Highland Weekend

Last Saturday, sporting exhaustion-hangovers from running a bop (for Skyros!) the night before, Lachy and I headed into the Highlands for a spot of hiking. It was the first time I'd been to the Highlands proper, not including Pitlochry (since I was a child at least, and all I remember is my mum saying 'This is the Highlands!' and me saying 'Why?') and we were headed to the village of Tomintoul. I'd heard of the village because of the Tomintoul and Glenlivet Development Trust, an initiative which is trying to regenerate the area and attract more tourists. Since there was no specific Highland destination I wanted to visit, why not select a rural village and play it by ear?

We took three trains from Leuchars to Dundee to Perth to Aviemore and a taxi from there. Our hostel's website had said the taxi would cost £24 but it unfortunately cost £50, rather more than I could really afford. Then again I could have just misread it since the next time I checked the website the price had changed - either way, it was much cheaper on Monday morning when we left. We arrived at the Smugglers Hostel, a converted village school building, where we were welcomed and shown around by Simon, who helped us plan our hike for the next day and lent us a map and a guidebook. The hostel gets its name from the whisky smuggling that was once prevalent in the area, and our hike the next day actually crossed one of the old smugglers' trails.

We took a quick walk around the village just before dark, then made ourselves some dinner in the spacious, clean kitchen, chatting with some fellow hikers who were making their way through the Highlands. We got a very early night. We were very tired.

In the morning we partook of the hostel's breakfast buffet, a huge, tempting spread of cereals, eggs, bread and spreads. Scrambled eggs on toast with a glass or two of orange juice - a damn good hiker's breakfast. Cereal just never fills you up for the morning. We left the hostel with our maps and packed lunches and promptly set off in the wrong direction, then found our way to the correct end of the village and set off along the wrong path again. My orienteering skills have never been great and Lachy was too polite to question me, so it was a farmer and a herd of cows that finally set us walking on the right path. But we did get to see some deer up close on our brief detour.

We walked the Speyside Way through some beautiful valleys and over a couple of hills, through an amazing forest. Within an hour we were far from any roads; the silence was beautiful. We had been planning to walk a circular route to Glenlivet but by the time we reached the place where the guidebook's walk began there was no way we were going to get the whole thing done before we lost daylight, so instead we walked for a couple of hours until we reached the village of Tomnavoulin and then walked back. We passed a total of three people (one group) the entire day.

When we were back in the village, we wandered around the local shops, and I bought some fudge and tablet for my brother while Lachy tried a few drams of whisky in the Whisky Castle and bought a bottle of something. For dinner we went to the Glen Avon Hotel where Lachy had a local venison burger, then to the Richmond Hotel where I had a veggie burger since the Glen Avon was out. We had a couple of bottles of Cairngorm beer, White Lady being our mutual favourite. Then an episode of Peaky Blinders and another early night following a very hard day's walk.

Tomintoul is a lovely village. There are plenty more walks I'd like to have a go at in the area, and the Smugglers Hostel made us feel so welcome, I hope to return many times in the future!

Teaching is Not My Calling and Other Lessons Learned in Romania

This summer I spent a month in the town of Suceava, Romania, otherwise known as Whitehaven, Romania. The reason I call it that is that, like my home town of Whitehaven, there is very little to do there. Yes, there are museums and shops and so on, but it took about two weeks to have visited every place of interest in the town, and unfortunately, we (myself and the other teachers from Scotland) were there for four.

Since I spent such a long time there, this won't be a day-by-day record of my activities. Instead, I'm going to organise it thematically, by lessons learned.

All right, this was a good day

Teaching is not my calling
This, I'd say, is the most important lesson I learned during July. As an English student I have often felt that I don't have many career options and one of the questions I get asked most is whether I plan to be a teacher. Well, I thought, I may as well see. So I signed up for ScRoLL (Scottish-Romanian Language Link) to see what it was like. Please note: I really have no problem with the programme, only with teaching. For the first two weeks I was teaching twenty-two 12-16 year olds in a classroom big enough for twelve. I struggled to keep up with my students, who were very good English speakers and difficult to palm off with colouring-in. In the second week, however, I realised they were so good we could easily take up two to three hours with discussion of who was the best superhero and whether the Harry Potter films were as good as the books. I got to know my students really well and we even hung out outside of class.

The second two weeks I taught 8-10 year olds. At first there were about twelve but when my friend Beth's class was reduced in the second week we combined our efforts and taught our classes together. This took a lot of the pressure off and meant we could divide the class into awesome Hogwarts houses and play games and have competitions with them. It was a lot of fun. They were very sweet, but they didn't speak much English, and some of them obviously didn't understand a word I said, and that was hard. Unfortunately, I don't have the patience for teaching, and since I used to be very shy and not enjoy standing up to give presentations, I found it quite hard to be the centre of attention for four hours a day. Lesson learned: teaching is not my calling.

I don't like meat
Over the year preceding my summer adventure I made a valiant effort to eat meat, despite having been a vegetarian for more than ten years beforehand. I thought it might not be easy not to eat meat when I was travelling, and to an extent I was right. Some parts were easy; I always loved saveloy and pork pies. Other parts were not; there was no way I could stomach a steak. I ate meat with greater frequency while I was abroad, getting stomach aches afterwards, and in Romania, after being sick for two days after eating some chicken, I gave it up for good (well, almost). I don't like eating it. The end.

