All Things Go

Galway during the Arts Festival

“We're drinking my friend, To the end of a brief episode, Make it one for my baby, And one more for the road."
--Johnny Mercer

What stands now as three grand weeks of adventure across the pond will, with certainty, seem like a brief episode years from now. But what an episode.

All things come to their end, and so too the Yank's European excursion. Having just finished a return trip to Ireland, where we spent two nights in Galway and then back to Dublin for a day and night, nearly everyone has come home to the States. As I write this message from New York, Hetty has hopefully made a flight out of Dublin and is airborne. Chris, Ashley, Stephanie, and myself (along with the already returned Shane) have left behind the fair green lands of the British Isles. Our last days, after leaving Scotland, were spent on the other side of Ireland, in Galway, during the annual Arts Festival.

We didn't participate in any directly related festival activities, but the little Irish city was certainly in the celebratory spirit and there was music everywhere. It was a great time to have visited. I dropped the ball and recorded no video whilst there, but Chris and the girls snapped some fantastic photos of the town and the coastline. All three girls were with us, as we serendipitously met up with Ashley and Stephanie on the train from Dublin to Galway, they having just flown in from spending the week in Italy and Munich.

Thus we began our trip in Ireland, and so ended it. We rode the train back to Dublin our last day and returned to Abraham House hostel, all the while experiencing a feeling not unlike returning home. For Chris and I's part, the entire trip went as smoothly as silk, and--after we actually made it to Europe--things were about as amazing as one could hope for. We watched the Wimbleton finals from in HDTV while in London, arrived hot on the heels of the Tour de France in Barcelona, saw the running of the bulls in Pamplona, gazed in awe at the fireworks on the Eiffel Tower in Paris on Bastille Day, processed fresh sides of beef on a Scottish farm, gained ten pounds while being spoiled by the nicest Glaswegian in the world, and danced jigs to traditional Irish reels long into the Galway night.

Thus does the journey come to a close, at least for now, for the Yanks Across the Pond.

Bonnie Mountains

It just didn't seem right to leave Glasgow behind, what with all the exquisite pampering we had received at the hands of Shane's Great Aunt Agnus, but we all had flights to catch out of Edinburgh (or Manchester, in Shane's case) thus we parted ways with the fine city. Shane, Chris, and I made plans before leaving to return; the three of us having decided that Glasgow was just the sort of place we should be living. Our only really questionable experience was when Shane caused a rucus by wearing his shirt with a prominent Celtic logo into the place we stopped for lunch. The guy behind the bar pointed to the logo and told Shane, quite seriously, that he better cover it up or get out. We were concerned that we had inadvertantly run afoul of a Ranger's hooligan, and Shane discreetly put on his "jumper". Our meal was eaten in unease, but we weren't about to turn tail and run on account of some soccer-mad Scot.
It turns out, we learned later, that wearing logos or team colors of any kind into public places (outside of general markets and such) is typically forbidden to avoid any unwanted chicanery going down.

After our farewells to Glasgow, we returned by train to Edinburgh. Shane forgot his passport, and only realized it as we entered the station, and thus he had to return to East Kilbride and then meet back up with us later at Waverly. The timing worked out, and soon we were all reunited (Chris, Hetty, Shane, and myself) in Old Town, where we returned to the hostel Chris and I had used and made descreet use of their luggage room before setting out on the town again.

Having already seen much of the town and castle, we all agreed it would be more fun to walk down towards the coast and hike up the mountains known as Arthur's Seat in Holyrood Park. The day was especially windy, and more than once I feared for my life as we ascended to the peak which stands 250 meters (823 ft) above sea level. We have some grand photos, but most are one Shane's camera and so must be posted later.

After the mountain, we did some souvenier shopping and then parted ways, with Chris, Hetty, and I heading for the airport to fly back to Dublin. From Dublin we would spend two days in Glasgow, before returning (today) to fly home on the 23rd.

Anecdotes

As we have been returned now to Ireland for two days, and the trip will shortly be coming to an end, I wanted to take a break and reflect on some of the smaller curiosities of the trip:

I didn't bring a razor to Europe, as I figured if I wanted to shave I could purchase the requisite tools over here. Thus, in Dublin I wandered into the Euro 2 store where everything is 2 Euro and bought a pack of ten disposable razors. I didn't buy shaving cream, saying to myself, 'I'll just cowboy-up and use water. This of course resulted in the most painful shave of my life. I probably would have had a closer, gentler shave if I'd used a roofing shingle.
In London I bought a bottle of shaving cream which made the next time only the second most painful shave of my life.

On the steps outside of Abraham House in Dublin, a Frenchman engaged me in conversation. A few minutes in, he asked in his broken English, "Do you like Obama?" I replied "no." He frowned and was silent. I came back with, "Do you like Sarkozy?" He shook his head fervently and said, "No, he is uh, very bad."
Our conversation pretty much ended there.

