climb down and get my immediate airspace relatively clear, but they were on the move. I had to act quickly. Hoping to find sanctuary by continuing downhill, I grabbed by backpack and set off further down the path.

This proved a grave error. The track, if it could be called that, was shin-deep in black mud, threatening to smack me down on my backside at every step. It wound steeply through dense foliage and was bordered by a stagnant trickle of water. Of course this was a perfect midge breeding ground. I barged through swarm after swarm, one hand keeping me balanced, the other defending my breathing passages, until finally, finally, I exploded out of the underbrush and onto the main road.

Luckily there was nobody passing because I looked a right mess. Mud-spattered, wild-eyed, clinging to my bag and my jacket. I stumbled along the road until I reached the Island, a lump of turf nestled out in the harbor, connected only by a thin strip of land. The ocean felt like Heaven itself. I washed my feet as best I could, rinsed my face, and collapsed on the grass.

Once I had regained my strength I struck out for home. On the way back I sampled a few of the blackberries hanging in ripe indigo clusters by the side of the trail. This is an important point. Make note of it.

When I finally got home I was so tired I just collapsed into bed and slept until 7pm. The rest of the evening passed without event until about 9. I was curled happily on the couch watching Rome on uktvHistory, when my stomach started to hurt. After about half an hour I decided the best thing would be to sleep it off since it wouldn't get better, so I went back to bed.

Let's skip ahead to 2am. Stomach still in agony, I was coming to terms with the fact that something I'd eaten -- I blame the blackberries -- wasn't agreeing with my system. I couldn't sleep. I was miserable. Finally, I managed to throw up and get whatever it was out of my stomach. Thank God. I fell asleep soon after and woke up this morning feeling vastly improved, if still rather delicate.

So the moral of this story is:

Well, I think you can figure that one out for yourselves.

Until next time...