This will probably be my last posting until I get home. We’re still in York, but the prepaid internet runs out in about an hour, and I don’t know when I’ll have access to it again.

We toured York Minster, a beautiful church in York that contains amazing feats of architecture. After the tour we climbed to the top of the Tower. Bad decision. It was 275 steps–but the amount was not the problem. When we signed on, we didn’t realize that it was 275 weirdly steep  steps up an exceptionally tight spiral stair case. How steep and tight, you ask? Let’s just say that going up I saw way more of my dad’s ass than I ever wanted to, and there was no way around that view. And coming down, even though I was holding onto the railing with one hand and the wall with the other, I still got terribly dizzy on the descent. Not good at all. It was horrible. And the view from the top sucked like a baby.

The highlight of the day, I think, was going to Castle Howard. It’s a stately home/castle that is still currently a residence about 15 miles outside of York. If you’ve ever seen Brideshead Revisited  you would know it immediately. Brideshead Castle is actually Castle Howard,  and the fountain that they continuously walk around in the movie is in the lawn. I can’t imagine being the groundskeeper for that property. All the hedges are perfect and the grass is edged. I prefer more of a brambly look, but hey, I guess the Howards know what they like.

We ate lunch at a pub that is supposedly haunted by a group of ghosts. I thought it was fascinating, but guess what? Dad rejected that in the name of Jesus, too.  I wish could have gone there at night, just to see, you know, but we don’t go out after dark. All the voodoo.

It’s on to Edinburgh tomorrow morning! I’m glad. I like the city a great deal–wish that we could have spent more time there. But I’ll be back, I’m sure of it.

I still love coffee, but it is tea that now runs through these veins o’ mine. I have coffee with my breakfast still (gotta stave off the headache) but sometimes all I drink in the day besides that is tea. Hot tea with a spot of milk. Yes, so English. I’m going shopping for a proper teapot when I get back. After using a teapot for  two weeks, drinking tea with the bag hanging out of the cup has no appeal anymore. 

My dad amazes me at times. Well, when I say “amaze,” it might not be taken in the usual context. Flabbergast. Stupefy. Dumbfound.  In lieu of a Father’s Day poem, how about a quick tribute?

As you know, we’ve been Bed and Breakfasting through Britain. Since you are technically staying with someone in their house, common courtesy dictates that when you first arrive you don’t just barge in and hunt down the owner. My dad hasn’t learned that yet. He’ll try the door and it will usually be locked. But after it won’t open, he tries harder. Rattles the door, shakes the knob, as if it is the door’s fault that it won’t open and if he jostles it just right, well, maybe it’ll open and he can bulldoze into the house. After fruitlessly attempting to open the locked door (and being quite loud, he’d never make a good cat-burglar), he’ll suddenly stop and run down the steps past me, either to go peek in the window or just stand back. Either way, when the door is opened by a suspicious homeowner, it looks like I was the one who tried to burgle the house. It’s getting old.

Last night we spent the night in the Yorkshire Dales where James Herriot had a vet practice and wrote extensively about his experiences there. Beautiful country, and the villages are tiny. We stayed in Hawes overnight–apparently the home off Wallace and Gromit?–at a rather dubious B & B. I never saw the owner, but Dad did–once. I laughingly told him this morning that if this were a B-rated movie we should have been killed last night by the invisible landlady. Or  that Dad (the only one to have seen anyone) should have been the bad guy who lied about the lodging and lured me there to kill me. He looked at me very solemnly and said, “I reject that in the name of Jesus,” and just kept walking. 

His driving has improved a wee bit. I no longer have heart attacks/panic attacks/anxiety attacks at every corner. Just some. We’ve hit fewer things, as well. Lately he’s only hit an embankment, a rock wall, and driven through someone’s garden. Pretty good.

Last night in Hawes we ate at what I consider to be the English version of a Kountry Kitchen. You know exactly what I’m talking about–wooden boothes, tacky memorabilia, and greasy food. And it was good. It was called The Chippie (how can you not eat at a place called “The Chippie”?), and ironically the chips were the worst things we ate. I had the best fish and chips yet, which is saying something. And it’s odd, too, because Hawes is right in the middle of the country and we stayed at several coastal towns. The mushy peas served with the fish and chips were the best yet, also. Dad had poached cod in a Dijon mustard sauce (amazing) as well as a side of onion rings. And what do you know? Those onion rings were the best we’d ever had. Kudos to The Chippie on an excellent meal all the way around (and about half the price, too).

