Alexandersmap

    Category: Travel

    • Hidden Photographers

      I often ask people taking pictures of family or friends if they’d like me to take a photo of them with the rest of their group instead of being the hidden photographer behind the camera. Most gratefully say yes, and usually return the favor if I’m with others myself. As an avid documenter of places, people and events I come across in my life, I know a fellow hidden photographer when I see one.

      I’m not a fan of selfies.  Something in the name seems…  self-serving to me.  It screams “Look at me in this spot!  How great is this?” But a picture taken by another human of you at that same place?  It indicates, if only to me, that another person was in the story saying “Hey, this would be a good picture with you in the foreground“.  Mind games on my part perhaps, but it validates the picture for me anyway.

      Look, I understand, sometimes there’s nobody around to take the group photo so you gather up the group tightly, extend your arm as far as you can (I refuse to get a selfie stick) and snap away.  Instantly recognizable selfie picture.  Use it as you wish, but use discretion. I don’t judge, I just don’t want to do it myself.

      There’s a certain agreement amongst humans in taking photos of each other that connects us.  I took a picture of a gentleman from Asia who didn’t speak English walking across the Abbey Road crosswalk, and he did the same for us.  I almost watched him get run over taking that picture of us, as he was so focused on getting it right that he ignored the cars approaching behind him and walked out into the road with us snapping away as we crossed the walk.  Now that was a connection between two people who will never see each other again.  He almost made the ultimate sacrifice for a tourist picture. I’m certainly grateful it didn’t end up a headline. He did a great job, drama aside. And I’m happy to say his picture came out well too.  Wish I’d sent myself a copy of it.

    • Travel and Writing

      Vacations end. There’s no getting around that. But there’s value in resuming the life you’ve built for yourself at home. This morning I’m dining at a lovely breakfast buffet in London, tonight I’ll assess the empty pantry we left behind. But full instead on recent memories. That’s a fair trade.

      The hard part of writing when you travel is carving out meaningful time to do it well. For me early morning was my salvation. The easy part is having a treasure chest of material to write about. Embarrassment of riches? Most definitely. Doesn’t get much richer than London and Scotland (but I’ll surely test that in the coming years).

      Travel and writing pair well. No revelation there. Not all travel is created equal, and this trip provided a wonderful shock to the apathy of the everyday. I try to stop and smell the roses wherever I am, but sometimes you’ve got to step into a new garden to see how they tend things elsewhere. And as I head back to my own backyard, I’ll tap into these memories again and again.

    • Mind the Gap

      Hustling people weave between each other like strands in a tapestry. Constant movement and sound; the music of London Underground. Laughter mingles with sounds of conversations in many languages and the grinding metal and roar of trains. Wind gusting through open end windows stir well-kept hair.

      Those in the know march down escalators on the left, dart between lines without a glance at the signs. The rest of us check signs, confirm District vs. Circle, look down and deal with personal boundaries being pushed and clutch handholds with the lurches and leans of the train. Even when you learn it it’s different when you don’t live it. Up this escalator, down that one, keep to the left and on and on.

      The polite offer up seats to the aged and women, I just stand and leave open seats to whatever fanny finds it. This business of bouncing around in a tube underground isn’t my style. I’d favor walking whenever possible, as I do in New York or Boston. But you can’t argue it’s efficiency. Countless thousands of souls pulse below the streets of London every day, re-emerging above ground in places far and wide in an endless dance. A tourist, I do the dance with two left feet compared to the tango veterans on display. But I don’t mind, I just dance on the edges and mind the gap.

    • Dufftown

      You could spend a couple of weeks immersed in the distilleries of Scotland. I didn’t have a couple of weeks, but I did circle my last day in Scotland for a trip to the malt whiskey capital of the world (they say and I see no reason to dispute it), Dufftown. Two massive whiskey distilleries are right next to each other, and a third is just down the road. Glenfiddich sprawls at the foot of Balvenie Castle. Next door is the distillery that shares the castle’s name. For a tour, it had to be The Balvenie Distillery.

      I appreciate whiskies from all regions of Scotland, and love the whiskies from Islay in particular. But if I could only have one, it would be from Balvenie. So the tour was booked and locked in, and we arrived with time to spare. The parking for Balvenie is tucked into a stand of trees, making us second-guess the location, but sure enough we had arrived.

