Dressed for Depressed

The strangest things happen when you’re busy ignoring everything.  I went to see my doctor yesterday because I go every three months following lab work so that he can check my thyroid function.  He also takes a reading of my blood pressure and writes me out a prescription for bp and thyroid meds and looks after whatever other minor complaints I have that can be treated easily, like the stupid rash I get every so often that requires a cortisone cream, and lately my retracted ear drum problems. 

While I am sitting in the waiting room reading some silly article on gray hair and the pros and cons of covering it up (seriously, I need to start writing for magazines – they publish all kinds of meaningless drivel) a stretcher comes in through the office door and the three attendants take it quickly to the back.  They don’t seem to be in any great hurry, and they are back there for at least half an hour, making everyone’s appointment late.  But you expect that kind of thing at a medical facility.  Eventually they wheel it back out, this time with a little old grey faced man strapped to it, staring morosely into space, on his way to the hospital by ambulance.  This is also the kind of thing that happens all the time, but it just suddenly makes me want to weep.  So of course I choke that back because it’s a public place and I don’t know him from Adam and where in the world did those feelings come from anyway??  It’s like crying about a tv show or even a commercial and then having to tell yourself to get a grip, for God’s Sake. 

And then when I am called back to the exam room to wait for the doctor I start thinking about how tired I am all the time lately, and how my parents are in their nineties and that anything could happen to them at any time, and why do I have no energy, and yes, I need to lose weight but exercise exhausts me, and maybe my heart will just suddenly give up on me or I’ll have a stroke or I’ll get cancer.  Pleasant stuff.  And then the doctor walks in and asks me how I’m doing.  And I tell him I feel like I’ve been sick for months.  Ever since I got a flu shot it’s been worse.  I’m dizzy and tired and I just want to sleep all the time.  I’m coughing and congested and blah blah blah.  Poor guy.  Usually I just tell him I’m fine and he’s quickly done with me.  This time he looks at me in a kind of intense way, and carefully explains the thyroid results.  And assures me they’re fine.  And he checks my bp and my ears and has me do a couple of balancing things, which I think I didn’t exactly pass.  And then he asks me a bunch of questions which I answer a bit listlessly, because really what’s the point, and then he wants to know if I’d like to talk to someone.  Huh?  I’d like to refer you to a psychologist, he tells me, and writes her name and number on yet another rx slip.  The symptoms you’re describing could be related to some sort of depression.   

MOI??  I’m not depressed!  I’m just….so NOT depressed.  This is funny.  But I take the prescriptions and thank him and before I’m back in my car I’m sobbing.  And nothing makes sense.  I have nothing to be so unhappy about.  I have no idea where this is coming from.  I’ve just had it in my head for so long that upping my thyroid meds is all I need to make me feel fine, that thinking there could be some other reason for it seems bizarre. 

So I do the get a grip thing, take some deep breaths, and drive home in a kind of daze.  I don’t think I’ll make that phone call, but then I do.  The doctor told me I’d have to leave a message and wait for a call back.  So leaving a message is pretty easy.  I try not to think about the call back.  Maybe I won’t pick up.  But then I do that too.  The doctor sounds lovely.  She has a bit of a scottish accent.  She asks me what is going on in my life right now that might be making me feel depressed and I can’t think of anything so I say I don’t know.  She waits, but I still don’t know.  She asks me about medications and menopause and some other general things.  We set up an appointment date and time.  I think I’d better try to make a list between now and then of all the possible things that are depressing the hell out of me, or she’ll think I’m wasting her time.  And then I think, what the hell, why make her job easy?  Let her dig it out of me. 

My sister told me one time that I can’t save the world.  And I know that’s true.  But I sometimes feel like I have to try, even though there’s no hope of succeding,  and then I think I’ll go stark raving mad.  So I have this coping thing I do. If things are too horrific to contemplate, I push them out of my mind.  If even a dream upsets me, I resolutely make myself go back to sleep and change it so that things work out better. I refuse to dwell on all the real life things that are unpleasant and over which I have no control.  I’ve become very good at repressing all kinds of stuff I guess, and the thought of retrieving some of that ugly crap from the depths of my subconcious and looking at it up close and personal scares me.  A lot.  It’s very nice here in denial, thank you very much. 

But then I think of the emotions that bubble up from what seems like nowhere.  I don’t have panic attacks, I have attacks of rage.  And sometimes despondency.  It’s more than being annoyed and it’s much more than mere frustration.  So I guess, like everyone else, I have ISSUES that could use some level headed resolving. 

I’ll probably find out I just have way too much free time on my hands and too many opportunities to think.  We learned when we were little to never tell mom that we were bored because she could rattle off about twenty things we could be doing, all of them involving work.  Work makes me so tired.  I’d rather lie around all day being neurotic.  So if ‘get a hobby’ is the worst thing I hear at my upcoming session, I guess that would be a good thing.

Obsessed and Posessed

I’m going through an obsession stage in my life right now.  This is not the first time, and I’m sure it will not be the last.  There have been many.  Let’s see if I can make a list.  List making should probably be on that list, but whatever.

1.  crocheting and knitting.   I cringe to think of all the various hand made projects that I used to send to everyone for Christmas.  And the doilies and pillow covers and afghans and other decorative pieces of crap that I always had cluttering up my house.   There’s still evidence of them here and there, things I just can’t seem to part with mostly because of the blood sweat and tears involved in their creation.  This obsession comes and goes, but has not reared it’s ugly head for quite some time.  Last I remember being possessed in this way was when the grand babies were little and needed (NEEDED!) something knitted by a grandma.  I’ve also gone on dish cloth knitting marathons.  But I don’t even like the stupid things anymore.