So let’s have a brief recap of all the best stuff (mostly food) so far (this is for you, Angel):

Best Fish and Chips: The Chippie, Hawes

Best Pie: Chicken, Ham, and Leek Pie, The Kenilworth Pub, Edinburgh

Best Beer: some hotel bar, Inverness

Best Tartare Sauce: same hotel, Inverness

Best Sandwich: toss up between the mango, brie and bacon at a cafe somewhere between Fort Augustus and Fort William or the bacon, brie and onion chutney one at Bailey’s in York.

Best Coffee: a hole-in-the wall pub in some town. 

Best Breakfast: Mrs. Anne Duncan’s Farmhouse B & B just outside St. Andrews

Best Tea: Willow Tea Room, Glasgow

Best Scone: cranberry and apple, the same place between Fort Augustus and Fort Wiliam

Best Fish Pie: The Clachan, Mallaig (MAL-ag)

Best Chips: nowhere. I’m disappointed.

Best B & B: in Aberfoyle–great hostess, beautiful area, great hiking, wonderful sitting room (well-stocked with tea) and someone had good taste in wallpaper. That’s rare.

Best View: anywhere in the Highlands. Spectacular.

Best River: River Ness–it flows north, did you know? Out of Loch Ness and into the Moray Firth

Best Bridge–Brig O’ Doon–yup, the very one that Tam O’Shanter crossed to stop the witches from following.

Tomorrow we are going back into York (we’re just outside the city now) and finishing that up. I just love those double-decker tour buses. I haven’t fallen asleep on them, either, unlike in Rome. It’s amazing what going to bed before 3am can do for you. I don’t know if I like them because they’re informative or because it’s the next best alternative to being in a pub. Which I haven’t done nearly enough of. Next time, next time. 

We motored through Sedbergh, England’s Book Town, and of course we had to stop (Mike–pay close attention to that sentence). I really don’t know how I’m going to get all of this stuff home. Because yesterday I discovered charity shops. They’re like the American thrift store–but better. And I’ve scored some good stuff. Stuff I was actually looking for, not junk. I guess this’ll test my packing skills, which are definitely honed, but this may be a challenge. You guys had better like your gifts. And yes, that was a threat.

We’ll spend one more night in York and then drive up to Edinburgh on Tuesday to fly out early Wednesday. We need to have the car back to the rental place by 6am. I haven’t seen 6am in a while. From there we fly to Paris, layover for lunch, then fly all day back to Atlanta. The flight will slip past, I’m sure, since I picked up a Doctor Who Encyclopedia at a charity shop.

We went into Glasgow today and had tea at The WIllow Tea room, designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh in 1903. It was really a great thing to see. I did a project on Mackintosh a few years ago, so it was rather surreal to see things in person that I labored over drawing. 

For tea I had a fruit scone and Scottish Breakfast tea, because how can you go to Scotland and not have Scottish Breakfast Tea? There’s English Breakfast, but everybody and their cousin has had that. I’d never even heard of Scottish Breakfast. Quite tasty. Dad had peppermint tea (and he put milk in it–just a tip: don’t do that.), and Noel and Moya had Earl Grey. 

Well, it’s dinner time, and I think I may have put the silver in the wrong place last night. Whoops.

I’ve got a new prized possession, and no matter how much you make fun of me for it, I will still love it. It’s a sweater. Not just any sweater. It’s a handmade sweater that makes me look like a granny and  smell like a sheep farm. I asked someone about the….fragrance.  She said that it was the oils in the wool, but hey, it sheds water and keeps me warm. Plus I’m sort of getting used to the smell. It’s comforting, like hot tea in rain or hot pies in rain or hot fish and chips in rain. All of which I’ve consumed during rain in this sweater.

Fish and chips. Those words alone can make me ravenous. I think that I could live off of fish and chips. It’s terrible. I’ve never eaten some much fried anything before–and I’m from the South! We deep-fry Oreos! (well, not me personally, but it’s been done) But back to fish and chips. The thought of a hot, deep-fried, crispy piece of haddock as big as my head dunked in tartare sauce and served with finger-licking, lip-smacking chips–I am almost tempted to leave my warm bed and sneak out to a 24 hour Chip Shop. Almost. It’s cold out there, and I’m tired.

We took the ferry from Mallaig to Skye Island today. Now I think I know what Johann David Wyss and Robert Louis Stevenson must have pictured in their minds as they crafted the islands in their books–a murky beast rising out of the choppy sea, a mist hovering over the top…

Ok, enough of the lame description. But seriously, Skye Island was a murky beast rising.  