I love beer
I knew this already, but the extent of it wasn't really clear until this summer. I spent my first two weeks in Romania with a family that didn't drink, and when I once had a beer in a pub with my fellow teachers, I received some pretty shocked looks from my host. Then, when I moved to a different family in my third week, we spent the first day at the extended family's shared cabin by the woods, and I was given beer after beer from one o'clock in the afternoon until I fell asleep in a caravan at five. Nothing like making up for lost time.

Family camping trip

Gypsies are not Romanian
I'm kidding. This was quite the contentious issue.

We drove past a guy driving a cart. 'There! There's a gypsy!' says my host. 'How can you tell?' I ask. 'Look at his face!' is the response I get.
We drive past another cart. 'Is that a gypsy?' I ask, pointing to a similar-looking man. My host laughs in scorn. 'No!'

Family member: 'The worst thing is, it says Romanian on their passports, so people think they are Romanian!'
Me: 'If it says Romanian in their passports, surely they are Romanian?'
Family member: 'No.'

There is a huge divide in Romania. My hosts drove me through a 'gypsy village' (part of their own village) and said 'The gypsies live like kings!' Their houses were no less ramshackle then the others. Which leads me to my next lesson.

Romania is like The Sims
It is traditional in Romania to buy land and build your own house. As a result, the landscape is dotted with huge houses in every colour. I really like the idea. In some cases I have to say it might have been wiser to employ a contractor. Others were architectural masterpieces. Many houses in the village were built around courtyards with a barn and a well which I thought was lovely.

Street in my village

Agricultural technology has not yet reached Romania
One thing that really struck me was the prevalence of carts and the near-absence of tractors. On two occasions I got to drive a neighbour's cart and loved it. We would pass several carts on the way to school, speeding by in our cars. Scythes are used to cut hay and the hay is baled up in the fields, piled onto huge sticks and wooden racks; no baling machines to be found. Agriculture seems to be one of Romania's largest industries, so its methods obviously still work - it just struck me, coming from a rural area where I've never seen a cart on the road but have been stuck behind tractors many a time.

In the driver's seat

I romanticise
The final lesson. Before I headed out to Romania, I read William Blacker's book about his time in Romania, Along the Enchanted Way. It was a wonderful book about falling in love with a gypsy and an agricultural way of life. Suceava, however, was a large town, not a tiny village with no tarmac roads (although I spent two weeks in one) and Romania is a twenty-first century country, not a historical wonderland. It is beautiful and I enjoyed my time there but it is not my country the way it is for William Blacker.

But I'm looking forward to find it.

Still pretty damn beautiful.

What this summer made me realise about my life

This summer, I was too busy with trivial thoughts like 'how am I going to afford breakfast' and 'now I'm in Berlin, where actually is my hostel' to have any startling revelations. Actually, this revelation wasn't really startling at all, even when it did show its face. It just gradually built up until it was glaringly obvious.

In my daily life I spend a lot of time at a desk. I sit at a desk to write my essays. I sit at a desk to translate Old English. If a book is particularly painful, sometimes I have to sit at a desk to read it so I don't fall asleep in my bed. I'm a hotel receptionist, and when I get to work, I sit at a desk. For an eight-hour stretch.

Sitting on a mountain. Preferable to sitting at a desk

Over June, July, August and a bit of September, I must have spent about eight cumulative hours sitting at a desk. I'm not saying I didn't sit. I sat at restaurants and on sofas and on the bed while I read a book (for pleasure, not for my degree!) but I barely even saw a desk the whole summer.

I never had sore shoulders or a sore neck, I barely had a single headache (apart from one strange week of tension headaches, but that may be because I'm not really used to sunlight...). I was tanned, and I felt strong for the first time in years.

Sitting on a horse. Preferable to sitting at a desk

Now I'm back in St Andrews, a town that I love, in a house that I love, with people that I love. That's all great. And the desk. The desk is back. I've already had to go to a physiotherapist about the ache in my shoulders and the pain of trying to maintain good posture and keep from hunching over my books is almost as bad.

Like all other fourth years I am continually battling The Fear about graduating in a year, but at the same time, it can't come quickly enough. I don't want to sit at a desk any more. 

As an English graduate I used to think I wouldn't have many job options, but then I started to get the message that English equips you to persuade just about anybody that you're the man for the job. One thing is kind of a given, though: you're going to have to work at a desk. But I'm not going to.

If you thought this might mean I know what I'm doing with my life - no. Of course not. I'm a fourth year English student. I know I like to write, and I don't mind spending an hour or two at a desk. I think what I want is to work with horses in some capacity.

For an English student, and a university student in general, this feels like a lot to admit. It's difficult to realise after three years that you're not doing what you want to be doing. But I am in the place I want to be. So that's enough for now. :)

This got way deeper than I anticipated! Next blog post will be about silly things that happened in Romania. Over and out.

What's In My Pack? (after three months)

Since my pack has been through a lot this summer, I felt it deserved some recognition.
The original list is in regular type - strikethrough has been ditched along the way - bold is a new addition.

