Travels through Scotland: Trossachs National Park and the Isle of Arran

After visiting Scotland this bank holiday weekend, I went to a party. I complained about the midge bites to someone who doesn’t know me very well, to which his response was, “oh, it’s not so bad – I thought it was just teenage acne”. Which would explain why I keep getting asked for ID, even when I’m buying non-alcoholic beer.

Speaking of non-alcoholic beer, I appear to have acquired a taste for it. Spending a few days watching with envy as your friends enjoy alcoholic beverages after wandering the Scottish countryside will do that to you. And it’s already instigated interesting conversations, from asking shopkeepers why they’re verifying my age for purchasing a drink with less alcohol content than buttermilk to being shamed by random passers-by for buying a 0,5% ABV beer when I could be buying a 0,05% ABV beer.

Asides aside, Scotland was great. I mentioned last week that I feared the battle for a train seat most of all, because I didn’t manage to book a seat reservation. Luckily, despite the unbelievable amount of people, it wasn’t actually all that bad. I made a beeline for the unreserved carriage as soon as the platform was announced and spent the next three hours immersed in an audiobook of A Hundred Years of Solitude. I then left Macondo and spent some time with my friends, who had moved over as soon as the train had emptied out a bit.

We arrived in Glasgow quite late and immediately headed for the comfort of our AirBnB, where we took our last shower of the weekend and prepared to bid farewell to civilisation. This is an over-exaggeration, of course, but spending two nights camping in the wild makes you appreciate the little things – mainly, access to running water.

The next morning, we went on a quest for two things: coffee (great success) and car (moderate success). After a long battle with the car rental company, in which we tried to convince them that an identification document is a valid form of, well, identification, we were forced to buy additional insurance before setting off.

Our first stop was the Trossachs National Park, where we hiked up to The Cobbler from Arrochar. We also went on the two other peaks nearby, but I’m not sure of the names. The only downside to this adventure was that we had set off quite late and ended up losing track of the trail on our descent, so I had a flashback to my childhood, where the parents and I got lost in the Smoky Mountains and spent hours trampling through a river in the dark (because this was a time before mobile phones and we didn’t take any flashlights – went back the next day and realised we had been walking in circles).

Luckily, this time around, we made it back before dark. After dinner in a local pub, we had the choice of where to set up camp: in a Christian caravan campsite with a massive cross at the entrance or in a random field. We chose the field.

On the next day, we headed to the Isle of Arran via ferry. Our late arrival meant that we weren’t able to hike the local mountain, but we did roam a few hills. The Isle of Arran was also where we first encountered the Scottish scourge that is midges. I’d never heard of midges before, but I don’t think I’ll forget them anytime soon. They’ve somehow come to dominate our recollections. It’s interesting, because when I discussed this with my friends at the time, we thought that the midges wouldn’t be remembered. I’ll have to get back to you on that in several months/years.

The story goes that we first set up our tents on a nice platform at the base of the mountains. We then headed uphill for the views. After a nice stroll, we returned to our tents and were immediately besieged by midges. One of our group wandered away and managed to locate a midge-free platform, so we moved our tents some hundred metres away. It only took two minutes or so for the midges to show up.

I’d say the first battle was a draw: we all dove into our tents, the midges remained outside. The only issue was that our dinner was in the other tent, where three of our group had congregated. My tentmate and I, meanwhile, only had tea. We debated joining them, but our fear of midges won out and so we communicated by yelling to each other from the confines of our respective tents.

Eventually, one of the girls from the other tent decided to risk going outside and reported to us that it was (moderately) safe, so we made our way over. Our friends had apparently come up with a midge-fighting strategy, so the second battle was a decisive victory: we’d light the phone flashlight, put it outside, and then smoke them out. By midnight, no midges remained and, standing outside underneath the starlight, we had forgotten our earlier pain.

We went to sleep, content in our belief that we were victorious and there was nothing left to fear. Alas, it was not so. The midges had regrouped and brought in reinforcements, striking when we least expected it: 3 AM in the morning. My tentmate was wonderful, but he did exhibit a certain naivety. When he opened the tent to gaze up at the stars, the midges swarmed – and they opted to stay the night. Third battle? Resounding midge victory.

