Tag Archives: uktrip

Doors and Gates

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Gate at Scone Castle


Gateway to Scone Castle


also at Scone Castle


gate to Bowling Green in Stirling Castle


door from Stirling Castle


Entry to Stirling Castle Chapel built by
King James VI of Scotland, I of England


Parish Church, Iona


Open doorway into the Abbey on Iona


Gate to cemetery on Iona


Doorway from abbey cloisters in Iona


And, lastly, the doorway in the rock wall outside our bedroom window.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving and into His courts with praise.

Loving each day,

St. Giles in Edinburgh

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We were surprised at how dirty St. Giles is.  Of course it has occupying this part of the city for centuries.  It will cost 2.5 million pounds to clean it.

This statue of John Knox is close to the entrance of the cathedral.
However his grave is here:

Rick Steves calls the organ at St. Giles, built in 1992, “one of Europe’s finest.”

The organ recital was magnificent.  This was our view while we listened:

The cathedral is overwhelming.
It makes you feel small. 
It is massive, layered, a visual overload.

Blessings,

Surplus Churches

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One of the sad parts of this trip has been seeing church buildings converted to restaurants, hair salons, homes, and even tourist information centers.  The Church of Scotland has a category for these properties: surplus church buildings. 

One of the issues involves the cost of maintaining very old buildings by diminished congregations.  The church in Aberfeldy has been condemned; it is unsafe to meet in and will need either a huge infusion of money for repairs or to be sold.  Certainly demographic shifts have contributed to the problem. 

At one time the church used to be central to the community it served — its pulse and circulatory system.  Now, tourism seems to be the pump that keeps the community humming.  A rich tapestry of soul connections has been exchanged for economic threads.

The issue is complex and cannot be reduced to three paragraphs with a concluding solution. 

I long to see our churches full of vibrant Christians with a robust faith, churches that faithfully preach the Word of God, churches that effectively serve their communities.  Lord, have mercy.

Conversations

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Vowels, consonants, inflection and idiom: these
four qualities influence the Scottish brogue we all love to listen to.  Vowels
seem to work differently here; come consonants work overtime — the r’s for
example – and some, like the t at the end of a word, are on permanent vacation;
our speech lifts at the end of a question we ask, but the Scots lilt almost
every sentence; and idiom — I have a story for you! 
 
When the Scots speak of time it helps to remember
the rules of Roman numerals: if a number comes before the hour, subtract.  “Five
eleven” means 10:55.  “Eight half” means 8:30.  I have no idea what “ten ten”
would mean because I have never heard it.  I think they prefer to use quarter
and half units.
 
Idiom is the choice of words within an area or
group of people.  Instead of counter-clockwise the Scots say
“anti-clockwise”.  And when you get a round trip ticket they call it
“return”.  I was at the desk at the Cal-Mac ferry asking about the connection we
needed to make with the bus on the island of Mull.  The genial agent gave me a
time schedule and marked the times I needed.  I asked about the price and what I
heard was “Ten pound per ton.”  My jaw unhinged and I asked with incredulity,
“Tney charge by the ton?”  His eyes danced as he said, “Oh my, no.  Ten pounds
return.”   That sent both of us into
fits of giggles which caught the eyes of everyone in the terminal.
 
We’ve had several conversations where as we
have walked away Curt has said, “Did you understand a word of what he said?”
and I had to admit that I had no idea.  Getting directions is particularly
difficult because we are so unfamiliar with the place names and the place names
all have Gaelic flavors.  The few names we know are pronounced in such a
different way that we would never recognize them in speech. 
 
With one notable exception, the Scottish people
have been kind and engaging.  A few times people have mistaken us for native
Scots – that was before we spoke.  People have heard us speak and have initiated
a conversation asking us where we are from.  “Toby” the gregarious man on the
plane told us all about his travels in Billings, Montanta, and Cheyenne,
Wyoming.  The man in the gift shop in Iona cracked me up.  “Are you Americans? 
I love America.  I love Las Vegas.  I love south Florida.”  Hello?  What is a
man who loves Las Vegas doing on the island of Iona? 
 
We saw one couple in the ferry terminal, on the
ferry, on the bus, on the second ferry, and at various points on Iona.  We
always nodded to one another, but in the shop they approached us.  Are you from
the states?  We are too.  Are you in ministry?  As I began to shake my head in
the negative, my husband smiled and said, “Yes!  My ministry is to love my
wife.”  That just may be my favorite moment of the trip.
 

