Dumfries & Galloway and a bonfire

A peat bog with "hares tail cotton grass" gone to seed.

We debated about how to best use our last two weeks in wonderful Scotland, and finally decided to continue this slow travel approach, focusing on only three small areas in our last two weeks in Scotland-- Dumfries, The Isle of Arran and the highland town of Inveraray -- and so ditching so much of this amazing country including the  awesome Orkney Islands, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, the northern highlands, sigh.  Not an easy choice.  Dumfries was an easy choice, as it's the chosen home of environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy, with the hope of getting to get to know Goldsworthy's land and inspiration a bit.   So live two dreams:  riding a Clydesdale, seeing Goldsworthy works in his inspirational countryside.  And more.

Me on Alfie, in a dream state.  It was wonderful.  Big feet, big clopping sound, long stride, such power and height.

One of the foals we met while at the (wonderful) Blackstone Clydesdale Farm.   Bonnie, all legs and bounce. 

  We drove from the Clydesdale farm through Andy's town of Penpont (this, on a ridge, edge of town).

And proceeded to Striding Arches, below, one of a four part work of his in the Scottish National Forest surrounding Penpont.  The other three are on hilltops, accessible only through some serious hiking around a 10 mile circuit.  To get to just this one we had to drive along a tiny gravel road for 7 miles.  

And inside.   The arches are about striding,  how folks live, move on.

One from a distance.  

The land that inspires and pleases him above and below -- it's gorgeous.  Digitalis flowers on the right.

And another Goldsworthy (Three Cones) stumbled upon while walking through Dumfries after dinner one night (cones were of stone, apparent gold coloring is from the setting sun).

Another day we drove around the southern coast here, which is a huge, huge sandy tidal flat area.  The sign below was pretty exciting.  And watching the tides go and come underlined this.  The quicksands are real.  

And we hiked around in an unusual a peat bog, supposedly tick-central, and it had a lovely plant called "hares tail cotton grass" en masse.  The cotton bits/seeds stuck to the other plants as they took flight on their seeding attempts -- with rather odd frosted results.  Almost like a giant spider should emerge.

Little pine encased in cotton floss.

And one final thing -- we went to a festival in Moffat, a little town 30 miles north of Dumfries, which has an annual gala during which the good townfolks follow a pipe band out of town to a field that's had a huge bonfire readied, and they light it with their torches and dance til the wee hours.  Fun stuff.  I haven't seen a fire like that ever, and can't imagine how it could possibly work in the US.  Fire laws alone.

On their way, marching to a pipe band.  

Into the field.

Us and the fire.

The fire engaged and the dance beginning.


We leave this morning for our final stop in Scotland -- Inveraray and its highland games.  Can't believe it's almost over! 

Codpieces, ramsheads and salt at work

A British nobleman of the 16th century.

As we've noted before, the Brits are into their history in an engaging way.  It's fascinating stuff, and complex beyond my American comprehension -- the intermarriages and international marriages, the changing loyalties, the changing royalties, their kids (and their lack of them), the national alliances and allegiances, and then add in the religious elements that came and went with great passion and violence.  Nonetheless, it's fully studied, widely known and respected here.  Their societies (National Trust, Scottish Trust, English Heritage, etc.) take themselves and their pact with the culture quite seriously. So we've come to accept that when it's out there, it's fully researched and authentic.  

So we were both stunned to see this guy (above) standing in the fantastic Stirling Castle, with his um quite noticeable codpiece.  After gawking a bit, I awkwardly asked for further explanation and got it:  these were quite the style in Henry VIII's time; they were functional (slipped off for urinating), were comfortable, showed off one's manhood in a good light, and were the norm among the nobility.  Coloring makes a difference, still, I don't know how I'd missed this fashion statement before -- it's not easily missed. 

A more modest codpieced costume.  

Stirling Castle (Scotland) also had a Regimental Military Museum.  Fantastic bagpipe music throughout, kilts, military history, great bravery detailed, with lots of medals and the stuff of regimental folks, the officers of which were typically of high birth and quite used to the finer things of life.  Here are some of the accoutrements of life among these officers when not on the battlefield.