Clothes
6 x pants
4 x ankle socks
3 x regular socks x1 (holes/missing)
2 x bras
4 x vests
1 x t-shirt
1 x trousers
2 x shorts (1 pair ripped and mended)
1 x dress
1 x blouse
1 x skirt x 2
1 x belt
Waterproof jacket
Jumper
Scarf
Flip flops
Sandals
Trainers
Hiking boots (time came to admit they just didn't fit)

Teaching supplies
Folder
Scotland flag
Toy Collie (somehow couldn't bring myself to part with it...)
Stickers
Colouring pencils
Crayons
Scottish tablet
St Andrews pencils
Scottish playing cards
Fudge
Scottish recipe tea towels (gifts for host families)
Post-its

Misc
Snorkel
Laundry liquid
Micro towel
Olive oil (gift for family)
Ouzo (gift for family)
Romania magnets x 5
Romania playing cards
Romania calendar
Romania bookmarks
Traditional Romanian Easter eggs x 6
Handmade halter (all of the above were gifts to me)
Castile soap
Beer mug shot glass (gift for family)
Colossal wooden spoon (gift for family)
Straw hat
Toiletries (various)
Wooden religious icon
30 year old handmade Romanian tablecloth (both gifts to me)
First aid kit (minus a few plasters)
2 x sun tan lotion x 1
Insect bite cream
Camera (slightly broken)
Chargers for phone/tablet
Tablet
Kindle (with 100+ books... man it was handy)

Carrying the wooden spoon for a month around Europe has to have been the biggest packing challenge as it stretched from the bottom of my pack to just stick out the top. I had a very minimal wardrobe but nothing was forgotten in the bottom of my bag and I had just enough to get through.

A Change of Plans

(Anyone who noticed that this blog was retired for about a month, forget everything you saw.)

I've now been abroad for just under three months - well, I left on the 30th of May and it's now the 20th of August. The plan to walk the West Highland Way this summer went out the window when I had to spend 50 euros on a taxi across Rome at the last minute (fuck you very much, WizzAir) and overspent in Greece and basically realised I couldn't really afford to fly home, and it made more sense to wait it out on the continent until my family showed up to drive me safely back to England.

Yeah, that's a pretty stupid plan, I know. I am now out of money. However, the next couple of weeks will be spent with various family members - the last couple of weeks, actually - and then I will have made it. Sort of. Back into my student debt and whatnot.

So far, I've spent a month working on my beloved farm in Greece, a month teaching children and living with families in Romania, and three weeks city-hopping with interrail which brings us to now - chilling out for a week in an airbnb flat beside Lake Como until we meet with parents. After bouncing from Suceava to Cluj-Napoca to Vienna to Prague to Berlin to Amsterdam to Brussels to Bordeaux to Lyon and finally to a friend's near Grenoble, this is a very welcome break. It's nice to be able to cook for ourselves at last, too - who knew you could get tired of eating in restaurants...

It has been a very eventful summer - I learned to drive a horse-drawn cart and a motorbike, stood in the way of a herd of galloping ponies, ate more meat than I have for ten years, got sick, swam in Lake Geneva while waiting for a train... there are more stories, and they'll get their time eventually.

When I get the time I'll be writing more about my Romanian experience (really the most apt word), my second summer in Greece and the adventures that followed. Until then.

The Great Adventure 2013

What you see here is the map which has been growing beside my bed for the past year. There are maps of the places I've been, postcards I've received and collected, a photograph, a play programme and a Lord of the Rings themed map of St Andrews. There are also maps of places I've yet to visit... or one, at least. 

For the past year I've been planning the most epic summer of my life so far. For three months I'm going to be travelling Europe, sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Here's the breakdown:

• 30th May - 27th June: Greece. I'm going back to the stables to work with Amanda, Stathis and the Skyrians for another month, this time with my friend Karen :)
• 27th June - 27th July: Romania. I'll be teaching English to kids in Suceava, and living with families there.
• 27th July - 17th August: Interrail. Lachy and I are heading to Scandinavia via Berlin. That's the current plan, anyway!
• After the 17th August... at some point: The West Highland Way. Walking it with Lachy.
• 3rd September: a week in France with my family.

Then back in time for freshers' week! Well... hopefully.

I've never travelled for so long before - and certainly never so long on my own in between places. It's going to be a test as well as an epic adventure. Maybe I can finally get over my fear of spiders? 

Packing has so far already been a challenge. Trying to hold myself back from packing clothes for every eventuality is rather difficult, and I have three notebooks packed already - despite paring them down to the essentials. I also have to take my dissertation reading with me - that'll be fun! My hand luggage is so far composed of books and important documents, while my main bag is full of clothes and teaching materials.

I'll do my best to post updates of my adventures when I get the chance, but since I haven't got room to carry my heavy computer the majority will have to wait until September.

Hasta luego, friends! Wish me luck!