It was spectacular. I’ve never seen such astounding landscape–anywhere. It’s all so wild and untamed. The wind is fierce–if I hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning I would have been blown away. No, really, I had to brace myself. The beaches here are incredible–craggy and untamed. I just want to sit and watch the surf break on the rocks, but then I realize that my feet are blocks of ice, it’s raining, and the ferry is leaving. So I can’t linger.  But let’s just say it’s a good thing that I had my new smelly sweater, or I would have been severely cold.

The weather in Scotland changes so quickly. The locals say that if you don’t like the weather, wait 20 minutes and it will change. And as crazy as it sounds, it’s true. Today on Skye it changed 5 times in an hour. Blazing sun to dark rain to blazing sun to dark rain to mildly sunny. Fine when you’re indoors watching it, but it’s a whole ‘nother game when you’re on top of a ferry.

I think I’ve eaten my weight in pies. Steak pies. Mince pies. Fish pies. I would probably eat anything in pie form, at this point. But my pants still fit, which is a minor miracle, the way I’ve been eating. I’m not sure if I would know how to cope without a breakfast of toast, porridge, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, eggs, coffee, and juice. I look at a box of cereal now and think, “Ok, now what comes next?”

In Ayr right now, staying with some old family friends, Noel and Moya. They’re Irish, but have lived here for 30 years, preaching at the village church. Let’s just say that the prayer before dinner gave ample time for the steak pie to cool off a bit.

Well, it’s getting late and I need to get some rest before we attack Glasgow tomorrow. Home of Charles Rennie Mackintosh–look him up, you’ll like him.

On the Irish Sea in a town called Mallaig right now. This time, as I type, I’m eating (fresh) blackberry crumble with hot custard. For dinner we had a veggie burger and fish pie. The veggie burger was outstanding, but the fish pie was even better. Never thought I would eat a fish pie–and like it.

Well, gotta go–we will ferry to the Isle of Skye tomorrow!

Remember how Dad keeps hurtling us down tiny roads at unsafe speeds? I couldn’t decide if I should keep my eyes fixated on the road or just not look at all.  And then it finally happened: he ran off the road (pretty badly) and blew a tire (pretty badly).  So there we are, standing in front of a disabled car in the middle of nothing across from Loch Ness (ironic?) and all I can think about was how I should have been driving this stretch of road.  

Here’s a brief recap of driving records so far: Dad has run off the road 5 times, slammed (and I do mean slammed going 40, not bumped at 5) into various curbs 3 times and now burst a tire. I have done none of that. Almost ran off the road once. Almost.

So I’m not sure if that really is laughter building up inside or not. Maybe it’s vexation. After all, we are stranded. By Loch Ness. But it was my dad that crashed the car, not me.  

And that’s the end of that story. I just had to share, although I’m not positive that all I wanted to do was gloat. But for the record, I do feel a little badly for him–a little.

Tonight marked an epoch in my life, and conceivably in my father’s as well. Tonight I drank my first beer in his presence. Now, to be fair, I did warn him briefly about it yesterday over steak pies.  But tonight it happened. 

We were at dinner with a friend of one of my friends–small world, eh? And I ordered a beer. Simple act, but if you know me dad, you know that this was potentially devastating. We’ll see how it goes. But just between us, I’m at the hotel bar as I type, slurping away at a tasty stout. 

The country here is breathtaking. Of course the pictures don’t do it justice. But I’m trying. And for the record, I haven’t found Nessie–yet. Give me a few more beers and I just might.

You may have picked up on it, but traveling with Dad is a bit different than I’m used to–in life or in travel. For instance, we don’t go out after dark (all the voodoo), or into pool halls (those  ruffians), or park on the inside of the parking garage, just the top (we’ll get mugged). Not kidding, even about the voodoo.  So this trip, to me, is like a scouting trip–what to do next time I come, what to avoid if I need to save money, what sandwiches are good (bacon, brie and mango is topping the list right now) and, of utmost importance, where the best pubs are.

Tomorrow we’re leaving Inverness to go to a small fishing village near the Isle of Skye. Then toward Ayr to visit some old friends for a few days (never thought I’d want to kiss a preacher) and then down to England  through Glasgow (hello Charles Rennie Mackintosh!) to see the Lakes District (hiking!) then back to Edinburgh to fly home. Which has never been a welcome thought during a trip before, but it’s getting nicer and nicer. I never knew that 12 days could feel so slow. And I work in the library.

