It Doesn’t Matter Which Road You Take #5

Episode Five: Scotland

Jack the Ripper, Eva Braun and Frightened Sheep

We catch the train in York to go up to Inverness. We have a seven hour train ride ahead of us and I can’t wait to get a good look at the English and Scottish countryside. Though I now have batteries for my Walkman, somewhere along the way I seem to have lost a few of my cassette tapes. The only ones I have left are the Counting Crows and Enigma. I suppose these will have to do.

We are on the train early, so of course, I feel like crap. For some reason I keep forgetting to drink coffee, which means I cannot seem to break out of this morning haze, unless it is time to enjoy one of my lack-of-caffeine headaches. The country directly outside of York is not as inspiring as I had hoped and I slip off into a nice nap.

Waking, I find that we are in Northern England, and it is the England that I thought one could only find on postcards. There are farms, hedges and a wonderful beauty around us. The train is shooting across the landscape and yet the picture outside the window seems to be standing still. It is all very inspiring as I nod off again, but this time with a stupid grin on my face.

Chris is writing postcards and I think it’s the scratching of his pen on the paper that wakes me. We are just crossing the border into Scotland and there is a definite change in the scenery. Outside our window is the brightest, most lush, green grass that I have ever seen. It is like no color green I could even imagine. Off in the distance are mountains, which appear like nothing more than shadows through the light morning fog.

I take out my journal to try and sketch what I can of this landscape. I am thinking that someday I will paint it and then be able to show others what I see. Deep down I know this will never be possible. I will never be able to produce something this beautiful on canvas.

There is a raging river zigzagging next to the train. It must be a good twenty feet across and it looks like it is covered with small rapids at every bend. The mountains have moved in closer and their blackness is in direct contrast to the bright green of the pastures. The grass is divided into sections with flat stone walls, crumbling at the perfect spots, but still doing their jobs with the small herds of sheep scattered around the landscape.

With the mist, the walls, the farmhouses and the sheep, I realize this is the Scotland that I have always dreamed of. I put on my Walkman and watch a whole other life unfold in front of my eyes. This is one of those times when I see a place that I know I belong, a place I know I have always belonged. At one point, Chris tries to get my attention but I pretend I do not notice. It is not that I do not want to talk to him. I just do not want him to ask me why my eyes are watery.

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We arrive in Inverness toward evening and it is cold as hell. The only jacket I brought was a denim jacket and I am finding out that denim is not very good as far as warmth is concerned. We trudge through town but I am unable to shake the chill I have acquired. My teeth are chattering and my stomach is starting to cramp from shaking so much. I normally do not get cold, but when I do, my body definitely blows it way out of proportion.

I make Chris stop at an Italian restaurant and we go inside for some coffee. Two cups later and I am feeling better all around. Now, all we have to do is walk through town and up the hill to the hostel. Of course, going to the bathroom does not enter my mind until we are at least two blocks from the restaurant. I will admit, sometimes I even annoy myself.

Almost to the top of the hill and the clouds decide to let loose on us. It turns out to be more of a downpour than a rain and we are soaked rather quickly. The hostel has come into view and we are both dreaming of warm socks and crappy food and an evening of scribbling in our journals.

The great-granddaughter of Eva Braun is running the hostel. Ok, maybe she is not really her relation, but if there is ever a pageant to fill the position, she will definitely place rather highly. The price of the hostel is ridiculous and we can’t help wonder if this is due to the fact that this is the only one in town. However, when homelessness is the only other choice, we tend to give in rather easily.

We are about to pull out our wads of Scottish money when she tells us that we are required to leave our shoes in the lobby. We look toward the lobby and see piles of shoes strewn about the floor. She explains that this is to keep the floors from getting muddy. Chris and I look at each other and without a word between us, re-shoulder our backpacks and head out the door. The last thing we want is to wake up and find out that someone has walked off with our boots. No thank you.

We stand outside in the rain for a bit and something up and across the street catches our eye. It looks like a small house hanging half over the mountain, but on closer inspection we see that it is a backpackers hotel. We cross our fingers that they will have a room and we find we are able to get two beds for a huge chunk less then it would have cost us to stay in the house of Braun. Our beds have the distinction of being named after the Latin names of insects. The clerk’s handwriting is hardly legible, but it looks like my bed is called Laphroaig. I will be sleeping on what I can only imagine is a centipede or something else with too many legs.

The hotel is a cute little number, consisting of three living rooms and a small kitchen upstairs, dorms and bathrooms downstairs. The kitchen is available to cook your own food, and there is an urn of coffee and one of hot chocolate for the guests enjoyment, provided you clean your cup afterward.

We are excited to throw our backpacks off and head upstairs to write postcards. Chris tells me that he has nothing against buying the postcards or writing the postcards, but sending them off is a big pain in the butt. Finding a post office is no easy task, and finding one that is open is even harder. My fear concerns the glue that is used on stamps in other countries. I sometimes wonder if there are strict guidelines as to where they get the glue that I so gleefully lick, or are they just grinding up every horse that falls over?

We are wondering where to eat and Chris says a pub would be nice. We are going to wait a while because it is still raining. Chris thinks this makes the city look nice. Realizing he has said the word nice in two sentences he wonders what is wrong with him. He thinks that maybe he needs Verbal Advantage. I think he needs to get Hooked on Phonics.

The rain finally stops. We begin our quest for nourishment. We cannot locate a pub to save our lives and without the obnoxious neon lights that point the way to food, like in America, we are clueless where to eat in this city of wet, stone buildings. We end up at a Pizzaland Express, which has an amazing deal, all you can eat for £2.99. We are too excited for words and proceed to stuff ourselves silly. Warm grog from a pub would have been nice, but you can still see smiles on our faces as we work in yet another slice of pizza.