In Dublin, an Irish woman stopped us to beg for money by first asking us, in Ireland mind you, "do you speak English?"

On our Wicklow Tour, Tour Guide Steven liked to joke about Gypsies ("they have an uncanny way of finding things before they go missing"). He said in Ireland they are called Travellers, or Tinkers, in England they are called Pikies, and in Georgia they are called Rednecks. Ashley confronted him at the end of the tour, telling him that we were from Georgia and that his joke was in poor taste. Turns out, Steven had lived in Thomasville for a few months on a soccer scholarship. We forgave him the slight, but only once.

In London, Chris and I spoke with a Spaniard from Galacia who told us that Italy was filthy, and then proceeded to emphasize his point by acting as though he was wading through mud to signify all of the garbage on the streets of Rome.

From the train, as we passed through Wales into Western England, we saw acres of trailer parks, on both sides of the tracks. They were cleaned and orderly, but stretched for miles.

Glasgowin' Places

Chris, Ben, and I were all sitting in the kitchen after meat processing, enjoying tea and the warmth of the ancient oven, when Ben looked at the clock and shook his head.

"I thought that work was going to take me all day. I haven't had this much free time in ages." Then he sighed and smiled slightly, "I guess I can take a nap."

The time that Hetty, Chris, and I spent on the farm was a welcome change of pace from the sightseeing and hosteling. We spent less than two days there, but by the time we boarded a train to Glasgow, I for one was quite refreshed (though smelling a bit to be sure.) Ben drove us up to the station, where we bid a fond but hasty farewell, as the our train was just at moment arriving.

The next stop for us in Scotland was Glasgow, where we would join back up with Shane and spend two nights being spoiled by his Great Aunt Agnus. To that end, we road the train into Glasgow Queen's Station and then had to walk down to Glasgow Central and catch a train to East Kilbride, a quiet little suburb of row houses and chatty local butchers who are always up for 18 holes (so Shane told us.) We were unsure of the house at first, because it was literally right next to the train stop, so we camped down in a cafe that had free wifi to check emails and confirm. It turned out we had the right house, and I ran across the street and knocked loudly, drawing forth a Shanerton.


Staying with Aunt Agnus was unbelievable. She is the nicest woman, with a thick Scottish accent, who fits every stereotype of the doting grandmother. If she caught wind of any need we had, she was quick to remedy it--and she wouldn't take no for an answer. She fed us breakfast and dinner both days--even making us a meat pie--and we all probably gained ten pounds each. Breakfast and dessert were all accompanied by thick, real creme that we had to eat less we risk disappointing. Her house was fantastic, with two stories and a massive loft. We each had our own bed, and a shower that had a start and stop button.

Shane led us into Glasgow (it was a mere 20 minute train ride) the afternoon we arrived to show us around and give us a nice taste of the culture difference between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Where the capital is far older looking, and more geared towards tourist, the former industrial center of Glasgow has become a nexus for fashion and art, with more that four Art Museums and Galleries. However, Chris and I had already experienced quite enough art for one trip, and we decided not to bother with anymore (modern, specifically.) Glasgow looks like and must be a far more livable city, with American style shopping malls and pedestrian streets lined with shops and Quiznos.
At one point, we were walking towards the central station to return to East Kilbride when Chris started wandering in the wrong direction. We called for him, and he suddenly snapped out of a daze. Hurrying over he apologized and said,
"Sorry. I saw someone eating a meat pie, and I noticed the name on the wrapper was Greggs. So when I saw that Greggs over there, I just started walking towards it unconsciously."
We would later enjoy some fine Scotch Pies from Greggs.

The next day Hetty was not feeling well (she thinks from the rare steaks we ate the other night, here stomach not being accustomed to such fare). She planned to stay around East Kilbride with Aunt Agnus while we men were going to head back into Glasgow and try to catch a train to Turnberry, where the British Open was just finishing up. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the city, the service to the Open had ceased. Disappointed, we fell back and regrouped. I had read about a museum the night before called the Royal Highland Fusiliers Museum, and we decided to go have a look. Strike two. For some reason, on a Saturday no less, the museum was closed.

With no other real plans, we decided to do a bit of shopping as I needed a jacket and Shane wanted to get some Celtic (the catholic football club in Glasgow, of which his side of the family are fans) apparel. I ended up finding a vary nice Celtic (pronounced "Sell-tick") jacket that was on sale. Shane picked up a shirt that had the clubs logo on the breast, and he immediately changed into it. His shirt caused problems later, because soccer hooliganism is a real issue in Glasgow...but more on that later.