Pitlochry and Blair Atholl

Lachy and I decided that if I had a couple of days off work together during uni's revision period, we'd go on a little break. Originally the plan was to go over to Inversnaid but since I only had two days off (travelling back the morning before my evening shift) the rather complicated journey wasn't really realistic. So I started googling youth hostels in Scotland and stumbled upon one in Pitlochry, which it would only take us three trains to reach, in two hours of travelling (more straightforward at least). Neither of us actually knew anything about Pitlochry but it seemed like there was a loch and some hills nearby and that was good enough, since we were primarily there 'to study', of course.

The window in the turret? Yeah, that's our room

The hostel was pretty much opposite the train station so that was nice and easy. We were handed our key by a fellow Australian (fellow to Lachy, not me) who offered us the room in the spire i.e. the turret of the building, as long as we weren't going to be upset by the music of the dance party at McKays next door. Well, we were in a tiny Scottish village, so we didn't think the night life was likely to disturb us, and living in a turret! That was the dream. The room was fairly basic but nothing was wanting and we had a little circular annex with a table and stools for us to work in - not bad really. From our study turret we could see down into Pitlochry's main street and the hills beyond.

Once we'd dropped off our stuff and had some lunch in the Old Mill Inn we set out for a walk. A quick visit to the John Muir Trust shop over the way procured us a map with walks to follow. Luckily Lachy can read maps (I think I can but ... I can't). We took a route that would lead us around Loch Faskally via the dam. I hadn't been up close to a dam before so it was pretty awesome to see the high, still loch on one side and the wide river rushing out on the other. After the isolated idyll of Loch Lomond I felt a bit betrayed by the wire fencing, the county council's signs claiming ownership of the loch and the occasional diversion to walk along the road because some selfish goose had chosen to build his house right on the shore. On the other hand, there were some beautiful little spots like this little grove straight out of a fantasy novel, and it's hard to be unhappy in the hills.

Halfway around the loch we stopped for ice cream at a little shop and decided offhand to rent a pedalo. I had never been in one before and didn't quite expect the hardship my legs would have to endure, especially on the seemingly never-ending journey back to the shop across the lake, and I got out with a very wet bum from a boat left in the drizzle for days. Okay, I wasn't feeling as 'at one with nature' as I had with Jess at Loch Lomond. But we had a good giggle and finished our walk. After a couple of hours of actual studying on our return to the hostel, we cooked a huge dinner of pasta in the ample and very clean kitchen. There were a whole range of people there of different ages and nationalities; French and German were spoken more than English in our vicinity the first night. Invernsaid being my first experience of an actual hostel, I hadn't realised hostelling isn't just confined to young people, so that gave me hope for the future... We went out for a drink at the Old Mill again and listened to some country music before going over to the Old Smiddy for a pint of Corncrake Ale, produced on the Isle of Orkney and just about the sweetest, most delicious ale I've tasted to date. Need to get me some more of those.

The following morning we decided to take the train out to Blair Atholl, 'the gateway to the Cairngorms', just a ten-minute ride away. The drizzle had ceased and the sun was out in all its glory. As we sat in the common room waiting for our late Sunday morning train, we saw a crowd of people in the street outside, staring at and taking photographs of something just out of sight. Lachy guessed it had to be a famous person, so we high-tailed it out of the hostel to take a look for ourselves. From the top of his curly head above an open car bonnet Lachy recognised Jeremy Clarkson. We stood quietly while he filmed a scene, presumably for Top Gear (see: the car) and then he and the crew wandered off. An average day for Pitlochry.

Hiking through the forest in Glen Tilt

The train ride was only ten minutes (though we forgot to look at the platform and nearly boarded a train to London instead) and we were deposited, thankfully, in the middle of nowhere, with some snow lying on a far-off mountain like some scene out of Switzerland. Our map guide suggested a walk down Glen Tilt, supposedly one of the most famous glens in Scotland, so we followed the path along the river and up into the forest along a wide track. It got quieter and quieter as we walked, until a deer off in the trees was actually surprised by our appearance - though I scared it off with my gasp. We kept saying we'd sit down for lunch as soon as we found a nice spot but the forest just kept getting higher and quieter... then we finally emerged, passed a few groups of people, and followed the path through some fields for a while, alongside a lamb who hadn't yet really learned to be afraid of people.

It started raining and we couldn't see the bridge the map promised, so eventually we cut down to the river and sat on some rocks to eat our lunch of cheese and crackers. The map showed a firing range on the route back but said it was only occasionally used... unfortunately this turned out to be one of those days. We could see, from the opposite hill, people shooting huge distances at large targets on the hillside, and the path just below them. There was no way that was safe. We decided to walk back along the river, on the safer side of it. After a while we realised we'd missed a turning just before the bridge and gone further than the map had suggested... but after all, we are adventurers.

The walk back was much faster and we still had a couple of hours to kill before the train back, so we stopped in a little cafe for a coke, made a brief foray into the Museum of Country Life where some free-wine event was taking place, and then walked up to Blair Castle to sit and write for an hour or so. Unfortunately we had to pay entry to the castle and gardens just to sit in the coffee shop, but we made full use of our tickets and explored the castle first. The collection of weapons and antlers the castle has is incredible... there's even a pair of giant elk antlers found on the Isle of Man. It's one of the few times I've felt I was getting my money's worth for entry to a castle. Blair is still the home of the Duke of Atholl, where biannual dinners for the Keepers of the Quaich are held; it hasn't been forgotten and half-heartedly set up as a tourist attraction. The avenue entrance and the gardens are also beautiful.