We waddle back to the hostel and sit in the living room to drink tea. The room sleeps six and we are in no hurry to meet the people we will snore next to and then never see again. Chris is a little nervous about sleeping with strangers only because he doesn’t know who is and who is not a psychopath. I suppose having your neck exposed for such a long period of time can become a little nerve racking. He chooses to sleep on the top bunk and I wonder if that is because he is hoping a psychopath will be too lazy to climb.

I do not like sleeping with strangers because I do not think my habits of talking in my sleep and loud snoring are very nice things to do to people I have just met. The trick I have learned is to lay on my stomach and then tuck the sheet in so tight I cannot turn over. This keeps me from snoring and also allows me to feel like a giant burrito. I am hoping that someone else will begin to snore so loud that my additional musical accompaniment will go unnoticed. I go to bed late and everyone else is sleeping. No one is snoring. Damn!

The next morning I take a shower with two women. It’s not as great as it sounds. The showers are communal, which means everyone that has to use them, does. At first I freak out when I think I have walked in to the women’s shower, but the girl wrapped in the towel tells me to come inside and that they are for everyone. If there is a cool bone in my body I will strike up a conversation with the unclothed girl in the little stall next to me, but it is too early in the morning to think about having conversations with a naked woman, so I let the moment slip by.

Chris does not like this arrangement. He says that communal showers work better in theory than in practice, making the point of how often do Cindy Crawford and Elle Macpherson stay in a hostel? I know when I cannot win an argument. I do however think that showering with a roomful of women beats showering with a roomful of guys any day, but that’s just me.

I go upstairs to wait for Chris. The big window in the sitting area overlooks both the River Ness and St. Andrew’s Cathedral across the way. The image is wonderful and I immediately sit on the couch and start to sketch it in my journal. On a chair in front of the window is an attractive Japanese girl drawing the same scene. She sees me sketching and comes to sit next to me. She watches me sketch for a bit and I watch her. My drawing is so rough compared to hers, but she seems to like what I have done. We exchange drawings, nod our approval and then hand them back. She knows no English and I can barely find Japan on a map. Luckily, neither of us wants to get tangled up in languages, so we just smile at each other and continue drawing.

When Chris comes up I clean my cup and am ready to go. As we walk out of the room the Japanese girl smiles at me and waves. I don’t think Chris notices this, nor does he notice that I have grown six inches taller.

We spend the day wandering around the city of Inverness. Last night I was wondering if the people here are aware of how magnificent their city is. Are there Inverness youth that can think of nothing better than to get away from this place? I am sure there are some, but I find it hard to believe that everyone is restless in a place so rich with history and grandeur. Or maybe that is just an American thing, to always want to uproot oneself and start again in a place no one knows you. I think I know the answers to my questions, but walking beside a river and looking at castles under cloud-filled skies, I like to imagine that if I grew up here I would never want to leave this place.

We wander up to Castle Hill, and the regal Inverness castle. It looks wonderful from afar, but up close it has curtains on the windows and Hondas parked out front. It is now used as part of the courts and Chris says the only way we are going to get inside is if we are found guilty of something. We wander across the river and look around St. Andrew’s. It is one of the more impressive churches we have seen so far.

We walk along the River Ness and I spend half my time trying to get a picture of the old clock tower on the other side, minus all the stores and cars. It is weird to see so much modern day items mixed in with historical things, but unless you close off the town as a tourist attraction, the people here need to function as a modern day society. It is damn cold here and a newspaper confirms that this is Scotland’s coldest April on record. The chill I got yesterday was not from the temperature, but from a wind chill that was almost below freezing.

We walk to the middle of a bridge and Chris decides to throw a coin into the black water. We are stunned to see it hit the water and then float all the way to the bottom. What we think is black water is actually the bottom of the river showing through. I do not think I have ever seen water this clean and clear before. It seems almost unnatural. Sometimes I just hate where I come from.

We walk down to the shopping district and find a spattering of little stores open for our amusement. We go in one that sells Scottish goods. It is obviously for the tourist trade, but we are drawn to shiny things. Chris is considering the purchase of a kilt or perhaps a bagpipe. I can’t decide if I should annoy the lady by asking her to trace my Scottish roots, which would be more than impossible to find. I am a little ticked that my family doesn’t have a crest or a seal or even a little swatch of flannel to call our own, but I suppose that is just the price I will have to pay for not being a Scot.

We head down the street and decide that we need a good fish and chip meal. It is still a little early in the day, but that does not deter us from daydreaming about vinegar-soaked sea creature. I ask an older gentleman where the closest fish and chips would be.

He points up the street and says, “Just up there a wee bit.”

I am jumping for joy as I try to explain to Chris how perfectly Scottish it is. The word ‘wee’ can make me do cartwheels. We walk up the road and another gentleman crosses our path. I ask him the same question and he gives me the same answer. I grin so big my cheeks hurt. Chris tells me to knock it off, but I do not let him bring me down. Not a wee bit.

The fish and chip guy is barely opening when we arrive. We tell him we will hang out while he gets ready. We sit on the stone benches in the middle of the shopping area and I notice some graffiti that is a heart with the words Sharon-4-Brian in the middle. For a full minute, I cannot figure out what ‘4’ means. Eventually I get it and am thinking that going this long without coffee may not be good for my health after all. I take a photograph of this Scottish hieroglyphic and cannot wait to show others back home.

The fish and chip guy calls us over and gives us some newspaper wrapped food. He talks to us for a bit and it is obvious he is not Scottish. We can not quite place his accent, but he is a very nice fellow and he completely squashes any fears I tend to have about undercooked fish.

After walking the town for a while longer, we head to the train station. We are on our way to Edinburgh.