Our favorite Scot is Annabelle.  What a character! 
She was our B & B host on Iona.  We asked her to join us for breakfast but
that seems to be against protocol.  However, after breakfast, we went into her
living quarters and soon we were seated at her table talking for over an hour. 
Her brogue has the thickest burr we’ve heard.  Lively and opinionated, she had
us laughing.  Annabelle and her husband John are two of the six remaining
native islanders on Iona.  They both have lived there all their lives.  She was a
teacher, he was an engineer, but they farm sheep and help their son with his
farm.  Her house was warm and comfortable, an extension of her personality. 
When it came time to pay her, she said, “Ach, I am so poo-er at this.  I just
want to have you here as my friends.  I hate the money part.”   
 

Our 1% guy, the one who was not friendly, was
painstakingly painting a boat surrounded by six boats near the
dock.  We watched him a minute and when he stepped back to examine his work,
Curt asked, “Do you own all these boats?”  He stared for a good thirty seconds
— or was that a glare? — before saying “New.” (No)  We kept on walking.  Under
his breath, Curt said, “He only responds to questions in Gaelic.”

The Full Scottish

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The Full Scottish:  Our first
night in Oban was delightful.  Once we got our (carry-on) luggage in our room,
we roamed the streets and walked the waterfront; even though it was after 9:00
p.m. it felt good to stretch, to walk, to take cleansing breaths, to take in all
the sights in this charming tourist town.  In the morning we arrived in the
dining room for breakfast, the only guests.  There was cold cereal, juice,
yogurt and toast, and the ubiquitous pot of steaming tea.  This seemed more like
the Continental breakfasts at Super 8 than the famous full breakfasts I’d read
about.  No problem.  I ate toast (they cool the toast vertically on racks, ‘cuz
they like it crunchy cold) and Curt had a large bowl of cereal.  In walks Moyra
with hot plates (heating the plates before serving food on them is common here) full of food. 
 
Hello the Full Scottish Breakfast!  An egg, two pieces of bacon (more like Canadian bacon) and two
sausages (something is different about them but we haven’t figured out what
yet), a small tomato cut in half and broiled and a mystery food.  Now we’re
talking Curt’s language.  He started chowing down!  The mystery food was black,
round, the texture of bread and the size of a rice cake.  There were
little specks of white in it.  At first glance I thought of Bilbo’s seed cakes. 
I was raised in the “Eat What Is Set Before You” school so I took a nibble.  It
had a dough flavor and a meat flavor, approximately like the combination of
pancakes fried in bacon grease.  It didn’t taste bad, just different.  I ate it
all.

 
After dinner that night on Iona, we were talking
about the mystery food.  The black color stumped me, because it had no smell or
flavor of molasses, the most common explanation for black breadish food I know. 
Our waitress was lovely and I decided to ask if she would know what it was. 
“You mean black pudding?”  Pudding?  There was nothing gelatinous about this
food. It was distinctly bready.  What’s in it?  I couldn’t identify the
flavors.  “Yes, well, it has oats in it and blood.”  Blood?  Blood? 
(gagging reflex working overtime) Where do you buy blood for
cooking?  “I’m from New Zealand, but those guys over there are from
Scotland. Let’s ask them.”   The young Scot grinned and confirmed her
declaration.  “It’s oats mixed with blood.”   
 
My fillet (pronounced FILL-it) of cod was knocking
on my throat.  In the interest of hygiene and personal dignity, I knew I should
cut this conversation short.  But I was intrigued.  Where
does the blood come from?  “Oh, people don’t make Black
Pudding at home. They buy it pre-made, like the sausage.”  He went on to say
that the blood came from cows or sheep, that he loved Black Pudding –it tastes
great! –, that it probably originated from the days of poverty when people used
every edible part of the animal possible when it was slaughtered. “Now we eat it
because we like it.”  As we walked up the lane to our B & B on Iona, I
wondered how I would deal with Black Pudding the next day.  I decided it was
good missionary training to eat something gross, even when I knew how
gross it was.  I was going to be brave. Brave, as in Scotland the Brave.
Hallelujah!!  Our dear Annabelle served the same exact Full Scottish Breakfast
except there was a different mystery food in place of Black Pudding.  It was
light and square: I’m guessing a bannock cake.

It’s past midnight and we want to get to church in Edinburgh tomorrow.  I don’t have time for Iona but it was incredible.  I’m not sure I can take this much wonder: Iona on Saturday and St. Giles on Sunday.  I’ll try to check in with you on Monday.