      Some distilleries truck in the malt or buy barrels from the Speyside Cooperidge up the road. Balvenie does every part of the process in-house, which means a tour at Balvenie is going to be more comprehensive from the get-go than other distilleries. But they really take the time to stop and explain every part of it. We’d done a tour at Talisker that we enjoyed that took one hour. Balvenie was three hours, and we could have stayed longer if we didn’t have a rental car to drop off. There were only four people in our tour, with four cancelling, and we looked at each other a few times in wonder at the attention we were receiving from our Ambassador James. Can’t recommend him enough.

      Driving to a distillery yourself means compromising. You either risk everything and partake (in a country that won’t tolerate it), or you politely pass drams to non-drivers in the tasting. Obviously there’s only one appropriate choice, and I watched a few choice drams go to my passenger and to the couple who had wisely hired a driver. Balvenie kindly gave me a bottle to pour samples into for a blended sample for consumption later, but I did mourn the ones that got away. Until I drove the dark, twisting roads of the tourist route back to Inverness in the rain anyway.

      The Balvenie tour was a wonderful was to cap a week of travel from Edinburgh to Fort William to Isle of Skye to Inverness. There simply isn’t enough time in a week to see everything, so you plan, adjust to the weather, passing fancy and reality. And book a return as soon as possible to tackle the things you missed along the way.

    • A Castle, Reborn

      Scottish castles had a tendency of being blown up. If my time in Edinburgh, Stirling, Doune, Interlochy, Eilean Donan and Urquhart Castles has done anything, its reinforced this point. Some remain ruins to this day, others were rebuilt to support next generation clan objectives. All are tourist attractions today, but the day they were destroyed marked a world that was forever changed for the previous inhabitants.

      Castles were symbols of the power and influence of the clan that lived there. Stick a castle on a chunk of lava rock and you can hold out against a siege for a long time. At least as long as you have water, food, ammunition and the will to ride it out. Stirling Castle could have held out indefinitely had their water supply not been compromised.

      If a clan is only as safe as the strength of the castle they reside in, the opposite may be more true. Castles only survive history when there’s no reason to attack it. Diplomacy, political connection (being on the “right” side) and tactical value all play a role in a castle surviving.

      The defeat of the Jacobites gave plenty of reason for the English and a united Scotland to persecute the clans that sided with Bonny Prince Charlie. The horrifying results to the clans on the losing side are well documented. The castles offer visual verification. Looking at Eilean Donan Castle now, it’s hard to imagine it being a pile of rubble like Inverlochy is, but it too was blown up to punish the Mackenzie Clan. It was eventually rebuilt by their ally the Macrae Clan and today is one of the most photographed castles in the world, playing host to hoards of tourists and many weddings. What might have been a violent end was just a dramatic pause in the life of this castle. This one is a must-see, and I’m grateful to the Macrae’s for opening it up for tours. If you go, be sure to drive up the hill on the opposite side of the road for an iconic shot of the castle.

    • Meeting The Old Man of Storr

      Hard rain and fog don’t lend to an optimal hiking experience. But that’s what greeted us as we drove up A855. This was to be the one day where the weather mattered most on the entire trip, and the weather wasn’t good. Disappointed, I scratched Quirang off the list. But I held out hope for the Old Man.

      Looking up as we drove past the car park, it was clear this wasn’t going to be what I’d hoped for. The Old Man of Storr was completely obscured in fog. Perhaps wait it out a bit and hope it would lift? We drove onward to Kilt Rock and Mealt Falls, took the obligatory photos that everyone else takes and made our way back to try the Old Man once again.

      Heavy rain greeted us as we got out of the car, but the fog had lifted just a bit, giving a peek at our evasive friend. We hiked up to say hello, pelted by rain, optimism in our hearts. But this wouldn’t be the day, as the fog descended once again, completely obscuring the Old Man of Storr. This wouldn’t be our day to meet, and we turned for the descent. There’s always Talisker. And thoughts of when I might return again.

    • A Walk on Camusdarach Beach

      Few places in film have captured my imagination like the beach in the movie Local Hero. The red telephone box does too, but it was built as a prop for that spot in Pennan. The beach, conceding that beaches change constantly, looks the same. And I made the pilgrimage on a rainy, quiet day when very few people were thinking of a walk on the beach.