We had dinner in Cafe Biba when we got back to Pitlochry that evening, and while the pizzas we had were perfectly fine, they were nothing special. We went back to the hostel and fitted in a bit more of the revision we were supposed to be there for. We set off home early the next morning so there was no time for any then, except on the train. But hey, no point wasting a beautiful day in a beautiful place on studying, right?

Until next time :)

The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond

All I knew of this song was 'I'll take the high road and you'll take the low road and I'll get to Scotland before you...' But apparently it goes on "but me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond". That part however is obviously not true since my true love (my friend Jess... see: Danish Adventures) and I met there. Actually, we travelled there together, and it took us about six hours.

A while back, Jess showed me this list of things she wanted to do. It was written in some very pretty coloured pencils. She wanted to hike, and camp, and be one with nature. I wanted to come along. So (since Jess is the ideas woman and I'm the practicalities) I booked us a hostel and a taxi and looked up some train times for a couple of days during our Spring Vacation when I miraculously wasn't working. We packed up our camping rucksacks (looking pretty legit) and set out from Leuchars. Two trains to Glasgow, two buses to Aberfoyle and then a "DRT Bus" (Demand Responsive Transport, that is, a taxi for the cost of a bus provided when there's no public transport to be had) to our hostel.

We were staying at the Inversnaid Bunkhouse which is an absolutely gorgeous old chapel which has been converted into a hostel. The restaurant and common area still has beautiful stained glass windows. The lovely man running the hostel (we could never quite figure out if his accent was South African or Australian...) gave us the full tour and sat us down for some dinner. With some hot food in our bellies we went out in the dark with newly-downloaded torch apps on our phones (since we both forgot torches) and a tiny bottle of Glenfiddich whisky. We walked down the road a little way, over a bridge which appeared to be fairly high above a river and then up into the forst. It was all fairly disorienting since we hadn't seen any of it during the day and walking through the forest in the pitch black was pretty unnerving, but we split the whisky between us on the bridge for some Dutch courage. When we got back to the hostel we split the remaining two whiskies (aged 12, 15 and 18 years respectively, and 15 was our favourite - we're connoisseurs now). Anyone who was on Facebook that night probably remembers it well...

In the morning (amazingly, none the worse for wear) we were given a lift down to the Inversnaid Hotel which literally sits on the banks of the river, about 800m down from the hostel. We took a gander first at the Inversnaid Waterfall which has been painted by a fair few famous painters; then we set off down the West Highland Way.

Our spiritual guides - goats.

It was a fairly straightforward walk at first so we thought the whole thing must be a pleasant stroll. Then we started climbing over the odd rock. Then we started climbing UP the odd rock face. Then it became a scramble. I'm not complaining, I think we're both girls who prefer a scramble to a pleasant stroll. We ended up under these huge overhanging rocks, with a steep fall down over massive boulders to the lake beneath us. When we descended on the other side we realised we'd clambered over Rob Roy's Cave (supposedly he lived there for a while after his house was burned down. I sound like I know what I'm talking about but actually I'm not sure who he is. Anyway. I'm English.) but we couldn't get to the cave from below; we could just see the painted word 'CAVE' on one of the rocks (or it could have been 'DAVE'... who knows).

Rave?

We took a break on a huge grassy boulder that we had to scale to find a seat, and it started snowing. (This would turn out to be something of a pattern.) According to Jess' GPS on her phone we were making good progress, so we decided to walk to the top of the loch before turning back, about 5-6 miles. The path just got narrower and more rocky and we found ourselves hugging the cliffs on more than one occasion, but it was pretty spectacular. It was grey and overcast but the sun would come out occasionally, and of course, any time we sat down there'd be a minor blizzard. We came across a bothy which had been left in a pretty messy state, but it was the first time I'd seen a bothy (for any other n00bs like me: a little house walkers can stay in, with a leave-it-as-you-found-it-(or-better) policy). We finally reached a good point to turn back and stopped to eat our hostel-made sandwiches. It started snowing.

Jess being snowed on/attacked by snow

The journey back seemed to go a lot faster and we took a little break on the lake shore for me to read my book and Jess to sketch the lake. After finally reaching the famous Inversnaid Hotel on the banks of the lake that marked our return we had a refreshing pint of lemonade each. By the time we left the hotel again, there was a blizzard going on outside. It had been glorious sunshine when we went in. Scotland.

Not noticing the ominous clouds behind us...

...and then they burst.

We still had some energy (miraculously) so we decided to hike it up the hill on the other side of the hotel to the ruins of an ancient village. They were perched on top of the hill and were beautiful, though there wasn't a lot there. After that we made our way back to the hostel through a silent, snow-covered forest, keeping our voices down in the hopes of spying some deer. We had another yummy dinner with some Lomond Gold ale and then changed into our bikinis for a wee stint in the hot tub. This turned into several hours in the hot tub with the mountains silhouetted against a starry sky, with a bottle of Lomond Gold given to us by the guy running the hostel (a lovely man, but unfortunately I didn't catch his name). Occasionally snow would fall and when we got out our towels and clothes were frozen.