In the morning we headed over to Machrie Moor to see the standing stone circles, after which the remainder of the day was spent in transit, returning to Glasgow by ferry and car, followed by a train back to London. Our return journey featured a feast, a nap, and a conversation with a drunk Scottish man, who kept trying to feed us Scottish sweets. Question: why do so many Scottish sweets feature coconut? As far as I’m aware, coconuts are not native to Scotland.

By the time we reached London, it was nearing midnight and we were more than ready to head home in anticipation of a warm shower and a soft bed. Memories of this trip will stay with me: fantastic weather, excellent company, beautiful scenery, the thrill of adventure… and while we’re forced to conclude that The Battle of the Midges is lacking a decisive victor, you can rest assured that next time, we’ll be better prepared.

Review: Jesus Christ Superstar

Why must it be so difficult to commit to a single topic? Though I’ve dedicated this week’s post to Jesus Christ Superstar, I’m consciously cheating by leaving my review for later while I ramble on about other points of interest, which include (but are not limited to) the fact that I’ve finished reading Why Women Have Better Sex Under Socialism and have thoughts to share, my trip to the Isle of Arran this weekend (more on this next week), and the inner struggle of whether audiobooks count as reading.

So, first up, Why Women Have Better Sex Under Socialism. I had my doubts to begin with, but I must say, the book gave rise to so many interesting discussions with my mother and grandmother (both of whom have lived under, as the author would call it, state socialism) that even the parts I found repetitive or unnecessarily fixated on certain specifics are forgiven. It seems obvious now, but one of the ideas that really struck me is that capitalism promotes individualism to suppress the power that the masses hold. It’s interesting how many of us, myself included, bought into that.

Before we return to the topic at hand and discuss Jesus and Judas and the rest, can we take a moment to focus on audiobooks? A friend of mine is a passionate advocate of listening to audiobooks while running long distances, so he downloaded a selection for me to try. They’ve been waiting on my computer for the past year or so.

I walk approximately eight kilometres daily (from home to work and back again), so I figured on the days my grandmother isn’t available to talk, I’ll dedicate to audiobooks. Yesterday, I finally decided to give One Hundred Years of Solitude a chance. It’s great, I really enjoy it, but the question remains: is this reading? I feel like I’m somehow cheating the system. Thoughts?

Alright, asides aside, Jesus Christ Superstar. As has become tradition by now, I’m reviewing something right before it closes. Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre’s rendition of Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s rock opera closes in two days. It was phenomenal. Well, mostly. I was unsure about Jesus, because it felt like his heart wasn’t in it. Judas and Pilate and the rest of the cast were absolutely amazing, though, so I don’t know.

It raised a number of interesting philosophical questions, too. Did Jesus put Judas in the position he found himself in? Was it fated? I guess there’s a lot to be said on the subject, and there must be countless theories, but I found the concepts the show was playing with fascinating. That being said, it might have taken on too much – if we look at Judas and Jesus as humanity versus divinity, where’s the superstar aspect?

• 

My friends had been to a performance in Moscow (in Russian) and had a point of comparison, whereas I hadn’t even seen the film. They much preferred this version, as they felt it wasn’t as intentionally blasphemous (the Russian version, in their words, had Jesus portrayed very much as a rockstar, surrounded by women and wine). I agree, this version didn’t strike me as blasphemous at all – rather as an interpretation of a biblical story emphasising the characters’ inner conflict.

Adventures: Soaring above Riga

I nearly missed my self-allotted posting time! It’s been a hectic morning. Without going into needless detail, I’m rushing to finish up a few work-related tasks whilst simultaneously trying to sort out a seat reservation with Trainline, with whom I stupidly booked tickets to Scotland for the August bank holiday. It would’ve been five quid cheaper (and I’d have a guaranteed seat) had I gone directly to Virgin instead. Live and learn, as they say. The money is irrelevant, but the stress of no more seat reservations is real. I’ve been told to find myself a seat in their unreserved carriage, but I can only imagine the hordes of people I’ll be competing with. Stress!

As I try to steady my nerves, let’s focus on the topic at hand. For my birthday, my colleagues gifted me a flight in something another (English) colleague called a microlight. I was calling it a deltaplane, but that seems to have been taken from the French. The point is, I was meant to go soaring above Riga in a small little dinghy with wings. And I did.