2.  sewing.  I no longer consider this activity an obsession threat, because I basically hate everything about it except maybe the results.  Haven’t really sewn anything major since my kids outgrew one piece coveralls with turtle appliques.  But I still mend and alter and can even whip up a pair of curtains when the mood hits.  And for this I had to buy a brand new sewing machine.  Because the other one was old and finicky and I had in the back of my mind that if I got a nice new one I might get back into sewing stuff.  Hasn’t really happened yet.  And the new machine actually sat downstairs looking nice for about six months until I finally decided to learn how to thread it.  Some things you just shouldn’t rush.

3.  painting. This is a bad one, that I’ve had more than once and I know it’s going to catch up with me again in a big way once I’m finished working.  Started off doing acrylics on canvas leaning heavily towards northern themes, then got deep into tole painting which was way more fun.  Eventually got to the point of selling my stuff and lasted at that for almost two years.  Now I do it purely for my own entertainment.  And perhaps for the amusement of others.  One of these days I’m going to try water colors.  If I’m any good at it, I may just keep at if for as long as I can hold a brush and see.  And maybe even beyond that.  You never know.

4.  house redecorating.  This always starts off as a minor little thing and quickly grows into an uncontrollable monster that has me by the throat and will not let go.  Something simple, like painting the walls in the master bedroom just mushrooms out of control, until I’m no sooner putting the finishing touches on one room than I’m bringing home paint chips and paper and tile samples for the next one.  My latest thing has been doing themes.  Please don’t gag.  I try to be tasteful.  I loved the African thing so much that it has kind of stealthily made it’s way into many parts of the house and threatens to take over the whole thing.  W. wonders where this all came from.  I have no idea really.  Could be because he loves the cool blue and white northern ambiance, so I turn it upside down and go for red and hot and giraffe infested instead.  And since I’m the one who does all the work, all our northern stuff has slowly migrated to the basement, on it’s way to the storeroom, and from there into oblivion if I have any say in the matter. 

5.  furniture rearrangement.  This is a secondary obsession that follows close on the heels of number 4, or fills in as a temporary fix.  Standing in the middle of a room and contemplating where everything could be moved to is the real fun.  Actually moving all the heavy stuff is just plain hard work, and frustrating as hell if it doesn’t pan out and has to be moved back.  But there’s something so uplifting in making a change.  When D. was younger and got in a bad mood, switching her room all around made her happy.  It must be something in our genes.

6.  Canadian Idol message board.  This was a super bad one.  It started off innocently enough perusing the CI site the first year the show was on.  Then it progressed to reading the comments.  And eventually to making up a user name and logging in and testing the water with a few comments of my own.  Well.  You get a response, and you respond to that, and ideas and opinions begin to fly and suddenly I was so sucked in by it all I didn’t think I’d ever find my way out.  Most of the time it was hilarious fun.  Then it got to be a test of patience and tolerance as all the idiots appeared.  And finally it made me furious more often than not, and that seemed like a good time to just give it up.  Good things came out of it though.  I made some awesome on-line friends with whom I still communicate, and I’m still a CI fan, although not as fanatic anymore.  Now the CI board good times are just past memories for most of us.  Some still post and some still moderate but I rarely ever go there anymore.    

7.  solitaire.  Used to play with real cards and knew lots of variations.  Loved the game on our first computer.  Now it’s all about Spider, hardest level.  Minesweeper, Hearts and Freecell have all held my attention for a time, but good old spider solitaire normally has no serious rivals for my attention when it comes to offsetting boredom on any given day. Like up to 10 times per.  It’s always ‘just one more’ try and then I’ll quit.  But the prospect of one more win looms, and I have to chase it down.

8.  cooking and baking and canning.  When we lived up north there was really nothing much to do, stuck at home all day, too cold to go anywhere, t.v. too dull for words.  At one point in my life I decided to make do-nuts.  That compulsion lasted for months.  I have gone on bread baking binges.  There have been crock pot history-making mystery concoctions from hell.  Inspired by my sister and hoards of green tomatoes, last year I made chutney and relish.  Ask me how much of that is still taking up space in my cupboards.  Or better yet, don’t ask,  unless you want to get a bunch of it for Christmas.  I will probably never get over my insane urge to make at least ten times too much of any given thing at any given time.  If there are four people expected for dinner, each of them could bring two friends and still we would not run out of food.    

9.  music and movies collections.  I joined a record club when I was in my teens and started off collecting a whole whack of ‘record of the month’ selections because I could never get that stupid card mailed back fast enough, if at all.  When I left home I left them behind, not having developed any kind of strong attachment to any of them except maybe Johnny Rivers singing Tracks of My Tears.  That was a great one for belting out with a broken heart.  When W. and I first got married we had a machine that played 8-track tapes.  We were very poor and had collected only about four of them when suddenly cassette tapes were all the rage.   We used to buy albums, play them once to record them on tape, and then put them away and never take them out again because…..that’s what W. said to do.  I’ll have to ask him the reason for that one of these days.  Many of our once-played albums are still sitting here in the living room collecting dust.  Maybe they’re worth a fortune.  Maybe they’re worthless.  We should look into that some day too.  And then of course time marched on and tapes were replaced with CD’s and we have a big collection of those now as well.  Then there’s the movies – from beta to VHS to DVD’s.  If we live long enough, those will all be obsolete and we’ll once again be madly collecting something new. 

10.  sudoko.  I hate numbers and math and calculations.  But once my brother-in-law convinced me that there was none of that involved in this challenging little game and gave me a few pointers the obvious next step for me was to become hooked and buy books full of these puzzles.  It got so bad for awhile that I would do a couple of them before going to sleep instead of reading something!  That’s just sick.  I still pick up the occasional one and doodle for awhile but if the numbers don’t come easy, or if I make one mistake that leads to a few more before I catch it, I no longer scramble to find the white out so I can start over.  I am able to put it down and back slowly away.  Or scrunch it all up and throw it away.  But I will admit it took a LOT of games to finally get to this point.