This is a snuff box on casters.  It'd be wheeled around the officers dinner table after dinner.  The horns were hollow to hold the snuff, spoons and rakes were stored above the horns.

These lighters would also be on the dinner table for cigar lighting.  
The spheres on the front held lighter fluid and wicks.  The
view is looking straight down at them.

Snuff spoon, nose shovels and rake, with a foot to brush away any fallen powder.  Handy.  

Another rams head snuff box, on casters so it could get around.

This is a military kilt sporran made of a whole badger.  The sporran is the little purse worn  on the front of  a guy's kilt.

The town of Scarborough is on a promontory on the NE of England.  The area's been settled since the Bronze Age, and now is the site of lovely abbey ruins that were initially ruined in the reformation, then hit in WWII; the military establishment used the area for defenses, visible behind the ruins, below.

The cemetery was fascinating, especially seeing the ravages of the airborne salt water on the soft limestone used for headstones in the 1700s.  Below, the writing's been almost melted away on the one on the right; the left one in granite is fine.

Going . . .

 . . . going . . .

 . . .gone.  

Newcastle-upon-Tyne was a delight.  We stayed in an airbnb room, with a family in their home, and with their cat.  Below is the little lane that leads to their house.  The guy, Nigel, was a brewer and knew the brews of the area, recommending a little pub that we finally found.  It had not only great microbrews (best we've had since Portland), but also played vinyl on this old turntable.  Great place.  We didn't have Newcastle Brown there, but it was an option; it's popular there, but sales in the states are higher than here.

Pub turntable, at work.

The little lane to our Newcastle-upon-Tyne lodging and soft, sweet Buttons, below - a delight to live with a cat again for a bit.

.

Iron age village, and some abbey ruins

Inside an iron age replica home.

2400 years ago, in the Iron Age, folks lived on a piece of land now known as Castell Henllys in southwestern Wales.  It's been reconstructed in situ, based on the growing body of knowledge about the Iron Age, and allows for a hands-on/head-in experience of life in an Iron Age village. 

One approaches the village through heavy woods near a stream, going by really odd looking "heritage" livestock, typical of the animals that would've been kept during the Iron Age.  

Cresting the hill of the iron age village.

The hill on which the fort was built was surrounded by a defensive berm, and an herb garden, and had this giant straw guy standing at the entrance (on the far right, above).  He was ready for the Beltane Festival (early June) when he'd be burned.  Burning Man in Wales.  Not an inconsiderable danger to the architecture of the time.

Then we saw the adorable village -- the Hershey folks should be able to use this somehow.  All thatched roofs, each unique and pretty cute.

Their granary building was off the ground, with good circulation so bugs and critters wouldn't be such a problem.   It was much smaller than the others.

This one was newly reroofed, standing about 30 feet in diameter.

Some of the thatched roofs were slanty. 

This one had a fire inside all the time, for visitors to see, smell, and it showed in its toasty top and slight droopiness.

Another straw guy was inside one of the houses, ready for the festival --has to emerge before he gets to flame.

Inside seemed pretty snug and spacious, but obviously lacked privacy.

Looking up at the roofing structure.

Most of what would have been excellent Roman Catholic churches in England were trashed by Henry VIII and protestant reformists in the 1500s.  I'll simplify this bit of history radically:  Henry VIII needed money for his wars and needed an heir (hence a new wife or 6 of them) and many of the English folks were tired of the catholic church's indulgences, excesses and money-grubbing (hence open to change).  The pope wasn't willing to reconsider (for lots of reasons) so Henry pretty much lightened the churches' treasuries, then sacked and removed important stuff (even removing the lead from the windows, useful for war) and set himself up as basically Britain's new pope, head of the still Roman Catholic church.  Lots of folks then helped themselves to the great supply of stones available at the abandoned abbeys for other building projects.  So lots of excellent, majestic ruins all over Britain.

We both like the ruins; somehow they have a more evocative, ethereal feel than the actual churches.  Tintern Abbey is just inside the Welsh border, near Chepstow north of the River Severn.