It was amazing.

After a brilliant couple of days we made our way back to St Andrews. The Inversnaid Bunkhouse is really stunning and the staff are all so welcoming - I'll definitely be going back one of these days. All in all an awesome impromptu trip!

Budapest Diary

This is a transcript of the diary I wrote three years ago in Budapest. Not very exciting but it puts the poem into perspective a bit I think. And there's more written here than I can recall in my memory, which is sad, but really drives home the point of this blog. If I don't write it down I'll forget, so. My notes from today are in italics.

Thursday 25^th February 2010

Flight was long but I wasn’t as scared as I might have been (I'm not afraid of flying any more). The architecture in Budapest is incredible but every possible surface is covered in graffiti, except St Stephen’s Basilica. There are adverts for escorts and sex shops everywhere, so strange. Ate in a restaurant called Kárpátia, the food was incredible and so was the interior. High curved ceilings and huge wooden divides and every surface painted on. Next door was live gypsy music, very busy, but our room was quiet.

Friday 26^th

Much nicer in the daylight. The architecture is really beautiful if eclectic! Saw some sights via a tour bus, got off, went into the labyrinth of Budavár. Frightening. Lunch was soup in a café, spicy apple with ginger quice [sic] the only vegetarian option, a bit too strong and sweet for me. Walked to Gellért spa but too expensive, then to the Citadella, very high up. Have booked tickets for a ballet at the opera house tomorrow, Mum & I. La Bayadère.

Parents bought me Hungarian secret box. The key is hidden inside and it has the tree of life on it, very beautiful. (I can't get the box open now.)

We ate in a restaurant called Spoon, a boat moored in the Danube. The food was amazing. I had gnocchi (for the first time, now I eat it all the time). The view of the palace and bridges lit up was incredible.

Saturday 27^th

Off to the flea market at 9am, disappointing, very like a car boot though a bit stranger (a lot more porn). National Gallery very beautiful from the outside but expensive so we missed it out. The House of Terror museum was very sobering, the former headquarters of the Nazi and Soviet governments, then called the House of Loyalty. The cells in the basement where prisoners were tortured and killed were near intact and particularly horrible.

Had a muffin in the café and then went shopping. Bought a beautiful scarf and some clothes. Ate pizza, very good, in the Queen café. Found the Guinness Pub for Dad’s rugby match, then Mum and I went back, got changed and went out. Searched for the Marquis de Salade restaurant (éterrem) but couldn’t find it, ate nachos and brownie instead in Balettcipo which was very good, sweet pair of pointe shoes hanging in the doorway! Rushed to the Opera House. Good seats though (very) uncomfortable. (We peeked into a box and took a picture there.) The performance was amazing, particularly the sets and costumes, and La Bayadère is a really good story. (Some gripping commentary.)

Sunday 28^th

Went looking for cruises this morning but there aren’t many in winter so we had to leave it. Strolled up Vaci Útca, the main shopping street, and Mum & I bought another scarf. Had a cake and hot chocolate in the Anna Café and then went to the Basilica to have a look around. St Stephen’s hand was there and you had to pay to light it up for two minutes. Walked over to Parliament and then had lunch in Balletcipo, quesadillas for me. Went over to the Opera House but the tour would have finished too late.

Taxi is coming to pick us up in 45 minutes and flight is at 6:20pm.

My diary was pretty perfunctory back then I guess! The poem is a bit more exciting.

Prague and Back Again

A couple of days before we set out on race2 Prague I started reading a book called Daughter of Smoke and Bone, which turned out to be set in Prague within the first couple of paragraphs. Not only did this make me believe we were going to get there, it also made me feel for the first time like I really, really wanted to get there. So luckily I started out on this journey with a good attitude.

As you can see, we're looking pretty bright for 5.45am. No, I do realise I look a bit lacklustre. I had a small (but jam-packed) rucksack, a water bottle, a whiteboard and a yellow bag full of snacks (and a Europe road map) in my possession. Compared to some racers I'd packed very light indeed. We had very little luggage between us, actually, which I think worked in our favour.

We were dropped off at a service station just off the motorway near Stirling at about 8.20am. At first we were a bit nervous about approaching people but standing holding a sign wasn't going to get us anywhere so, after explaining to people about our quest and being turned down for about half an hour, we found a guy who - unfortunately - was driving north for a meeting. But, he said, he'd check if we were still stuck here on his way back and take us towards Glasgow if we needed it. Luckily, ten minutes later he returned, meeting cancelled, loaded up our stuff in his car and gave us our first ride.

He brought us to a fairly busy service station just outside Glasgow heading south, where after about half an hour we found Lee, who was a bit hesitant at first but was soon persuaded and gave us a lift all the way down to Preston, chatting all the way about his offshore job (well, what I heard of it when I wasn't asleep...).

This is the M6 near Penrith, Cumbria, my home county, as we passed through it! At Preston after about another half hour we met Geoff, a lorry driver, who took us all the way down to Watford Gap, near Northampton. Katie and I sat on the sort-of bed and slept some more while Dominic took the front seat. Our first lorry! And it was like climbing a ladder to get in. Geoff was relatively quiet but we listened to a lot of local radio...