11.  writing.  For somebody who has so little of importance to say, I certainly do go on and on.  This goes way back.  It started with those first silly little made up stories full of hilarious spelling errors, then it was on to a diary, kept faithfully for months at a time and then studiously ignored for about the same time span.  Diary keeping has been an off and on thing my entire lifetime.  Compositions, short stories, verses in home-made mother’s day cards, letters, love poems and cheesey lyrics never to be set to music by anyone sane.  And finally the natural progression to a blog that shows no signs of ever coming to an end. 

12.  scrabble.  Ah, yes.  At last, we come to the reason for starting this whole long diatribe in the first place.  My most recent obsession, an off shoot of facebook (which is a whole other time consuming topic in itself).  Beware if you have not yet added the Scrabulous application, and be smart enough to avoid it like the plague.  It will consume you.  There are eight people at the moment that play the game with me.  One game ends and another one starts. I check the status of my games like a crazed fanatic and ponder over plays and coloured squares and consonants and vowels and double word scores.  Some days I feel as fixated as the scrabulous robot.  I don’t know when I’ll tire of this – maybe when everyone else is sick to death of playing against me.  I’m pretty sure I can restrict my addiction to my facebook friends, and not get the urge to start playing with strangers on line.  Even the worst obsessive compulsive person has their limits, right? 

So that’s why my blog is suffering from neglect right now.  I’m busy memorizing the TWL dictionary of two letter words.  And training myself to look for the best possible highest scoring spot on the board.  And marvelling at my oponents inspired plays that mess everything up.  Give it a couple more weeks or so and I expect I’ll be burned out and engrossed in something new.  But right now I have a feeling there’s a message for me somewhere that says “PLAY YOUR TURN” and so I gotta go.   I must obey the commands of the Scrabulous Gods until they decide the time is right to set me free.

Stonehenge: The Final Chapter.

Hmmm.  Too much like Space:  The Final Frontier?  Thinking up titles has never been my strong point.

Anyway, we suddenly found ourselves on the last day of the Amazing Britain tour.  After spending the evening in a Bristol pub you’d think we might all have had hangovers the next morning, but I don’t remember anyone on the night of day nine having enough energy to lift too many glasses.  It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning as we made our way to the city of Bath to visit the Roman Baths.  The tour guide book says “to test the waters”, but that’s just not even an option.  We were warned as soon as we got there not to touch it or drink it (as if!!).  It’s a ghastly green color for starters.  And doesn’t smell all that great.  It’s left as it’s been for centuries, untreated and, well, green. 

This is the beautiful cathedral or abbey beside the entrance to the Roman Baths.  On either side of this section of the building there are angels climbing Jacob’s Ladder, ascending to heaven, and at the bottom of each one, a fallen angel.   Fronk said the fallen angels were named Frank and Paul.  But he couldn’t back that up at all. 

This is our first view of the baths, looking down from a walkway that goes along three sides and then back into the larger part of the building where you can go down to this and other sections, right up close and personal with the skanky water.

This is one of several kind of decrepit looking statues around the walkway.  Each of us had a huge telephone like aparatus on which to push buttons in order to listen to all kinds of information.  I wish these places would figure out some kind of headset thing that worked well for clumsy people like me trying to operate a camera at the same time.

I love this shot – the only reason it’s ghostly and hazey is because it was taken through glass.  But I don’t know, doesn’t it make it easy to imagine a lot of scantilly clad Romans, hanging about, going for a dip? There’s even a phantom beach ball bottom right. 

I’m the only person I know who takes pictures of pictures.  These could be some of my ancestor’s relatives enjoying tea in Bath!!  Not very likely, but possible nonetheless. 

It would have been very helpful if I’d read anything at all about what is going on here.  Looks like the bathwater got drained at least once over the years.

This is where the water appeared to be boiling as it was bubbling away.  It’s a natural hot springs. There’s something that sunk in.

And shortly after that, my second memory stick was full.  What are the odds?  And it’s still Sunday morning (shops don’t open until 11:00) and our next stop is Stonehenge.  Since I cannot phathom turning up there without a camera, we do a crazy search for a camera shop, find one, and spend some ridiculous number of pounds on a memory card that I don’t even care to find out what size it is.  Phew. 

Here’s a shot of some statue on the way back to the bus to make sure the camera is working.  And what have we learned from this?  Take the advice of the camera shop people before you leave home and purchase the most incredibly huge memory card they have, just like they advise.  Then pick up another one besides. 

We continued on across the Salisbury Plain in crazy anticipation of seeing the mysterious and imposing monoliths of Stonehenge. Whereupon Fronk took it upon himself to warn us that it was entirely possible that many of us could be totally underwhelmed by this group of big rocks standing in the middle of a field.  Well, I was not one of those unfortunate underwhelmed people.  We picked up our telephone thingies and tromped through an under the road tunnel and voila.  The big rocks.  Absolutely awesome. 

We had to wear shades.  Actually, I don’t know why the sunglasses, but I must admit I never really noticed that until just now.  There was a low fence that kept people a respectful distance away.  I took pictures from every angle.  Like about every 10 steps or so around the circle. 

 

 

 

 

So, are you sick of it yet?  Me neither.  I could have stayed there all day.  The commentary was extremely interesting, but as usual I didn’t retain a whole lot of it, and I’m glad I brought home yet another book which contains all kinds of interesting information about where these stones came from and what the formation means and represents. 

Whoever set up this tour knew what they were doing, keeping us dazzled right up to the end.  Apparently after this there was the Salisbury Cathedral with it’s tallest spire in England claim to fame, and Wiltshire and Hampshire and godonlyknows what other shires, and poof.  Just like that, we arrived back in London at the Hotel Olympia where we just wanted to PASS OUT, thank you very much.  But of course we had to do the final re-pack in preparation for our very early morning Gatwick Express train ride to the airport.  So we ordered room service – our final splurge – and thoroughly enjoyed a very relaxing evening doing not much at all. 