I think the best way to begin this story is with a slight deviation from the topic at hand. Some people make stupid decisions when they’re drunk. In a way, that’s a perfectly reasonable excuse. After all, their judgment is impaired by the consumption of alcohol. I decided to stop drinking for a few months (not for any particular reason – just as a social experiment of sorts) and I feel like my decisions have become much less thought through. As a practical example, take the following situation: a friend recently proposed running 55 km in the Israeli desert in three months. Drunk me would have thought that’s a preposterous idea. Sober me is seriously considering it.

• 

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: I didn’t realise what I was signing up for until it was too late. All of the sudden, I found myself in the air above the Daugava. On one side, it was exhilarating. On the other, I was leaving my life in the hands of someone I’d just met. And the microlight was low on petrol! And we were making very wavy motions that were making me quite nauseous. But the view was nice.

The entire flight felt very much like something out of a dream. I wouldn’t do it again, but I don’t regret having gone – and I definitely recommend it for others to try!

Weekly Round-up: Riga, Running, and Why Women Have Better Sex Under Socialism

Ah, the weekly round-up. Also known as the lazy blogger’s strategic decision to avoid committing to a specific topic. Let’s begin with the whole travelling less thing I was talking about last week. Last Friday, I arrived in Riga for a two week stay in honour of my birthday (which I celebrated this past Tuesday). I’m working, though, so there’s not much I can show from the trip other than the views from the top of my office building. And anyway, a work trip to my hometown hardly counts as travelling.

Though I haven’t yet visited our Old Town, I’ve been (briefly!) to the sea (where I saw horses!), to Andrejsala for my birthday dinner (where you could hear the strains of Rammstein beginning their concert in Lucavsala), and on a spontaneous driving tour of lesser known Riga neighbourhoods (culminating in the 24 hour Double Coffee in Purvciems). So it hasn’t been a complete waste.

I was intending to go kayaking (or canoeing – what’s the difference?) trip with my colleagues this weekend, but the grandparents requested more time with me, and what kind of person would I be if I didn’t oblige? It’s much harder, I’ve noticed, to remain active in a different city. I’m so used to my gym schedule in London that it’s been a challenge figuring out when/where/how to exercise in Riga. We’re lucky enough to live near a massive park and I’ve gotten to know the measurements of various paths (the 3km loop, the 5km loop, etc), but I still haven’t figured out how to do an uninterrupted 10km and end up next to the outdoor gym.

On that completely unrelated note, let’s discuss books. It’s been a while since I’ve reviewed any of the books I’ve read, though I do remember mentioning Never Let Me Go. I also got through South of the Border, West of the Sun, which was a fascinating concept, but I think I have had an overdose of Murakami and am in desperate need of a break. As such, I’ve gone for the non-fiction Why Women Have Better Sex Under Socialism. The problem with non-fiction books, I find, is that the story doesn’t enthrall me. The author posits one main argument and develops it, repeating the premise over and over again in different ways. But the background is interesting, so I think I’ll see this one through.

On Travelling Less

A year or so ago, one of my friends mentioned that her goal for the year was to travel less. Travel less? I didn’t understand. As someone recently (at the time) out of a long-term relationship, I was on the completely opposite end of the spectrum. I was keen to explore. I wasn’t concerned with saving money or conserving energy – I wanted new experiences!

• 

I get it now, though. I’ve reached the point that when plans go awry or someone cancels or something doesn’t work out, I’m relieved. I can focus on myself. I can take a walk, go to the gym, make a nice meal, read, spend time in my own company. After a year of going away most weekends, of seeking adventures, of exhausting myself both mentally and physically – of considering a day spent at home a day wasted – I’m long overdue a break.

• 

That’s not to say that I won’t ever travel or won’t keep planning a million different activities for each free moment of my day, but I’m learning to enjoy the downtime. There’s something to be said for taking a casual stroll across central London through a sudden downpour in your favourite sundress.

• 

In July, I missed two flights. Not only did I fail to fly to Italy, but I also skipped a trip to Germany last weekend. Instead, I had heart-to-hearts with my dearest friends, spent hours singing Soviet children’s songs, attended a cyberpunk-themed house rave, went on an architecture tour of the Barbican Estate, and explored my own neighbourhood (discovering a floating bar with outstanding views of the Houses of Parliament).

There’s no real moral here, because I’m not advocating for less travel or for staying home or for anything, really. Just, you know, moderation. Moderation in all things.