Getting There

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The flight:  was delayed leaving
Seattle and was an hour late coming into London’s Heathrow airport.  We felt
certain we would miss our connection to Glasgow at Terminal 5 which seemed like a
three mile bus ride away from our arrival at Terminal 4.  However, they held the
connecting flight to Glasgow (not just for us, but because of delays) and we made the plane.  Yay!!  Unfortunately, our
checked luggage did not make it.  We carried on important
things like books to read and journals to write in,
computers, ipods and headphones.  We did not carry on extra
underwear, toothbrush or a change of clothing.  Thus, a lesson
learned.

**Addendum** I failed to add that we picked up our luggage which was delivered to our first B & B on Saturday night.  What a relief it was to wear clean clothes!  We’d been wearing the same clothes since Wednesday morning. Yikes!

 
The car:  a Kia cee’d
(that is what it’s called, I kid you not) is our rental car.  It
gets 48 mpg, drives wonderfully, and is compact outside and roomy inside.  Curt
was nervous about the right hand, left lane MO in Scotland.  The first problem,
however, was figuring out how to get it in reverse.  He yanked, tugged, pulled,
pushed, cranked, yelled, and we kept creeping forward out of our car park
space.  I tend not to worry about trivial things like how to go backwards and
urged him to just drive away and figure it out later.  Curt refused to go
anywhere until he could back up.  The car kept moving forward and other cars
kept swerving around us in this dense car park.  Aha!  There was a sleeve you
had to push up and then the happy little gearshift knob moved into reverse. 
 
In praise of shoulders:  Curt has
wonderful shoulders.  He handled the initial (and continuing) stress of driving
wonderfully well.  He copes well in the traffic.  The roads in Scotland, alas,
have no shoulders.  None.  Nyet.  Nada.  It is a rock wall, narrow lanes and
another rock wall or forest or store.  The driveways in America are wider than
the roads in Scotland.  Once you get off the M roads (dual carriage, which means
divided highway) the smaller roads often narrow to one lane and one of the
drivers has to pullout and let the other pass.  Also, passing in Scotland is
forbidden most of the time.  Instead, the slow-mo driver needs to pull out when
another driver is on your tail.  A large sign with the letter P signifies a
pullout.  Curt would say, “I need a P” meaning he had a car wanting to go faster
behind him and we needed to move over the next turnout.  It took a while for me
to catch on: I kept looking for bathroom facilities!  A few bounces on the left
curb were the only bumps in our road.
 
Scotland scenery:  This country
feels like home in some ways.  The scenery is very similar to Oregon.  As we
drove we would say, “Look, there’s Wallowa Lake.”  “That looks just like the
sides of the Columbia Gorge.”  “Oh my, that’s the Snake River.”  The
dun-colored, treeless hills are just getting ready to green up.  The mountains
surprised us.  The country feels very, very large.  There is water (lochs,
rivers, firths) everywhere.

More soon,

Godspeed

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The day has arrived.

I always experience a pang of buyer’s remorse the remaining hours before a trip.

Any trip.

I want to cancel.

I’m leaving home!

I’ll miss my people.

Why are we gone so long?

…

I’ll be fine, though.

In about 14 hours when we are in the air.

Godspeed.

Nine Days

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Every summer of my early life, our family packed up and left the Chicago suburbs for Bible Camp in Jones, Michigan.  Traveling north on Michigan Highway 40 we drove through a series of hills and dips which were the poor man’s equivalent to a roller coaster ride. I would whisper-read the alternating signs on the side of the road: Pass With Care, Do Not Pass, Pass With Care, Do Not Pass. At the bottom of the trough all you could see was zenith of the next hill.  Eventually the land smoothed her pleated skirt and produced a straight line with a clear view.

The last two months have been the rolling hills, a collection of intermediate goals which have occupied my vision.  But year-end taxes, family visits, the making of wills, and Easter are all past.  We have a clear, unobstructed view: in nine days, Lord willing, we fly to Glasgow.  My husband has been sick, off work for an unprecedented two weeks.  Today the doctor diagnosed pneumonia and a sinus infection and prescribed one of the big gun antibiotics.  Would you please pray with me for Curt’s healing and renewed strength? 