The flight back was long and uneventful, with more great movies and excellent food.  It was kind of disappointing to have an all Canadian crew this time around though.  I started missing the beautiful accents almost immediately.  And since my ear crackled and popped and completely cleared on take off and for the duration of the flight, I could have heard them properly at last too!  The problem turned out to be a retracted ear drum.  The doctor says I’m very lucky that I didn’t get an infection or worse.  Whatever worse might have been, I don’t even want to know.  But the worst of it was over once we landed in Toronto, and I put up with the relatively minor in comparrison buzz until I got back home.

Were we ready to come home?  I think so.  I’m not sure how people keep going for twice the length of time, but I guess you can learn to pace yourself.  And would we go back?  Absolutely yes.  But I think I need a recovery period of at least two years.  I spent another week with my sister (she did VERY well pretending not to be sick to death of me) and visiting our parents and whoever else we had time to see, although the list was short since the time continued to fly by and before I knew it I was on my way again.  That’s a whole whack of flying for an old lady who doesn’t like to go anywhere. 

But I’m already thinking about the highlands.  And Ireland.  And Paris in the spring.  I’m kidding about the Paris part right now, but who knows what crazy notions the suddenly enlarged travel section of my brain might entertain.  Or maybe we’ll just take a car trip to Newfoundland some summer.  That would be almost like going to a foreign country where you don’t understand a word they say.  So I suppose you could say I have been bitten by a very small travel bug.  Time will tell if there’s a cure for that. 

A Spot of Bother

This is the book by Mark Haddon that I carried with me across the ocean and back.  Sort of like the apple that went into my backpack in London and came out again in pretty decent shape back at the same hotel ten days later. 

The title of this book just sounded so very British, it seemed like an excellent choice.  And no matter where I am, I am like my mother always used to be, not able to go to sleep properly until after I’ve had a book hit me in the face at least twice.  On this trip that happened in record time after reading sometimes only a page or two, and my plans to finish it in Ontario didn’t happen either;  so it came all the way home with me too. 

I haven’t read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time by the same author, but now I’d like to, because the writing is great.  For some reason or other, it’s very comforting to read about a dysfunctional family.  It makes my own seem so reassuringly normal.  This book was well written from many points of view, very aptly illustrating the hard truth that no one ever really understands what anyone else is going through. 

The other book I took with me I can’t for the life of me remember the name of, or even the author.  I left it at my daughter-in-law’s house.  It will turn up here again eventually.  I hope she finds it slightly more memorable than I did, but I’m not optimistic about that.  A guy with a Scottish heritage who grew up in Nova Scotia was relating a sort of family history while looking out for his alcoholic brother in a seedy part of Toronto.  

I’ve just finished The Moonlit Cage by Linda Holeman who also wrote The Linnet Bird and a lot of other stuff. 

This one follows a young Afghan girls life from her birthplace, to India and then to London in the 1800’s.  It was good, but when you get right down to it, a little too much of a romance novel and not enough of an historical one maybe.   I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for. 

What I’m reading now is exactly what I’m always looking for.  It’s Anybody Out There by Marian Keyes.  It’s a book that is making me laugh and cry almost simultaneously. 

No one can ask more of any book than that.  It’s bloody brilliant.  Makes me want to visit Ireland.  And never ever go to New York.  And buy a whole lot more books by Marion Keyes.   

And I think that’s it for my literary pursuits for now. 

Chester, Tintern and Bristol

In Chester there are black and white Tudor arcaded buildings known as “The Rows”. 

They’re everywhere it seems, but this is one of the few places where we saw interspersed buildings made with bricks.  It seemed odd to see red brick and wood after days and days of nothing but stone.

This is the view from a walkway above the street.  There were all kinds of interesting carved gargoyle type things everywhere too.

From down on the street looking up at a walkway overpass.

On the overpass looking up at the clock. I took a whole series of pictures from one side and the other, coming and going.  I’ll spare you having to oooh and aaaah over a dozen of them.

Back on street level where we went wandering through a park to get to the Chester Cathedral. 

On the way we saw some trees with red bark. I also took a couple of pictures of a grey squirrel.  Sigh.  Photographer on auto pilot.

The cathedral, which appears to be made with brick that looks like stone. 

Since this was the second last day of our tour I was starting to get panicky about the state of my right ear and imagined all sorts of dire things happening to my ear drum on our flight back to Canada.  So I was popping decongestant tablets every four hours and using nasal spray as often as I thought about it.  Of course I found out later that neither of these things would have done any good at all, and in fact weren’t a great idea for a person prone to high blood pressure.  So, I was a bit doped up, and tired, and paying less and less attention to details.  So this last series of pictures in places confuses the hell out of me, trying to figure out where and what they are.  Sorry if I’m sounding a little vague. 

Anyway, here’s a picture that you might think came from an entirely different vacation.

It was a vendor’s stand in an open market I THINK in Ludow. If I could have thought of some brilliant plan, or any conceivable way at all,  to bring home a suitcase full of these giraffes without breaking them I’m sure it would have happened.  There were also masks and many more beautiful African things.  I had to walk away before I started drooling over them. 

And I seriously don’t even remember taking this picture, or going through this close, but I’m thinking it just might have been on the way to somewhere to have lunch, so it’s an important one.

I’m pretty sure this is the Parish Church of St. Laurence in Ludlow.  For some reason or other I picked up a pamphlet there which explains its history, and lists the days and times of services.  Like I felt that would be useful to me or something. 

The obligatory picture of yet another incredible work of stained glass art.

Isn’t this great?  More and more pictures, less and less information.

I definitely do remember taking this one though.  See how narrow that road is?  And I swear the buildings leaned towards eachother.  And there’s a sharp little turn ahead.  The bus went through here with inches to spare on either side, just making that corner without squashing any pedestrians.  This is no drug induced memory.  Ann remembers it too.  The bus drivers over there are all certifiably insane.  Anywhere a little car can go, they will bravely follow. 

And here’s a couple of complete mystery pictures.  This is a castle.

This is the archway leaving the castle grounds.  I think we’re still in Ludlow, but who knows.

Okay!!  The whole day wasn’t a complete write off, although so far it felt like just putting in time waiting to get to Wales. 