At Watford Gap for the first time we were in serious snow. There hadn't been any in St Andrews but it had been trickling down ever since. We had some chips here and then started approaching lorries, locking on to them as good for hitch-hiking. There were a few 'no's before we met a Turkish lorry driver who saw our sign - 'Dover?' and seemed to be saying we should come back at 6. We did so, and he ushered us into his carpeted lorry (we had to take off our shoes). I took the front seat this time, declined a cup of coffee and an orange but accepted a pillow and some chewing gum, and sank back to enjoy some Turkish music and some serious heating. I ended up taking off as much clothing as possible but it was still as hot as Greece in summer.

After a couple of failed attempts at making conversation we settled into a quiet 3-hour journey down to the coast. As we got into the port we realised we weren't being dropped off outside, but that he planned to take us over to Calais with him - but we failed to realise we were supposed to check in as extra passengers, at least after we weren't asked for passports or anything at the check-in area. It was only as we were actually queueing for the ferry that a worker on the concourse asked for our tickets and told us we had to go back - but try explaining that with no common language. After a lot of chaos including losing a record of one of the driver's journeys and almost getting stuck around a corner, we thanked our lovely Turkish host and apologised profusely, and climbed out onto the concourse - where we were not supposed to be.

Another worker approached us and told us the police were coming to escort us away. We were after all kind of over the border illegally. The police arrived, were very reasonable, and brought us to the port's arrivals hall, where we slept sort-of-rough for the first time.

It was VERY cold by the window in the hall but the only place for a decent bed, and all things considered I got about six hours of solid sleep. Katie slept like a baby but Dom decided to explore the town of Dover, being without a sleeping bag, and only got about two hours.

In the morning we got onto the first passenger ferry out of there and ended up at Calais. After an amazingly successful first day, we made our first big mistake on the ferry by not approaching any drivers looking for lifts - all we did was sleep. The people who got lifts from the ferry were able to get straight to the motorway, but we trekked through the snow into the town of Calais, out again, and then back in. A British expat offered us food at a soup kitchen but a vote decided we'd keep on the move. After three hours of failure, following in the footsteps of another group we'd spoken to, we took a train to Brussels.

After a brief stop in Lille for a few games of cards and charades we made it to Brussels train station, but once you're in a city it's hard to get out. Few people were driving out of the city from the train station and it was looking pretty worrying - until we met Relinde and Dirk, a Dutch couple living in Leuven who, concerned since we were the same age as their own children, chatted between themselves briefly in Dutch before saying 'we'll take you home with us. You can sleep, have some breakfast, and in the morning, we'll take you to the motorway. We have to take the train now but we'll buy your tickets'.

I actually felt my eyes well up. It had been looking so bleak and they seemed like such genuine people. The more we talked to them as we waited for the train the more convinced we became. They had met studying Germanic Philology in the Netherlands. How could we not trust them?!

After a short train journey on a double-decker train - another first - they drove us to their house, with a quick stop on the way at a bread machine. We couldn't get over this. A vending machine for fresh bread, on the corner of two country roads. Amazing. I also couldn't get it out of my head that Leuven was a familiar name and I soon discovered why when I saw the Stella Artois brewery, in all its glory.

Relinde and Dirk's old millhouse was amazing, with woad walls and a spiral staircase. They heated us up some onion soup which we devoured with bread and gulps of water. I felt like the hungry traveller in some Roman myth. We were shown to our rooms and offered the use of a shower - a shower! Which we didn't actually take up. It becomes very difficult to strip down once you've been sleeping and walking in the same clothes for two days. But that night's sleep was blissful. In the morning we were treated to a continental breakfast and made ourselves some packed lunches. Dirk drove us to a busy service station on the motorway heading towards Koln and we bade him a grateful farewell.

The Belgians were all very friendly when turning us down but it was a couple of hours before we managed to find a lift, though one guy gave us a box of jelly sweets. A parked lorry from Prague looked like it was sent from heaven, but another driver informed us they'd all be parked throughout the day - Sunday. No one would move until Monday. We were gutted - it had seemed like our best chance. Fortunately, a girl heading out to the Netherlands to ski with her younger brother picked us up and offered to take us east for about an hour. We climbed into the back with her skis. The snow was falling thick and fast now.

Melina dropped us off just inside the Netherlands, unable to find a service station but at a petrol station just off the motorway. After about twenty minutes a guy agreed to give us a lift. It turned out as he was driving us that he had only popped out to buy some cigarettes, but had decided to drive us over the German border anyway (we must have looked pretty pathetic in the snow). 'I come for a smoke, now I drive you to Deutschland.'

He planned to drop us off at a bigger petrol station but for some reason took us to an even more remote one, but at least we were in Germany now - Aachen, to be exact. After a little while it became apparent we weren't going to get picked up from the petrol station so we planted ourselves by a signpost between the roads with our sign saying 'EAST'. No one picked us up. The snow got heavier. Still no one picked us up.