      Having seen the movie more than I should have, I recognized places immediately and thought of some iconic moments from the movie. But even if you aren’t into this particular movie, the beach is well worth a visit. Long and flat, with pristine sand running from the surf to the dunes. Surprisingly warm water (not Bahamas mind you, but warm for where you’re standing thanks to the Gulf Stream).

      I checked a box yesterday. A box I’ve wanted to check since the 1980’s when I first saw this beach. It’s not the Eiffel Tower I know, but we all have our dream destinations, don’t we? Waiting for someday is a fool’s bet. Go as soon as circumstances allow.

    • The Birdman of Stirling Castle

      You see Stirling Castle long before you get to it. Perched high on a chunk of volcanic intrusive rock at the strategic point where the River Forth widens, offering the last downstream crossing between the Highlands and the Lowlands of Scotland. You couldn’t pick a more strategic spot for a castle, and the sheer cliffs made it impossible to breach from any side but the heavily-defended front. There were eight significant sieges on the castle, the last (unsuccessfully) by Bonnie Prince Charlie.

      Mary, Queen of Scots was crowned here. That’s a story many know. Lesser known but certainly noteworthy was the life of John Damian, resident alchemist for King James IV, who boldly declared that he would fly to France in a flying rig he created that looked like a chicken suit. Damian brought the court out to the Ladies Lookout, which offered one of the steepest drops. He flapped his wings, stepped off the edge and… promptly plummeted. He would have died right then had it not been for the large pile of chamber pot remnants. Instead the mound of muck cushioned his landing just enough that he got out of it with a broken leg and wounded pride. And on the bright side, a bit of immortality.

      Glancing over the wall where Damian made his flight, its hard for me to imagine him taking that leap into the abyss. But that demonstrates the power of convictions. Sometimes they work in your favor, sometimes they leave you covered in feathers and crap with everyone you know laughing at you. There’s nothing wrong with taking the leap, but maybe limit your downside first.

    • Arthur’s Seat

      The views from this old volcano are stunning, and not terribly hard to earn. But Arthur’s Seat does present challenges. Most notably the tricky combination of mud, craggy rock face and people. The sheer numbers of people ensure more mud, more slippery rock, more erosion.

      The stream of people making their way up to the summit was fascinating to me. This was the off-season after all, but we passed hundreds of people making the pilgrimage. All manner of footwear went with them, from dress shoes to clogs to flat-soled boots that had no business stepping off pavement. But many wore hiking shoes too. You can tell a hiker by their assuredness on tricky ground and for the respect they give to the trail. Arthur’s Seat deserves more of that respect.

      A worthwhile side trip on the hike is a visit to the ruins of St Anthony’s Chapel. You can also explore Salisbury Crags, which offers a bit more solitude than the popular summit hike. The views on a clear day make the summit hike worthwhile. On a rainy or foggy day St Anthony’s Chapel would still impress, and pairs well with a visit to the ruins of Holyrood Abbey. You’ll be tracing in the steps of those 16th century monks, but with more amenities.

      Anyone with a good level of fitness can do this walk. I recommend packing a water bottle and extra patience if you go later than 10 AM. This is a hike best done early and with good weather. Heavy rain would make it treacherous in places if you aren’t property equipped. Respect for the trails are critical, if only to ensure Arthur’s Seat isn’t loved to death.

    • Live Awakened

      The book Awakening begins with a foreword by Francis J Stroud, relaying a story the author of the book used to tell when he was alive:

      “A man found an eagle’s egg and put it in a nest of a barnyard hen. The eaglet hatched with the brood of chicks and grew up with them. All his life the eagle did what the barnyard chicks did, thinking he was a barnyard chicken. He scratched the earth for worms and insects. He clucked and cackled. And he would thrash his wings and fly a few feet into the air. Years passed and the eagle grew very old. One day he saw a magnificent bird above him in the cloudless sky. It glided in graceful majesty among the powerful wind currents, with scarcely a beat of its strong golden wings. The old eagle looked up in awe. “Who’s that?” he asked. “That’s the eagle, the king of the birds,” said his neighbor. “He belongs to the sky. We belong to the earth—we’re chickens.” So the eagle lived and died a chicken, for that’s what he thought he was.” – Anthony De Mello

      Today I’m walking all around Edinburgh, feeling quite awake. Yesterday I came across Memento mori at Greyfriars Cemetery and smiled at the sight of this familiar reminder that life is short. Learn who you really are and live a larger life. The rest will take care of itself.