And here we are at last.  Apparently having not yet had our fill of stone ruins, because 12th century Tintern Abbey in the Wye Valley was yet another awe inspiring site. 

 

I could have stayed here much much longer and explored.  Look at the blue sky in Wales!!  But we still had to cross the Clifton Suspension Bridge (built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel) (which you can’t take pictures of because you’re on it) and look at Brunel’s ship, the SS Great Britain (which, if you’re me, you don’t take pictures of because you just don’t feel like it.)

And suddenly we’re in Bristol, and getting ready to enter this pub called the Llandoger Trow.  Named by some drunken Bristol pub crawler.  Who also decided on that exact spelling.  And although almost everyone tonight went around with a camera and snapped group photos at the various tables, I put my camera away and let my sister do that, hoping she’d feel sorry for me later and send me copies.  I’m still waiting. 

We stayed at the Mariott City Centre Hotel.  All the hotels by this time were looking a lot alike, and as long as they had beds in them we were happy.  But we could never go to sleep until after we’d done our room search for the hair dryer.  Do other countries do this?  Hide their hair dryers in obscure places, like in a drawer beneath the t.v. where there’s no mirror?  Wiring them so that they’re attached to the drawer and can’t be moved farther away than about a meter?  Maybe they think it’s a dangerous practice to put them in the bathrooms.  I don’t know.  Another UK mystery.  We have one day left to solve all the riddles.  It’s back to London tomorrow. 

Gretna Green and Grasmere

It was early morning in Glasgow at George Square, with people rushing by us on their way to work and their ordinary lives, while we annoyed the hell out of them by standing around in their way, gawking at the statues covered in pigeon crap.  Sorry, I meant that sentence to sound a little more poetic, but it clearly deteriorated towards the end. 

The sun behind us hadn’t quite made it’s way up over the buildings.  Again it’s a grey sky, but that’s probably more the normal thing here, rather than there being a clear blue one.  It certainly adds to the ambiance. 

I don’t know – just aiming the camera in a different direction.

One of the more popular pigeon hang outs.  My sister got a great shot of Queen Victoria with a pigeon perched on her head as well.  These statues are hosed down and scrubbed clean on a daily basis, but apparently it’s hard to keep up appearances 24/7 with all these industrious little birds around.

My sister and a horse’s ass.  No association intended. 

That’s a real car in the foreground, blurry maybe because it was zipping along at rocket speed, but the backdrop is a large painted tarp.  Behind it is a construction site.  Isn’t that just the most excellent way to hide that kind of thing?  We could hear the machines and the workers banging away, but could see only this pink and yellow fantasy building billowing a bit in the breeze.

Our next stop was Gretna Green, the last place in Scotland before the border and back into England.  We spent an inordinate amount of time in this wee big shop, where a table loaded with tartan scarves got knocked over accidently by no less than three shoppers in the space of about 15 minutes.  The ladies in the store kept picking them up and piling them sky high once again.  And the fact of the scarves reminds me of something else we learned – highland tartans are NOT made from wool that comes from sheep raised in Scotland.  Wool is imported from places like New Zealand, because it’s cheaper to import than to obtain locally.  I will sleep better knowing that there are no shorn sheep shivering on the Scottish moors. 

Gretna Green is where young couples from England eloped to, so that they could marry without parental consent.  It continues to be a very popular wedding setting, but there were no weddings scheduled for the time of our visit. 

 So I took pictures of sign posts.  It looks like miserable weather here too, doesn’t it?  But for all the clouds, we really had not been caught in rain yet, even once.

This is my not so secret way of remembering where I am.  Grasmere was an incredibly lovely place.  While we were walking around we had some students stop us and ask us to answer some survey questions about the impact of tourism on lovely little places like this.  I hope I was helpful – the girls were in school uniforms, young and beautiful and giggly, like all school girls the world over. 

This is the Cumbria Cafe where we had lunch, and in the gift shop right beside it we both bought little tic-tac-toe boards with white and black ceramic sheep as game pieces.  My sister also bought one with sheep and sheep dogs as the oposing teams.  They are SO cute.  I have mine on my coffee table.  It goes with absolutely nothing else in the room, and I really don’t care.

Have I overused the word “lush”?  While we were walking in Grasmere it started to drizzle, and I actually had my umbrella out of my backpack and unfolded for a whole ten minutes.  No torential downpour developed, but I’m sure it would have if I had forgotten my umbrella altogether.  As it was, it only got annoyingly damp.  I’m so glad I carted that umbrella around with me religiously for the entire 10 days.

We crossed a stone bridge on the way to that little church yard in the distance.

It was beautifully quiet and peaceful here, just us and a lot of ancient stones.

On the far left is where William Wordsworth and his wife are buried. 

St. Oswald’s church was lovely.  We thought by now we’d be sick to death of churches, but they all had their own unique personalities, and were obviously looked after with a great deal of pride and reverance.

The inscription under this window reads: To the Glory of God in memory of Christiana wife of William Ascroft of Preston and “The wyke” Grasmere born 6th October 1834 died 18th August 1907   Her children arise up and call her blessed her husband also and he praiseth her.

They weren’t big into punctuation in those days I guess.  The colors are rich and stunning.  Seeing it reduced to this size doesn’t really do it justice. 

 The banner on these two reads: Are they not all ministering spirits sent to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation.

It’s from Hebrews in the bible I believe.  And that’s religion class for today.  Another stunning work of stained glass, done in jewel tones of vivid greens and flaming reds.

One last look at beautiful Grasmere nestled amongst the hills.  We travelled through the lake district next, and stopped at Lake Windemere for another boat ride. 

The weather again looks threatening, but nothing too nasty developed. 

Isn’t this a GREAT shot??  W. should be SO proud of me.  Living with a wildlife photographer all these years seems to have exposed me to some photo sense after all.  But not ENOUGH unfortunately. 