                                  

We both found the ruins to be delightfully peaceful, and lovely, moreso than so many of the churches we've been in.

The right door has a mini-me door cut into it.  Aww.  

Photographers heaven -- it was fun to watch the real photographers here.

Approaching the end of the road . . . and Dolly!

Whitby Abbey ruins, and surrounds.  Lovely country.

We have two weeks left on the road, then a few glorious weeks in Turkey with friends, then back to the states for Gen and Sara's wedding, with hopes/plans to settle down in October in Portland, finally.  We've been on the road for 13 months at this point.

I'll speak for both of us (which is neither wholly accurate, nor a good idea generally) in saying that  expectations included that the year's flexibility and basically unplanned itinerary would provide a chance to experience a life of serendipity, freedoms, and time indulgences, with lots of downtime, reading time, reflective time, introspection, leisurely adjustment to new places, tastes, cultures.   I had expected to have, and be able to process the life-enhancing if not -transforming insights the year would undoubtedly provide.  It's not happening.

And I've been trying to figure out why.  I awakened from another night of little sleep* in a moderately adequate bed realizing that there are reasons:

• we're often pretty tired --  the duration of our travels is taking its toll, we have no gym, no good way to exercise other than walking, which we do alot, and resting/relaxing/sleeping* on the road is of a very different character/quality than at home
• there's seldom a comfortable writing spot - we spend most of our writing time hunched over a coffee table on a pc** 
• we're often going somewhere or we've just gotten there (pack? unpack? groceries? wifi connect? maps?)
• and we need to be planning for the next stop
• and figuring out what to see/do/eat/where we are/how to get to point B on the bus
• or doing it -- we are here to see and do, afterall
• and probably the biggest:  solitude is necessary for reflection, and it's harder to come by than good peanut butter in this life
• And those are just the travel parts -- there's the home/finances/family/friends world that nourishes and needs care and feeding, too, by pc, always there.
• there's also the energy of being with one person day in and day out -- um, no matter how wonderful that partner is

I'm guessing this makes the year and travels sound like a downer.  Not so, far from it.  It's been fantastic, truly, but not in any kind of reflective, introspective, easily sharable form.

When we'd undertaken this life, we knew ourselves well enough to know that life on the road with constant movement would not be our cup of tea; that we'd be better off settling down, setting up a life, hence the teaching idea.  We had assumed that we'd wander in South America and recognize that right location, and set up that life there.  But when it came down to it, the world has felt too big, too cool, too fascinating and varied to stop in one place for a long time -- the nearby birds!  the ruins over there!  the mountains in that part of the world!  the civility and history there!  And on and on.  And we've kept moving, going, seeing, doing.  And it's been fascinating.  And we're usually pretty tired.  If there's a next time, perhaps we'd do it differently.  Perhaps - it is easier said than done.

It's easy to write of the joys of travel, the exotic/delightful sights, sounds, tastes, and the surprises and serendipity of what the world is and has to offer.  It's legion.  And that's what this blog shows.  Neither of us has found the time to write the blog entries that cover the experiences that have touched us deeply, the real personal highlights of the travels.  A blog entry generally takes a few hours to pull together; an entry for something that touched deeply takes far longer, if justice to the experience and feelings is even manageable in words.  Steve absolutely loved Seville; the Braga Portugal Good Friday procession was amazing for me, as was Day of the Dead in Peru; and oh, Granada; and so many more.

The thoughts above began awhile ago, when the opening line was "2 months left" then "6 weeks left", then "three", and now it's still not fully formed but I'm tired of considering it.  It's what is, and attempts to describe what's been a surprise.

Wow - you've read this far?!  Here's something lighter, a photo of the real Dolly, the cloned sheep.  She's a native, and quite special here in Edinburgh.

*this fortnight's contribution to tiredness:  too much light - it's light enough for a walk outside here in Edinburgh from 3:15AM when the sun first lightens the sky til 11PM, when it's finally getting dark enough to for a body to consider bed

**I've paper-journaled for years, usually at least fortnightly; I have made only 9 entries over the last 14 months.