It was about -8'C. We stood there for two hours or more. No one even thought about it. We walked into Aachen, searching for a petrol station. Ice had actually formed on our coats and in our hair, and in our drinks. My spirits began to drop along with my body temperature. We now had 48 hours before we had to fly back to the UK from Prague. I got onto the phone to my mum and she found the train times for us to get to Prague from Aachen. I wanted to be able to see Prague, the bridge and the clock and whatnot, before flying home, so I convinced my teammates it was time to throw in the towel.

At 2:10pm we got the train out of Aachen and began our crossing of Germany. We changed a couple of times in different cities - so we did see a bit of Koln and Nurnberg - and after having our passports checked by two plain-clothes police officers who we were not convinced weren't trying to rob us until they gave us back our passports, we crossed the border into the Czech Republic, and alighted in the town of Cheb.

We had a six-hour stopover here and my mum (thank God for my mum) had found us a hostel near the train station. It was full. We found another. It was full. We began to notice a lot of young men wearing hoodies and trackies standing on street corners alone, watching us. We found a hotel. It was closed. Finally, after a very brief panic, we found an open hotel. They didn't speak English. We didn't speak Czech. Fortunately, they did speak German, and Dominic talked us in. We got a room, each had a shower and settled down to sleep for four hours. At 3.45am we got up, packed up our stuff and headed back to the train station.

With out own compartment on the train we managed to fit in a couple more hours of sleep, and at 7.44am we rolled into Prague. We'd made it. Perhaps we'd cheated in the race but we were a day and a half too late to win anyway, and fuck it, we made it from Stirling to Prague overland and off our own backs. We did an amazing thing. I am so proud of us.

After breakfast in the hostel we went straight into the city to spend the day wandering the streets of the Old Town, drinking beer, buying souvenirs, drinking beer, eating local food and drinking beer. It was a good day. A very good end to a very long journey. And now I feel as tired as though I've lived it all again, so goodnight.

Ahoj Praha

Yep, it's actually pronounced like 'ahoy'.

Tomorrow morning Katie, Dominic and I are heading out onto the Scottish roads in an attempt to find our way to Prague, roughly 1270 miles away, depending on the kindness of strangers just like Blanche... and look how well it worked for her!

At this point my main concern is us actually reaching Prague. It seems fairly improbable, but people complete race2 every year so it can't be impossible. The fact that it is a race does not factor in at all. If WHEN we make it to Prague, that will be achievement enough. And I sure hope we do because I've already booked my return flights.

Well. Either way, it's an adventure.

We've come to an agreement that if after two days we still aren't in sight of Prague we'll just pay our way so we can at least enjoy one day in the city before we come back.

Essential items: sleeping bag, passport, maps, kindle (travelling without a book?! Never), gloves, hat, layers, layers, layers. There are other items in my 22L backpack of course but it is going to be coooooooooold.

Languages have been divided between us. Katie and I know some French, Dominic speaks German when he's drunk (and hopefully when he's sober) and Katie's had a look at Czech too. I've downloaded phrasebook apps onto my phone but the battery's only going to last a day or two unless I have it switched off most of the time.

I started reading a great book yesterday and it's set in Prague which I see as a sign. We will make it. Hopefully there aren't as many demons in Prague as there are in the book but hey ho, we'll find out.

We're going to be tweeting our adventures, you can follow us here if you want to:
http://www.twitter.com/inconspicuoso

Wish us luck!
Na shledanou..

The City Dead

This is a poem I wrote when I was in Budapest three years ago. It contains everything I did and felt about the city but I highly doubt it makes sense to anyone but me. But my next post will be the diary I kept in Budapest to see if that clarifies anything. Each stanza is for a different day.

I.

descend into heat-filled graffiti-lined and boarded
homes of homeless bundled dirtied
’til cool air drops to meet you, streets like canals
wide raced through by lights
the stone a canvas absent blank and beautiful.

buried places calling, music laughter long-forgotten
echoes bouncing off the quiet moulded, hang your coat
and drown beneath high ceilings ancestral colours
in thousands, you will feel alone.

bars and locks and darkness leer beneath balconies,
smoke and talk emerge from subterraneous
holes and at once space, and this untouched
and silent, alive or a corpse suspended.

II.

dawn breaks empty horns and wheels and frantic
mismatched beauties lined up, headphones please
this quiet, gather and meet or cower, bury fears
fathoms beneath, the dark will wind its way
around your throat, you are watched.

it is safe: apple ginger spice and soft familiar
butterless, a first kiss fog and fantasy from
fishermen to domed and grand and magic
hold your breath and run beneath olive leaves.

there are secrets here, the knowing’s in it
little pieces of a world long lost, not stolen
broken jealously hidden away and guarded,
wave-bound illuminating in the pitch it breathes.

III.

sunlight in the grey sharp and cuts and glows
on quests unfound and hopes unlived
the secrets here are that unnative unknown
and: exposed loyalty finds terror in putrid
cells, the light dances on the crucifix.

culture is dying, identity sighs
in juts and folds and spokes it glances up
a cello on the foot a car park laughing
music flares a chuckle a cough behind doors,

behind doors. in gold the heights, the heights
in red another world transported leaping
kicking fighting singing it is vital, vibrant
in half-lit rooms it stirs and jerks and gasps and lives.