This is the only good picture I got while we were on our Lake Windemere cruise, because I suddenly had no room left on my memory stick.  And the other one was……somewhere on the bus!  Oh well, it was time to just sit back and soak it all in, instead of snapping away like a demented thing.  We had time to buy ice cream cones and gawk at some Canada geese when we got back on dry land.  I did not know those birds lived in the UK.  Or maybe they were just visiting. 

Our overnight was at a Holiday Inn in Preston.  I have to admit I don’t remember anything much about it at all.  Except that it is quite possibly the place where we had a table for two and so did not have the pressure of thinking up intelligent dinner conversation with strangers. 

Two days to go!  Crazy.  Tomorrow we’ll be in Wales. 

From Culloden Moor to Glasgow

This is the crofter’s cottage at Culloden Moor, close to the scene of the battle where Bonnie Prince Charlie was defeated by the redcoats.  Fronk gave us a lot of history about the place, and the morning we visited the weather was gloomy and cold making me feel rather suitably mournful.

No matter what the weather there is no getting away from that beautiful bright green.  Now that I’m back in dry old Alberta, I must say I miss that vivid color.  We can get it on our lawns if we water them to death, but really, it’s nowhere else to be found here. I stated this fact about a thousand times to W. when we were travelling up north last weekend.  Along with many many other incredibly interesting UK musings.  It’s okay, don’t feel too sorry for him.  I had to listen to the saga of the leaf blower all the way home.  But that’s a whole other topic.

A lot of our group walked all the way out to the large monument in the middle of the field, but there was a nice warm and cozy little shop beside the parking lot that drew me like a magnet.  Much more fun to browse for coasters and fridge magnets and cd’s than to wander about in a muddy field where so many soldiers died because Bonnie Prince Charlie was an idiot when it came to battle strategy.  I always thought the bonnie part was a term of endearment, but apparently that’s not necessarily so.  Fronk made quite a lot of fun of Charlie, who was very short and rather fond of frilly feminine clothes.  He said there were rumors that the bonnie prince, wearing pink tights, rode into battle on a pony named Lavender.  I don’t think those facts ever made the history books.  I would have liked history a whole lot better if they did.

This is one of our first views of Loch Ness, which goes on and on for miles and miles.  I think someone might have said it was the longest lake in Scotland.  I suppose I could look that up.  But I can’t think what possible difference it would make to me, knowing that fact.  I’m sorry to report we didn’t see any monsters.   But once again, hard to see much of anything with your eyes closed on the bus.  I trusted my fellow travellers to alert us to anything frighteningly interesting.

On the eerie Loch Ness stand the ruins of Urquhart Castle.  I thought we would be able to get closer and do a bit of exploring, but this is as close as we got, and so as good as it gets, picture-wise.  This is also where I thought something had gone seriously wrong with my camera, but it turns out I took a three or four second video without realizing it.  With no action to speak of,  just a short look at the ruins,  just sitting there.  I am SO brilliant, it’s sometimes hard to talk about it.

The Scots take great pride in their war heroes – this monument honors the commandos.  It was freaking WINDY way up there in the clouds.

Look at all the purple heather!  Look at that lady out there all on her own taking pictures of we-don’t-know-what-exactly.  She is the female half of the shutterbug duo and no matter where we were, she was always close by but somewhere else.  Perhaps if we were to put our respective pictures together, it would appear that we weren’t even on the same trip.

I think this is Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Scotland.  If it’s not actually that mountain, it’s one that looks like it.  I know it’s around there somewhere.

Does anyone sense that I’ve been in a dense brain fog all day today??  Well, I’m about to get over that.

When we stopped at Glencoe, I don’t even know how to start describing how standing there made me feel.  I’ve seen lots of pictures of this place, but none of them do justice to the grandeur it exudes when you’re there in the moment. 

I almost felt like weeping, it was so incredibly breathtaking.  Or maybe some of my drugs had worn off, who knows the real reason.

Perhaps some of my ancestors were MacDonalds, mercilessly slaughtered in this place by the Campbells. Their spirits were sighing, and singing out to me.  Or maybe I’m descended from the Campbells, and their remorse is a palpable thing still floating in the Glencoe highland air.  I know for sure that I will never forget our brief stop there.  God knows I’ve forgotten a whole lot of other things, but Glencoe and the emotions it stirred will stay with me for a long long time.

We saw a lot of highland cows on our travels, and Fronk kept promising we’d stop for pictures – he knew a really good place!  And this would be it, where the “hielan coos” were not at all cooperative and completely ignored us.  Fame will do that to you I suppose.  Perhaps they’re tired of posing.  We learned that these animals are not raised for their milk or their meat, but are kept as a sort of pet.  Nice life if you can get it. 

  I had to find a close up of one of the hairy beasts.  Never thought I’d ever think of a cow as ”cute”, but these guys come close. 

And here we are, me bravely following Ann down to the shores of Loch Lommond where we will board a boat and go for a short cruise.  Fronk kindly pointed out to me as I stepped off the dock that I looked rather worried.  Just my normal boat boarding face Fronk.  Thanks for your concern.

Looks pretty sea-worthy, wouldn’t you say?  And there are no white caps in sight. 

And look at all these other brave tour people getting up close and personal with the water. 

I’m kidding, I was fine and enjoyed the ride.  The fellow who drove the boat and did the commentary was excellent, and they gave us COFFEE!!  And we learned the real meaning behind the “bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lommond” song.  When someone dies, they take the high road, while those left on the earth take the low road, and the high road people get there (to Scotland) first (afore ye).  And that’s why the high road person will never meet his true love again – he’s dead.  How pleasant.   

The rest of our day, after safely disembarking, was spent travelling to Glasgow.  We were dropped off at a beautiful restaurant/pub and this meal we sat across from a lovely couple from New Zealand who had been visiting their daughter in England before the tour, and were going to go back to see her again briefly before setting off on a 21 day tour of Europe!  My brilliant commentary on that was to ask how the heck you pack for three whole entire weeks of travelling.  By the time we finished our dinner it was dark, so Glasgow was hard to see.  We stayed at the Jurys Inn, where we learned through trial and error that to get your lights to stay on, you had to leave your room card inserted in a slot by the door.  

