It was either an ass-grounding dose of keep-in-check reality or a thunder shit-storm of plain bad luck, but after missing two—yes TWO—flights from London to Scotland we simply can’t stomach the cost of, or the chance of missing, a third. Instead, we hop on a bus from the airport to Victoria Station and then catch an overnight Megabus Express terminating in Glasgow for a whopping £12 a head. Double score, transport and accommodation all in one rumbling package with a money-back-guarantee promising the bloom of new life-long friendships…fortunately not on this ride. Lucky for us all of the other passengers are just as interested in sleep as we are.
So now it’s six o’clock in the morn, we’re awaken by the crackling PA system announcing our arrival, and we’ve got a few hours to burn until after our hosts get the kids to school. “Oooo, downtown Glasgow before sunrise…not sure that’s a fair introduction for Zach,” a resident friend opines to Clare—who happens to have lived in this ‘working class’ city for a spell some years past—and is equally concerned about what we may encounter. I’m not saying that Glasgow doesn’t have an edgy side, but it isn’t visible through the plate glass windows of a chain coffee shop located just off St. George’s Square. The grittiest thing I see is a woman dressed in a pencil skirt smearing out a cigarette on the curbside while typing on her phone. We are spared the legendary puddles of vomit and the staggering herds of boisterously bellowing Scotsmen, but we do manage to catch the height of the morning rush at the train station before finally finding our stop.
Craig and Caroline (C Team) are long-time friends of Clare (who, when around, makes it the C+ Team [or C++ Team if you’re into coding]). Together they’ve a big bag of fun-loving stories from intercity and overseas holidays long gone by. Now they have two kids and a place in the suburbs. But if such sounds like the boring devolution into adulthood, you’d be jealous of their kids for having such cool parents. Light-saber battles, sound-proofed music room, hand-made treehouse, garage home-movie theater, outdoor fire pit, body bags of dress-up costume-wear, and a record collection worthy of BBC radio6. Oh, and a spare room with a double bed, yeah, we can make ourselves at home. That weekend is the annual Chili Cook-off, a costumed pub crawl offering tiny cups of competing chili at each stop, and the afterparty is at their house, which sees the garage turned into a disco dance hall. Luckily the next day is cold, grey, and rainy—perfect for nursing hangovers.
We have to say our goodbyes because this time around Clare is adamant that we do more than just coach-surf, and she’s planned a beautiful itinerary as insurance. It involves renting a car and spending a few days in the Scottish Highlands, who am I to oppose? Luckily, being Australian, she is well-practiced with left-handed stick-shifts and driving on the left-side of the road. Amazingly, the US seems to be the only former British colony that learned to drive on the correct side of the road.
This leaves me with plenty of time to gawk through the windshield at our dramatic surroundings, especially the miles we clock zigzagging the single-lane roads of the Isle of Skye. I’ve never been more reminded of my homeland, southern Alaska. True, the mountains are much smaller, but they are as equally treeless and glacier-scarred. The tidal ranges are as equally extreme, the fishing craft as equally rugged, and the beer-battered fish ’n chips just as yummy. But they’ve got shaggy cows and castles to boot! The island certainly lives up to it’s name, if you somehow find yourself tiring of the landscape than just gaze upward. The sky changes incessantly, like the tantrums of a three-year-old, one moment sunny and glorious, the next soggy and howling.
We drive the long shore-line of Lochness and stop-in at the museum where we learn scientifically conclusive evidence that the famed Monster does in fact…?? Well we never find out because the damn fire alarm won’t shut up long enough for us to hear the answer. Instead, we’re briskly ushered from the dark halls of the “museum” and conveniently planted inside the “safety” of an overpriced gift shop—an oxymoron to be sure. Using the threat of fire to drum up sales seems a bit low-brow to me, but at least the legend of Nellie lives on. We spend our refunded ticket prices in the picturesque town of Inverness on locally crafted beer with haggis neeps & taddies—still can’t say what exactly such is other than delicious.
Sadly the following morning must be spent wrapping up the unfinished logistics of booking return flights to Tunisia, but at least Clare has enough time to find a pair of shoes for the wedding that kicks-off tomorrow. No time to dawdle then, except for a quick look at the impressive public water locks-system (um yes, that was Zach’s request), before hitting the highway for Fife country, where we share a lovely evening meal with Kenny and Emily (more friends from Clare’s Glaswegian past) after their kids are put down.
Edinburgh is a stunning city at any time of day, but is positively fairytale under the gilded rays of a brisk autumn sunrise, the time at which we enter the city to exchange our car for a southbound train. We cross the borderlands, through rolling pastures and over babbling creeks, in the quiet comfort of an efficient carriage and watch as the rising sun burns off pools of valley-kept fog and frost. Even the friend who picks us up at the depot, a local of the area, speaks of the morning’s extra-ordinary beauty. We then weave our way through the Lakes Distract in-route to our third European wedding of the summer cruising season. Yes, we miss a few turns—but I blame James’ *cough* hospitality—before finding our party at a trailhead parking lot.