I am overwhelmed with the daily gifts related to this trip.  The bookstore, of course. I got Rick Steves 2008 for the cost of shipping through Paperbackswap! The first rest stop on the road after we’ve landed is called Rest-and-Be-Thankful Pass.  My first time experiencing (you feel the organ’s vibrations as well as hear it) a cathedral organ will be an organ recital in St. Giles with Bach and Pachelbel on the program.  Bach. Pipe organ. Cathedral. Edinburgh.  Stitch those words together and you can hear me purr.

We will see and stay with a childhood friend.  The last time I saw her in 1974 she was running from God; now she is serving Him. Reconnecting with her is a gift of pure grace. 

Most of the details on that side are decided.  In the time left we are preparing for our absence from our normal responsibilities, finding odd items (e.g. hang & dry plastic clothespins) for the trip, reviewing lists.  Curt is 2/3 through John Knox’s biography; I’m at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in Scottish Chiefs.  I haven’t gotten all the books read that I had hoped, but this is consistent with my mantra, likely my last words: but I haven’t finished my books yet! 

I plan to blog daily or whenever possible on the trip.

Sniffing Boats, Singing Seals and Fat Banks of Fog

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“When there’s enough that is the same
and enough that is different in such a relationship,
there is a fruitful middle ground to be explored.”

~ Luci Shaw, writing about her friendship with Madeleine L’Engle in Books & Culture. When I read those words, I immediately thought of travel.  We have humanity in common with all the people of the earth: we all experience loss, love, boredom, fear and wonder.  But each region has a unique culture and in exploring both the likenesses and dissimilarities we find things of delight and things of disgust.  The thrill of recognition – oh, she’s just like me! – and the fascination of otherness – um, why is that important to you? – are part of building any relationship.

William Zinsser calls the memoir “one of nonfiction’s most appealing forms.”  Amen and amen.  Insert travel in front of memoir and I’ll be swaying and singing my praises.  Travel memoirs float my boat. I love exploring Afghanistan, Russia, Japan, Mississippi, Patagonia, Provence, Tuscany, China etc. from the eyes of an observant outsider.

Some Lovely Islands by Mr. Leslie Thomas is now one of my favorite travel memoirs.  I will scour the bookstores of Great Britain for copies of this book. Thomas out-Rick-Steves Rick Steves as a “temporary local.”  He is not as philosophical as John Steinbeck in Travels With Charley, but his writing sparkles like a sun-drenched sea.  I filled nine pages of my journal with quotes from this author.

Thomas decided to visit 10 very different islands off of Ireland and Great Britain in one year.  Some were uninhabited, some had monasteries, a few had long-established communities, and most had a lighthouse.  It was great to read a chapter, surf the web and see the visuals; some of the people he mentioned in this 1967 book are now selling photographs on the web.  Viva le Google!

It is the writing that pinches, tickles, grabs and holds you.   He sees the elements of nature as living things; they are alive when you read his descriptions.

The mountains and sky fell upon each other
like black wrestlers locked in a hold;
and there was I staggering over mooring ropes and anchors.

…the saddest sight. 
A whole village, a whole life,
a whole story in doleful ruin.
The houses back up the hill,
roofless, windowless, doorless,
like a congregation of senile people
without teeth or eyes.

Fat banks of fog…with a certain politeness
stopped short and stood around
just outside the harbour.

The boat sniffed around the rocks
and panted into the landlocked pool
like a dog pleased to have rediscovered
a familiar rabbit hole.

Fads and fashions,
pavement and politics,
are miles away and of no matter.
The singing of the seals is real.

Happiness Doubled by Wonder

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I do not, in my personal capacity,
believe that a baby gets his best physical food by sucking his thumb;
nor that a man gets his best moral food by sucking his soul,
and denying its dependence on God or other good things.
I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought,
and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.
          ~ Gilbert Keith Chesterton in A Short History of England

I’m developing a mental and written list of specific authors and books to look for while we browse second-hand bookshops in Great Britain.  I’m specifically looking for British or Continental authors whose works are hard to find or hard to fund (pay for) in America.

Here’s a start and I’d love reminders or suggestions from the audience!

G.K. Chesterton
Hilaire Belloc
John Buchan
O. Douglas
Thomas Chalmers
Leslie Thomas (new travel writer I just discovered – oh my!)
George MacDonald (obscure works perhaps?)
Arthur Quiller-Couch
Enid Blyton
Anthony Trollope

It’s funny: when I take a trip, one of the overriding concerns is which book(s) to take along?  Now I’m wondering which books will come home and will I find a treasure there?

Full of happiness doubled by wonder,