We were both a little sad to realize that this would be our last night in Scotland!  It’s back to England tomorrow.  Already!  And I think this is when we started talking about our NEXT trip, and how we’d spend almost every bit of it all in Scotland and go north to the islands and maybe even take a ferry across to Ireland, since I so easily survived a Loch, just to say we’d been there, and maybe next time we’d actually get to explore Edinburgh properly….. and I guess we slept in there somewhere, because pretty quickly the alarm clock went off on a silver grey morning in Glasgow.     

St. Andrews to Laggan and Places Inbetween

You may not believe this, but I took a travel log with me, in which I was going to write down a myriad of incredibly interesting facts and observations.  Reading it over so far I’ve come across maybe three or four things that are coherently put together and even verge on being witty;  but as the days wore on my scribbles became ever less intelligible and eventually dwindled out altogether.  As much as I’d like to say the reason for this is the fact that we were so involved in the moment and had no time to write, that’s just not how it really happened.  The TRUTH is, we both started losing conciousness on a regular basis every time we sat down.  And Fronk did not help matters at all!  We’d be travelling along, and he’d be talking in his nice smooth and soothing manner,  and playing lovely haunting highland music, and my eyes would close and my head would nod.  Then I’d come to and look at Ann, and she’d be doing the same thing.  And then we’d get all disgusted with ourselves and try to stay awake, because really.  It seemed a bit ridiculous to travel all the way to Scotland to sleep on the bus!  So, if my travel log gets sketchy from here on in, that would be the reason why.  It was like information overload – impossible to absorb it all, and it felt good to just stop trying for a bit.   

After leaving Edinburgh, we drove across the Forth Bridge and along the Fife coast and up to St. Andrews.  I know it’s quite famous, but it is just a golf course, and I don’t care at all about golf.  So pardon me if I don’t get all ebullient about it.  We were driven up to the far end of town so that we could see where the cathedral was, and then back down to the other end and dropped off at the 18th hole.  Both of us would have preferred to see the cathedral ruins instead of the greens, but we also were both too damn lazy to walk all the way back.  So we didn’t. 

Here’s the famous part.  Let’s get that out of the way.  It really was beautiful and green, and I guess people pay exhorbitant amounts of money for the experience of playing there.

The beach was just as lovely to look at.  We took a long walk around this area, and then headed a short distance into the actual town, which seemed to be full of nothing but golf shops.  This wasn’t surprising, but it was still annoying if you don’t have any golf enthusiasts to buy for.  Ann bought a couple of score cards as souvenirs, and a tiny little golf ball shaped bottle of scotch. 

Buildings made of stone.  Little cars.  Narrow roads.  Gorgeous gardens.

Close little closes everywhere.  And soon it was back to the bus for another series of cat naps as we made our way into the Scottish Highlands.

Our next stop was Blair Castle, which was not at all what I was expecting a castle visit would be like.  The building was more like a big hunting lodge made into a museum.  We wandered through room after room after room filled with centuries worth of antiques, generations of family pictures, collections of furniture and paintings.  There were deer antlers everywhere.  No pictures could be taken inside, so I bought a book full of them and read up on the history of the family and the castle later. 

I’m a little disappointed in these pictures, because the castle is a lot whiter than this in real life.  And it’s almost impossible to take a photo that doesn’t include tourists and tour buses. 

The piper was a lovely touch.  Just really made it hit home exactly where we were.

Like everywhere in the UK the grounds were green and lush and beautifully kept.  These are peacocks (or a peahen I guess with its baby). 

We travelled down to the village of Pitlochry, and then made our way to the Edradour distillery for a tour of the facility and a taste of their product. 

I found the passing storm cloud more interesting than anything else here I guess.  I’ll just blame my not paying attention on my ear problems.  That’s turned out to be a great excuse for anything and everything.  I do remember that the place had an overpowering sweet yeast smell, and it was very hot inside and hard to get excited about the making of scotch if you want to know the truth.  They age the stuff in barrels for no less than 10 years.  I have no idea if it’s as good as they claim, but the cream liquer we sampled was incredibley delicious.

This is going down the hill where you turn right to go across that bridge and into THE GIFT SHOP!!  What a surprise.  If there was not a gift shop everywhere we wouldn’t have known what the hell to do with ourselves.  I bought a little bottle of Edradour Scotch for W.  He is most appreciative.  I don’t understand him at all. 

And then we were off again, driving through the highlands and arriving in Laggan, where we stayed at the Laggan Country Hotel.  What an incredibly beautiful, quiet, secluded spot!  If we had been more ambitious we could have gone for an interesting nature walk.  But we didn’t wander far before it was time to meet with the rest of the crew at the bar to enjoy a drink and some conversation, after which we went on to the dining room for more incredibly good Scottish fare. 

This was the night we got to know the customs officers from Cornwall as we shared a table with them.  They were co-workers who decided to take a trip together, and were thoroughly enjoying every bit of it.  Lise was a woman who travelled without her husband (we liked her a lot) and the other, Nicole,  said she wasn’t married because she was not a very nice person.  Only a very nice person would say something like that!  They also were able to give us some good ‘going through customs’ advice, and tell us some hilarious stories about their day to day jobs.

I think both my sister and I agree that if we ever come back to Scotland, this will be the kind of place we go to, to explore the highlands and the islands further north.  The people are beyond nice, down to earth and very accommodating.  Our room was nothing fancy, but very comfortable.  Breakfast was simply amazing.  I wish our stay in Laggan could have been longer.  But no rest for the weary – another jam packed day awaits us.   

Hiatus

I got SO tired of reliving my trip.  This aftermath was wearing me right out.  So I have taken a break from talking about it, thinking about it, writing about it and sorting through the hellish number of pictures I was crazy enough to take and get printed.  In duplicate no less.

