After the blowout at the Fringe Festival I was looking forward to three or four relatively quiet days in the Scottish highlands. Trekking through forests, climbing hills, potentially seeing monsters... But before all that, I should probably note here that if you're planning to visit the Scottish highlands, or any part of Scotland aside from Edinburgh or Glasgow, it's in your best interest to rent a car, study up on driving on the opposite (or as I say, "wrong") side of the road, and hit the streets. The public transportation up there is shaky at best. But if you do manage to work out the trains your perseverance and gusto will be rewarded with some absolutely breathtaking views. The views on the way to Inverness were great but wait until you see the shots on the way to and from Skye.
In addition to incredible landscape the highlands are also known for their shaggy brown cows which look almost like a blend of a water buffalo, Texas Longhorn, and a Tibetan Terrier. So while you're mashing all that up in your head I'll provide you with photo reference. While I took a picture of one of these cows, it came out unusably blurry so here is a professionally done shot courtesy of wordpress.com.
When I got to Inverness I acquired a map and started scanning the landscape for an attack point. As is now my customary M.O., I attempted to know as little about Inverness as I possibly could before I arrived. In that regard I was successful. Perhaps too successful as I, embarrassingly, did not possess the knowledge that Inverness lies on the banks of the Ness river. Which, yep you guessed it, feeds into Loch Ness. Idiot! I just slapped myself in the face.
The whole time I had been contemplating visiting Scotland I kept kicking around the idea of making my way to Loch Ness. Here I am within a stick shaking number of kilometers and I had absolutely no idea how close I was. I just validated every stereotype of American geographic stupidity. I'm ashamed dear reader, and I apologize. But before I attempted to make up for my folly by visiting this legendary accumulation of rainwater, I took a stroll around town. First up to the Kessock Bridge and Beauly and Moray (that's a moray!) Firth and then down the River Ness to the old part of town.
Once in the old town portion I strolled around briefly. And briefly is about the longest you can stretch it. Honestly there isn't a whole heap to see in Inverness itself. The most prominent feature in the town is the only mildly domineering castle perched atop a hill in the city center. For those of you with rapier wits: you should be noticing a theme here in Scotland.
Since it only took me about 25 minutes to walk through the entire city, I decided to try my luck walking down to Loch Ness. The northernmost portion of the lake itself is roughly seven miles from Inverness. So a 2.5 to 3.5 hour walk depending on your walking speed. After climbing mountains, traversing the wastes of Morocco, and deftly navigating the puddles of urine and booze in Paris, this seemed like child's play. To my astonishment, however, I made it only about 1.5 miles. It was at this point someone pulled over to ask me if I knew directions to Loch Ness. First of all, do I look that Scottish or is it just because I was the only fool walking on the road?
Second, of course I know where it is! What do you think I am, some geographically challenged American?!? (ahem). "Not only do I know where it is," I said, "but I'm heading there myself. I can show you if you'd like." "Sure, jump in." And that was it. My first hitchhiking venture was underway. Simple as that. Hitchhiking cherry popped. Suddenly I find myself thinking I can really get into this hitching thing. About 10 minutes later we are standing at a viewing area gazing wistfully at the mystic Loch Ness. I offered to take a picture of the nice couple. For the record the husband was from Malaysia, the wife was Irish, and they were visiting friends in Scotland. They kindly returned serve.
This gave me a great idea. The whole way down to the lake I was thinking, how the hell am I going to get back? The highway down there is really not designed for pedestrian traffic, i.e. no shoulder to speak of. Great place to get clipped by a truck. And then it hit me. I would merely stand there gazing longingly at the lake, feigning photography, until two people came up in a four seater car. Then I would ask them if they'd like me to take a picture of them, find out where they were going, and then impose myself on them for a ride.