Agricultured

"Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit."
--Robert Burns

After we met Hetty at Waverly Station in Edinburgh, Chris and I hurried back to the hostel to fetch our bags before jumping on board a train bound for Glasgow. Our stop was not Scotland's other big city, but rather an ancient little farming town between the two called Linlithgow. It was here, at Bonnytoun Farms, that Hetty had some "relatives." The reality of the situation is this: Hetty's family is good friends with a woman named Ruthie who they grew up around and called their "cousin." Ruthie some seven years ago met a nice Scottish boy named Ben who had come to America on holiday and decided to stay. They married, and a little while later moved back to Scotland to take over the family farm. At the time we were arriving, however, Ruthie was actually on holiday herself in the States and thus Ben and two of their children (five year old Casper and 2 year old Poppy) were the ones to greet us along with their sheep dog Dash and family dog Rover.

Ben is a friendly man, and he made an excellent host as we settled in for a night in the large, aged farmhouse that sat on the edge of 200 arces of pasture land where cattle, sheep, and horses grazed. The place reminded me of my own family's farm in Flordia, but considerablly larger and Scottish. We arrived late afternoon, and Ben sent us to the polytunnel (greenhouse type structure) to pick ourselves some green veg for supper. He already had the potatoes pulled up, and was about to prepare the amazing, enormous cuts of steak we had chosen. The entire meal we ate came from the farm, and it was probably the best I had the entire trip. The next day, we made an attempt to repay Ben's hospitality by helping him take a few fresh sides of beef he had just slaughtered and process them into mince (hamburger meat), diced, and his own special reciped sausages. He was glad for the help, he told us, as the hour we four spent working together would have taken him the entire day by himself.

You Take the High Road...I'll Take the Train

"O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent; Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content."
--Robert Burns

We left Paris on the morning of the 15th after a quick breakfast at the station. We would later that day take lunch in London, and then supper in Edinburgh. The trip from Paris to London was lightning quick, as we took the Eurostar train through the chunnel. I slept most of the way, making the journey seem that much more brief. In London we took a moment to walk back out into King's Cross (we had become quite familiar with the area) in order to eat a quick meal and stop by a Tesco so I could stock up on HP Sauce to bring back to the states. We then boarded a train and bid a final farewell to London, and England all together.

The train up through the countryside was pleasant, and by the time we crossed into Scotland the scenery had become spectacular. However, the best bit of the whole affair was the free wifi that was pumping throughout the train. By the time we had reached Edinburgh, I was nearly caught up on my interneting...but only nearly.
Edinburgh is a grand city, and as one exits Waverly Station (named after the Walter Scott novel) the medieval walls and castles that still survive in Old Town jump out and announce themselves with quiet grandeur. The crown jewel of the city is of course Edinburgh Castle, which guards the city from on high from its untenable mount. We would eventually see the castle from all angles, and go up into it as far as we could for free. A seventeen pound fee is required to enter all the way, and we were warned ahead of time that the price of admission is not worth what you experience. That evening, after checking into a hostel for the night, we found a likely looking restaurant and sat down for our first helping of haggis, complete with mash and turnips (tatties and neeps as they say.) The haggis was the best I've had (though the Australians make a fine attempt) and I must say that I have grown immeasurably fond of turnips during this trip.
Our hostel was just off the Royal Mile which stretches from the garish Scottish Parliament building at one end (a point of national pride since it only came into existence in 1999 after the union of the with the English Parliament in 1702) all the way up to the Castle on the other end. In between are countless kilt shops, souvenirs stores (all selling the exact same merchandise), and pubs that are designed to lure tourists in for "traditional" Scottish fare. We spent the night in relative comfort, having to close to window at one point against the chill, and awoke with a plan to explore a bit and then meet with Hetty when she arrived at the train station that afternoon. She was coming fresh from a stay in Amsterdam at a Christian Mission Center, having taken an overnight ferry to London and then a train up to Waverly.

Yep, that's haggis, sausage, rashers, beans, and a tomato. Covered with plenty of brown sauce.

After an amazing traditional breakfast courtesy of the buffet in the cafe of our hostel, Chris and I spent the majority of the morning in the fascinating and jam-packed Scottish National Museum that was seven floors filled with artifacts, fossils, and history. The exhibits there on the Romans and Vikings were larger than most regular museums. An incredible amount of artifacts remain in existence dating all the way back to the pre-Christian Picts and Scots. As an added bonus, the entirely free museum allows visitors to access a platform on the roof to get a panoramic view of Edinburgh, with clear views all the way to the coast (which didn't seem that far away.)

Around 4:30 in the afternoon, we returned to the train station and within minutes had located the newly arrived Hetty and picked out the next train we would all be taking to her "cousins" farm in Linlithgow. What was to follow was the beginning of an extremely interesting and rewarding stay on a cattle/pig/sheep farm in the rolling Scottish countryside.

Fireworks at the Tour Eiffel

And this was just the five minute opener...