No, it’s not a horrid skin disease, although the name “Cullen Skink” definitely could fit the bill. Actually, it’s a fish soup—cream based with potatoes and smoked fish. It was quite toothsome.

I’ve eaten so well this trip. Our first dinner was at a pub, but the food was not any kind of pub-fare I’d ever had. It was possibly one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Red pepper risotto topped with goat cheese, cullen skink, and a chicken/ham/leek pie. There are no words.

I feasted yesterday morning in the hotel room on the brown bread and homemade blue cheese from the farmer’s market as well as some figs and granola. And instant coffee (but we’re not talking about that). Perfect. Then lunch was my first fish and chips in Scotland—pretty delicious (even without the beer I was drooling for). Served with a mushy paste of green peas and mint. Sounds weird—it was. It was interesting, but don’t look for it at my next party.

We’re at a Bed & Breakfast in St. Andrews currently. I had my first Scottish breakfast. More on that later.

When we left for this trip, I had a feeling that it would go pretty much the way it began.

 

Brief synopsis:

Dad: Where would you like to go for a graduation trip?

Me: Hmmm…that tough, but how about Greece and Turkey?

Dad: Great idea. Scotland and England it is.

 

So even though Dad said that I would make all the decisions, I knew better. Not that I want to be the Dictator of the Trip, but some input would be nice. Enough said. Now that we’re trapped in a tiny car, hurtling down the wrong side of the road (we hit a curb so hard I thought that there was structure damage) the differences between my father and me have all become so real. While I want to yell SHIIIIITTTT when we taunt death in the face (as he drives), he just murmurs “thank you Lord Jesus.” And then I thank the Lord Jesus that I didn’t yell shit or we might have really run off the road, then. It’s funny—now that I can’t say anything remotely off-color all I want to do is blurt out the most random, horrible things. I’ve had to restrict my conversation to topics of food, foliage, and frequency (or lack of) fueling stations. Not kidding. I’m afraid that something monstrous will just tumble out of it’s own accord. I’ll keep you updated.

20F cheated off of me during the inflight-trivia. I don’t know why I think that is so funny, but I do. And we dominated that trivia game. Well, I did. He tagged along on my glory of useless knowledge. LAC & Anna, seats 20E and 20F. We never spoke on the flight. Not a word. But we won trivia.

Ever noticed that your accent as an American (or rather your lack of a really interesting accent) instantly makes you inferior inside your own head? When you ask a question and someone replies in a Scottish accent, or Greek accent, or whatever–all of a sudden you feel a little inferior to speak. After all, there is NO WAY that you sound THAT GOOD when you speak. So why speak? Just nod. Mumble. Shrug and use gestures. Come on. You know exactly what I am talking about.

The first thing we stumbled on was the Edinburgh Farmer’s Market. Angel–it leaves Macon’s Saturday morning shindig in the dust. I’m sorry. But I got your yarn.

Anyway, the flight arrived an hour early (when does that happen?) so we set foot on Scottish soil around 7am. The whole day stretched out before like an glorious gift–and I needed coffee. (brief update–it’s 4:30pm now, still haven’t had any) However, the Farmer’s Market beckoned and I answered that call, Dad in tow. He had a good time looking at the castle that was perched on volcanic rock hovering over the rows of tents. I had a good time looking at everything else.

And it’s decided.

I’m moving here.

I don’t know what pushed me over the brink of “wow, this is great” to “dear heavens, I’ve found home.” Maybe the rotund man selling pork pies in the market (after all, who but a rotund person could sell meat pies?). Or the handmade soaps, including one called “Bog Myrtle”? Or the mounds and mounds of fresh baked bread and bread-treats under the one tent? Nope. I’ve decided that The Moment was when I looked up and saw the huge movable red contraption of coffee delight that proclaimed “Police Box Coffee Bars.” The side-notes read “Torchwood Industries. Time traveling alien technology. Go on–feed your soul.”

Any country that can combine coffee and Doctor Who–I’m there.

We semi-desperately tried to find a B & B. Dad was more desperate than I, as I know what true desperation is. We weren’t there yet. It was 2pm, not 2am. There’s time. We found a couple of hotels, they were full, and he was getting desperater as we went. When we finally found one–and only had to navigate across the city with those crazy-ass left-side drivers–I think he may have had a taste for what Barcelona was like. A taste. I didn’t bring it up though, although I did recognize the irony.

We’re about to head down the Royal Mile. Speaking of Royal–saw the Royal Jewels. And that’s about all I have to say about that.