At the first car that came up heading in the direction of Inverness, I sprung my plan into action. It was two guys, scruffy, one tall and bald, one short and less bald. "Hello, do you want me to take a picture of the two of you?" "Sure, that would be great." Fumbling with camera... "Where are you guys heading?" "Through Inverness on the way to Aberdeen." "Really?" I said sounding shocked as I took the picture, "would you mind if I troubled you for a lift to Inverness? I caught a ride down and I'm kind of stuck here as I'll probably get killed by a truck trying to hike back." "uhh... yeah, sure that's fine." Boom baby. All there is to it.
One thing I learned from my previous life in consulting: if you put someone on the spot and ask them point blank, they are really hesitant to flat out turn you down. And if the only options are yes or no, chances are very high that you'll get a yes. Simply because it's easier than trying to come up with some reason for a no besides not wanting to be bothered. You would be surprised at how many elements of life this elementary principle can be applied to. Anyway, the guys were nice fellows from a town outside Venice on a two week holiday in the UK. They dropped me off just south of the town center and I made my way back. On the way I stopped and got a shot of St. Andrew's cathedral.
From there I decided to walk up to the castle and check out the scene. As anticipated, there wasn't one. Just a few tourists milling about and a flock of seagulls. Not the band, an actual flock of seagulls. Now that I think about it, the seagulls were more interesting than the castle. First, there was apparently a game of "king of the hill" going on whereby a seagull would capture the hill (the head of a statue of what I assume is Mary Queen of Scots), then another would take it away, and finally the victor would loudly heckle the other seagulls; challenging them to locate their balls and attempt to take the hill- if they dared. I documented the exchange in this Pulitzer deserving photo montage:
Also at the castle, attempting to mingle inconspicuously with the seagulls, was a type of bird I've never seen before. It looked the result of a romantic evening between a seagull and the Penguin from the Michael Keaton Batman Sequel. And most horrifying of all, the noise it exuded bore an uncanny resemblance to the whistling sound Jim Carrey makes when he gets his nose broken by Renee Zellweger in Me, Myself, and Irene. I looked for a link on youtube but couldn't find it. But those of you who are hip, who are jiggy with it... you know what I'm talkin about.
At this point two things have happened: (1) I'm weirded out by all this seagull nonsense; and (2) I'm freaking famished. Before I left London, Mike had told me that the "fish n chips capital of the world" was Inverness. That may or may not be accurate, but according to the owner of my hostel, when asked if there were any good fish n chips places in town his reply was a swift and blunt "no." When pressed he did, however, point me in the direction of a popular pub called the King's Highway. It was there I ordered my fish n chips and a hearty pint of Guinness.
It was only after I had ordered that I noticed there was a special for 2 pounds where you could fill your own pint glass from a cask ale keg and all proceeds went to charity. Minor lapse in judgement aside, if there are "no good fish n chips in Inverness," I want to know where the heck that guy is eating his fish n chips! The ones at King's Highway in Inverness were some of if not the best I've ever had. They were so good in fact, I devoured the entire plate before I thought to take a picture. So you'll just have to take my word for it.
While I was inhaling my meal, I picked up portions of an interesting conversation between two of the bar staff which left me perplexed. One girl kept going on and on about cheddars, which she pronounced "chay-ders." She was ranting and raving about her discovery of a "regular size" chay-der as opposed to the mini chay-ders she evidently grown up on. Within the span of 1 minute she must have said chay-der 15 times. Frankly, I was impressed. But that didn't get me any closer to understanding what it was she was talking about.
So, if you dear reader have any idea what these chay-ders are, leave a comment. I've done exhaustive research (i.e. typing "inverness cheddar" into Google) only to come up empty handed. It keeps pointing to a restaurant but that simply doesn't fit with the context of the conversation unless this girl had spent her childhood going to a Cheddar's specifically designed for children and/or midgets. Either way, at least one inquiring mind wants to know.
Wow I'm really rambling at this point. Let's just stop here. To summarize, Inverness: Loch Ness is here. Maybe you'll see Nessie, likely you wont. I didn't but I'm a weird vagrant. And while you're here, why not try hitchhiking? Like me. And Ford Prefect. Just make sure to always bring a towel.
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