Pleased as I am to be reunited and to blog with my family, I thought it appropriate to share a synopsis of my preceding tour with Chuck and Andrew. A criminal thing, sticking to the facts and omitting so many of the small details that make an adventure just that. So, if you don't care to read on, I understand. The short version is that it surpassed all my expectations for discovery, experience, and friendship.
A warm welcome greets us in Glasgow whereupon learning of our whisky tour, the proprietor of the Iron Horse pub, so pleased with our mission, plies us with drams from bottles we won't likely see again.
On to Islay to admire the whitewashed beauty of Port Charlotte with its stone hotel/restaurant/pub; rob Laphroaig of a little peat (they won't miss it, believe me); marvel at the little Jura ferry, the island's single track road and it's 8th c Celtic Cross; and, generally enjoy the water of life (and a little botanical gin) from 6 of the 9 distilleries those islands offer (Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Ardbeg, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, and the Isle of Jura). Laphroaig on our first full day is easily the most welcoming, affable, and memorable. Donning our wellies we plant the Maple Leaf on our square feet of appointed bog and claim our annual rent (50mls of the 10 yr.), our right as Friends of Laphroaig.
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| Laphroaig |
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| If you see it you'll lol! |
Friends become close friends through shared adversity rather than all the good times -- who you can count on being revealed in those moments. So it is for us en route to Fort William. A blown tyre in the middle of nowhere, no spare, an absurd response from the rental agency and lengthy wait for a tow in a downpour. Andrew bears the greatest discomfort (wet, cold, and illegally concealed in the back seat of the car on top of the flatbed as the truck can carry only 2 passengers in the cab). He is also deprived of the good humor and genuine compassion of our recovery driver, a lifelong Glaswegian seemingly born to his trade. But at 4 a.m. we make our landfall. Never before does a Travelodge microwave hamburger hold so much, though misguided, appeal.
With the tyre replaced (thanks to Andrew's early a.m. initiative) and to the relief of all, we are on the road (and the water) for Skye by way of the Malaig ferry. Storm conditions cast doubt on our ability to cross, but the wind abates and we sail.
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| Our cabin, stumbling distance from the beer garden |
Carbost, Skye. Forget the distillery (Talisker, which is fine enough),
The Old Inn is where the action is. A pub with accommodation, not the
other way around. International, unconventional, and authentic. An
unbelievably beautiful setting, but at 57' N, and Scotland's worst
summer weather in recent history we nearly freeze our 'nads off. Andrew
and I put down our pint glasses long enough to hike the Fairy Pools of the Cuillen Hills while Charles pursues a little IA from his bar stool.
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| Not Andrew |
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| Local scallop fishermen and our man |
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| The view from our cabin |
Onward to Inverness by way of the Skye bridge and an obligatory stop at Eilean Donan castle for a tour and photographs. Like kids at Xmas we wonder what our hotel apartment will provide. Imagine our surprise that the large patio courtyard is host to the week's Inverness Craft Beer Festival.
Music, local craft beer, tents, picnic tables, pub grub, happy men. Five distilleries are visited over 2 days. The Highlanders of Glenmorangie (said orange-ey, we learn) with its red doors and tall stills (the tallest in Scotland) and Dalmore, of the attractive stag's head logo. Then the Speysides of Glenfiddich with artists in residence, Glenlivet for a view of serious mass production, and Macallan for a generous tasting curated by an enthusiastic young gent. A particular highlight is the Speyside cooperage where piece-rate coopers prep bourbon barrels for whisky and turn out new, virgin oak casks for specialty drams, hustling 10 hrs/day.
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| Art |
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| Art of another sort |
The sprint south is complete with a bio break in the picturesque village of Pitlochry, apparently the birthplace of amateur theatre and the cradle of candy-making. Disney-esque in the Main Street America version of Scotland sense, but also a perfect place for acquisition of prezzies for small people. We move along to the Capital, Harry Potter sweets in hand.
Arriving in Edinburgh early (with the help of the car's GPS) we drink in the sights of our neighbourhood - scores of pubs, restaurants, cafes, and little gardens. Famished, we decide on a pub with a locals-only savoir faire. We aren't disappointed when a pair of brass polishers (the jacket and tie version of the pair we met on Skye) give us the gears. Our Georgian flat (built 1789) is huge and well appointed. Together we do the hop-on/hop-off to get our bearings, but ultimately drift away to our own agendas, easing into separation so soon to come. Andrew and I first attend the National Portrait and then we are all three reunited for a turn in the National Gallery. Leaving Chuck on a bench to watch the passers-by Andrew climbs Arthur's Seat and Calton Hill, though the latter by accident. For me it's another hop-on and ring-around.
We bring the day to a close at the Guilford Arms, another locals pub but in the epicenter of the tourist district. Excellent beer, astonishing ceiling, and atmosphere galore. Steak dinners in the 7-table balcony overlooking the mainstay of the pub closes our last night together. I pluck Nancy and the girls from the airport in the early a.m. following, and the boys stick around long enough for hellos and goodbyes and away they go to Glasgow completing the circle with a visit once again to the Iron Horse.
What a delight for me that this is but chapter one.
Taken at the National Museum of Scotland. 