And now I think maybe I’m ready to resume my trip memoirs.  Because it will make me sad if I don’t write it all down, even if it’s only for my own enjoyment later when the whole experience has been moved to some back corner of my brain and the details are forgotten.

I think blogs are so named because blog rhymes with slog.  Which is long laborious work.  So the break has been a good thing.  I’ve spent some awesome quality time with my grandchildren and W. has taken some much needed time off.  Now that we’re back, there’s suddenly not enough hours in the day to accomplish everything, so I think it’s the “everything” that needs to be revised and honed down a level or two.

So if it appears that things are moving at a snail’s pace around here for a bit, that’s because they are.  I’ll be back to breakneck speed eventually.  HAHA!!  I can’t even remember what that is exactly, but it sounded good.  So much to say, so few hours in a day to set it all down with clarity.  But no worries, I WILL slog on.   

Edinburgh and Rosslyn

 That first morning in Edinburgh was dreary, overcast, blustery and cold.  A local tour guide took us on an orientation tour of the city, and then we stopped at Holyrood House, which is where the queen stays when she visits Scotland.  While we stood around at the gates shivering, our guide gave us a lot of Mary Queen of Scotts history, and I took a picture of this bath house, which she supposedly visited only once or twice a year.  She firmly believed that water was bad for her skin, so she bathed in milk and honey.  Ewwww. 

One set of gates, but not the ones we stood shivering at like poor peasants begging for firewood and mercy.  Or whatever it was that poor peasants begged for.  Remember, I had plugged ears and chattering teeth, so a lot of the history lecture about the place eluded me. 

Next we drove up to Edinburgh Castle.  There are hundreds of impressive pictures of it, none of them taken by me.  It was packed with people, and the walking climb to the top was brutal, steep ascents on uneven cobblestone, and lots of stairs.  To avoid lineups of people waiting to see the really important stuff, we headed in a different direction and ended up going through the section of the castle which at one time housed prisoners of war.  Then we took pictures of a huge cannon and Margaret’s Chapel and a little ‘royal dog’ graveyard. 

 The view from the top is breathtaking.  Or maybe I was gasping from the cold and the climb.   Hard to say.  I bought a book all about the castle, filled with excellent pictures, which I’ve enjoyed immensely.  Maybe even more than actually being there.

I think you would have to spend the better part of a day there to appreciate the place.  But we were soon headed back down to the city for lunch, and a ‘free’ afternoon to explore the city at our leisure. 

Fronk, in his infinite tour guiding wisdom,  had decided for all of us that seeing Rosslyn Chapel was highly over rated and expensive, and he was not including it in this tour as one of the extra excursions.  When my sister and I originally heard about this, well into the trip, I guess we got a bit irate.  Rosslyn was one of the main reasons we chose this particular tour!  So Fronk made an announcement on the bus that he had two people who were ”adamant” about seeing Rosslyn and did anyone else want to go?  And nobody did!  What a completely stunned group!!  But he did find out for us which local bus would take us there, so that’s how we spent our afternoon, not exploring Edinburgh, but going on what we both feel was the most worthwhile excursion of the whole trip. 

Like many french cathedrals, the chapel has been called a bible in stone.  It might quite as picturesquely and far more truly be described as woods bursting into song. Ian C. Hannah, 1934.

From Rome, the nurse of science and arts, Lo! Architecture all her power imparts.  Steals from each temple every tempting form and robs St. Peter’s, Roslin to adorn.  James Alves, The Banks of the Esk, 1800. 

I took SO many pictures here it would take about 10 blogs to share all of them. 

The exterior was undergoing restoration, and all the scaffolding was a bit of a distraction.

The details in the stonework were exquisite.

Very steep stone steps down into a sort of crypt area, which smelled absolutely gross;  old and damp, like a disgusting cellar that never gets any air.

Ha ha!  My sister looking suitably in awe of everything Rosslyn.  Notice how I’m not posting any pictures of me – because I don’t have any!  Ann has them all.  I’m sure I look way more stunned than this.

Looking back up the long stone staircase.  Imagine this with no railings. 

The grounds surrounding the Chapel were beautifully kept.  Notice how the sun is shining.  The day turned out to be beautiful as well.

This is back up the hill in the town of Rosslyn where we had to catch a local bus back to the city.  The bus cost one pound each, there and back.  Getting into the Chapel cost 7 pounds each.  The Chapel charges tour buses 18 pounds per person, simply because (I think) they are trying to discourage huge hordes of people tromping around.  And that’s probably why Fronk got all bent nosed about it, and decided it was not ”good value”.   So we made sure we pointed out to him on our return that it was SPECTACULAR and worth every penny.  Or pence.  We just missed our connection with the tour bus which would have taken us back to our hotel, so we had to take yet another local bus back.  So we didn’t have a whole lot of time to prepare for our BIG NIGHT OUT in Edinburgh.

Our excursion that night was to see the world famous “Taste of Scotland” traditional Scottish show and to enjoy an excellent four course dinner with wine at the historic Prestonfield.  This included an unforgettable taste of haggis.  We both said we wanted to try it, and we both did, and we have both lived to tell about it.  It was actually quite good – sort of like a spicey shepherd’s pie.  The menu included such interesting items as clapshot soup, Ayrshire potatoes,  rumbledethumps, and Scottish tablet.  It was all yummy.  And perhaps because of all the wine we consumed, we found the show to be absolutely brilliant.  Bagpipes, accordian, fiddle, highland dancing, Ceilidh dancing,  singing by the ‘three tenors’ and a lovely female soloist, and a very Scottish accented reading of Robert Burn’s “Address to the Haggis”, of which I understood not a single word. 

What a jam packed day!  I was hoping all the bagpipe music would blow the congestion out of my ears, but no luck.  After all our Edinburgh adventures, we had no trouble falling asleep.  Knowing that we got to start all over again tomorrow.  Yay.  But today definitely gets a place in the unforgetable category of my brain.