Instead of the classic Hens/Stags party, Cassie and Andy have opted for a prenuptial ramble through their local countryside. All wedding attendees who can afford the extra time (about twenty of us) are to bring a brown-bag lunch and a torch for this four-hour excursion through the woods. The Lakes District lives up to its sterling reputation, and the bride and groom have even pre-scouted a couple of standout spots, like an old quarry-site dug into the hillside involving a series of tunnels and caves—hence the torches. In classic British fashion, we end our stroll over pints at the local pub before retiring to a nearby hilltop youth hostel that has been rented for the big event.
We are all put to task in the lively decorating effort before enjoying the first of many catered vegan meals to come. Attendees (mostly friends mentioned in my last festival/wedding email) trickle in over the course of the evening after finishing the business of their work-week back home. It’s a tame night by group standards, considering that it finishes before the sun comes up, but tomorrow is an important day.
Nice big breakfast gets everyone moving with enough time to complete the finishing touches and tidy-up the riffraff before getting ourselves dressed and ready. By this point, all of the guests have arrived and the place is humming. The newly decorated venue suits the casually classy wedding well, the bride and groom are thoroughly handsome, and the emotion and love are once again palpable throughout.
These two have a long history together, including joint travels around the globe. They are both passionate vegans, thoughtful citizens, and responsive stewards. They are core members of this close-knit group that seems to attract quality people like a sponge absorbs water. Their vows are tender and piercing. Emma, a bride from the other recent wedding, serves as a graceful and eloquent celebrant, and all words spoken by members of the ceremony are heartfelt, poignant, and arresting. As Clare says afterward, “it was a wet wedding,” and there is no shortage of eye dabbing.
With the mushy stuff out of the way, it was time to have some fun. A musical group is hired to stage a Ceilidh, which as far as I can tell is the Celtic version of Country line-dancing. Cheers to the MC who manages to be heard and herd our enthusiastic gang of cats through a varying series of coordinated dances. Shoes and jackets are removed, sleeves are rolled up, beverages are put down, voices get loud, and after taking stock the following day we confirm that all our full-spirited partner-flinging boot-bashing resulted in a number of sizable bruises, sore joints, and achy muscles.
Some hours later the musicians, no doubt thoroughly exhausted, have to call it a night, but that doesn’t mean the party stops. A few different lads from our group play DJ over the course of the night with equipment that—unbeknownst to us on the dance-floor—keeps threatening malfunction the harder we dance. No matter, when the music dies we all break into a massive sing-along until the tunes are jamming once again. Neither the bride, nor her mother, nor her sister—must run in the family—can speak the following day! We empty the onsite bar of most it’s inventory, and at some point I have the realization that if I stop moving I won’t be able to get up. Someone has video evidence of the floor at this time in the evening and our dance-moves are anything but graceful. At some point I find myself in the kitchen with a handful of others as we discover a fridge full of leftovers. The music is put to rest soon thereafter and the remaining stragglers pass around hand-rolled splifs and whatever is left standing in a bottle until sleep is our only option.
A very small number of hours later, last-call for breakfast is echoed throughout the dormitories (oh yeah, we are all assigned to gender-specific bunk-bed dorm rooms), and I manage to get myself downstairs to join the legions of undead attempting revival with caffeine and hash browns. We succeed—in case you haven’t gathered yet, this group is well-versed in all forms of revelry—and proceed to de-decorate, pack, and load up before the next set of clients come rumbling up the gravel road to this house on the hill. Doesn’t matter who they are, they won’t have as much fun as we just did. Cherrio.
A big plate of Sunday Roast with a pint of ale at a Lake District pub on our way home sets us straight, and we are early to bed that night staying in the peaceful abode of friends Jemma & Emma. We share two gloriously relaxed days with these two legends and their dog, Teddy, in their picturesque town of Hebdon Bridge. Walks along the canal, pints at the pub, take-home pizza, reading on the sofa, long philosophical conversations, and many a cup of tea. On the third morning we march our packs 500 meters up the road to the local train stop and spend much the rest of day in transit south before once again finding ourselves in the family house of Clare’s oldest friend—shit, Jenni’s gonna whack me–I mean her longest friend.
We try to help, but mostly we just relax, chat, or play with Jenni, Mark, and their kids while preparations are finalized for their youngest son—Noah’s—second birthday. Sure, there’s a bouncy castle, gift-wrapped toy trucks, and colorful cupcakes, but there’s also a fridge full of Guinness, bottles of Prosecco, and homemade sausage rolls. Point is there’s something for everyone, and we have a pleasant day kicking the football and mingling with Mark’s family. The night ends over a raucous game of Uno, and the remaining guests are either picked up or walk home. Fortunately my bed is just up the stairs.
Our final night in the UK has us wining and dining with an old travel buddy of Clare’s—Adam—in his colorful neighborhood of London. Good chat all round about the intricacies of modern life and love lost and won. We have the morning to enjoy his penthouse apartment, then a lunch date with fellow Aussie Kathryn who leaves us with some good relational food for thought, before a protracted train delay during rush hour almost has us missing yet another flight!
To being filled over the brim.