It’s almost time to seek out a pub, too. I ate fresh bread and homemade blue cheese (maybe THAT was when It was Decided…) and topped it off with fresh hazelnut brioche. But that only satiates for so long.

I think we’re walking. Dad can’t handle anymore of that crazy-ass left-hand driving today. Never seen his knuckles so white.

Tomorrow I embark on the very first (and probably last) bonding-trip with my father. Twelve days in Scotland and Northern England, motoring around in a car, and not stopping at every available pub (what?!).

He doesn’t know it yet, but we’re having mandatory separation time every day. Two hours minimum. And you know where I’ll be!

Sightseeing and utilizing my time to the utmost efficiency–what were you thinking?

So, I’m sitting here, swapping stories and drinking gin with the best friends I have in Auburn, trying not to think of what COULD happen in the next twelve days. Who knows? I could come back an orphan.

So–tomorrow! Seo sinn falbh!

So, we discovered pretty early on the first night at Camp Xakanaxa (pronounced Ka-ka-na-ka) that we had free rein of the liquor cabinet. We also discovered there were magic elves that replenished whatever we drank. That the elves were Australian and re-introduced “no worries” back into our vocabulary was neither here nor there.

So we enjoyed ourselves and tried different drinks. Amarula was a particular favourite of mine. Amarula is made from the amarula fruit, a southern Africa tree that elephants love. The fruits look a little like oranges, but the liquor is nothing like that. It’s very reminiscent of Baileys but with a nice, delicately fruity taste.

However, that first night, I had 2, maybe 3 gin and tonics, and several glasses of wine. I hung out with the pilots that night as all of my friends went to their tents earlier. I drank more wine. I did not drink outside of my normal bounds, but as I was led back to my tent, I found myself violently ill, which everyone in the camp (and the hippos as well) heard.

The next morning, I woke up barely remembering how I made it to bed and was greeted by the not so great surprise of my sickness, which I did my best to clean and apologize to Allison for. But I could not figure out what happened. Unless someone slipped me a mickey, I didn’t drink enough to reduce me to the barely walking, barely talking mass of humanity I was that morning. When I made it to the common area, the pilots looked just as horrible as I felt. Everyone asked me if I were okay. I nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed. I had yet to piece together my night. I was not the only one in our group that had imbibed a bit too much. Allison, Catherine, and Ian were fine. Ben and I looked at each other and telepathically agreed that we should have coffee. I grabbed lots of water and fruit for the early morning safari. To my body, it was midnight and I’d just gone to bed at 10am. I wasn’t even sure I would survive the daylight.

This is the foundation for what happened next. Our guide, Water, drives us out and in the mix and maze of the African bush, he stops the 4X4 and says, “Impala, up.”

We look around in silence and we don’t see an impala. And besides, we saw hundreds of impala the evening before on our first drive, when we saw the elusive leopard and the herd of elephant. Why would an impala be important now?

“Where is it? I don’t see the impala.” If we didn’t say this, we are all thinking this, knowing our animal spotting eyes are not trained enough to see very far into the bush should an animal choose to camouflage.

“Impala, up,” Water says again. We look straight ahead and don’t see a damn thing. “Impala, 12 o’clock?” Ben asks. He’s pointing straight ahead. Water shakes his head and repeats again, “Impala, up.” This time, he emphasizes his words by pointing his finger straight towards the sky.

We are now looking for the elusive flying impala. Finally, Ian steps in and tells us that the remains of the impala from the night before are in the tree. You see, leopards like to drag their kills up a tree to save for later, getting them out of reach of other, non tree climbing, predators.

So, here, we see the leopard, the previous day, chawin’ down on some impala bones:

And this is the remains of the impala, up the tree:

As the day went on, I could more clearly remember the things that happened the night before. And the one thing that was not clear was why I’d gotten so sick. Ben and I investigated and came to the conclusion that it was my malaria medicine since he’d gotten sick with his without the alcohol. As we talked about the possibility of that being the culprit, Ian informed us that he’d had malaria seven times and he was fine and advised us to forgo the medicine because it was nearly as dangerous as getting malaria. We continued to take our medicine, just to be on the safe side, but anything more than a couple of drinks led to queasiness and once we got back to the states, the last time I took my malaria medicine coincided with me getting sick after having a few drinks at a party. Damned malaria medicine.

Of course, just because I didn’t get sick again while in Africa didn’t mean I didn’t overindulge – but it was by far the sweetest overindulgence I’d ever experienced.

Thanks for that, Africa.