Road Diary
Scotland Part XII
The Standing Stones of Callinish
By Dick Sutphen

JULY 12, MONDAY: You get what you want in life or you get to have excuses why you didn't (human-potential wisdom for the day). What I want at this moment in time is to sleep comfortably, without a fookin' duvet. So on my way back from the post office, I stop at Poundstretcher and purchase a bed sheet. Big deal, right? Well, this sheet is a big deal to me. Combined with a light blanket I found in the closet, I'm planning to sleep comfortably.

Tara tells me she prefers the duvet, so there is trouble brewing in River City.

Today has been a writing day for me. Tara was in trance about five hours answering letters for her "Cause and Effect" column. At dinner, she looks a little stoned. Every once in awhile, one of her pupils spins randomly around the white of an eye.

Tonight, I take back everything I've ever said about the BBC. They are obviously redeeming themselves. At 8 PM on a BBC2 show called "Local Heroes," we're going to learn about something unbelievable. In fear you'll think I'm making this up, I'll take it word for word from the TV listing: "Joseph Black's discovery of why ice takes so long to melt in whisky."

If that doesn't do it for you, another channel offers "a look at the phenomenon of lightning and the electrical storm." And of course, on another channel, there is the obligatory American expose; a true story of "Geordie hairdressers who booked a luxury ski chalet in Colorado, but ended up in a basement between a garage and a boiler room."

Twelve days ago, Scotland gained its freedom, but this country will never be free until they purge themselves of English TV. Maybe the Scots can start one channel of their own and make a satellite deal with America to beam our networks down to Scottish sets.

Hunter agrees.

Cheyenne agrees.

Tara thinks we're all demented, because she has found TV nirvana.

That's one dissenter out of four. Based on this percentage, at least three out of four Scots would stop watching English shows. Let the dissenting 25-percent move to England. The rest will find their way to the salvation of NBC, CBS, ABC and FOX.

Tonight, we must prepare for another major journey, this time to the Standing Stones of Callanish on the outer Isle of Lewis. On our way, we'll journey almost to the top of the Highlands, into some of the remotest regions of Scotland. When we reach the stones, hopefully on the second day, my wife has the idea that she is going to shoot naked pictures of me leaping around the stones.

"Tara this may be one of the most remote sites, but it's also one of the most famous, and it's the height of tourist season."

"It's your turn."

"There's a visitor-center at the site."

"If you could kneel by one of the stones and pose like the statue of 'the thinker,' I could get a great three-quarter rear view and ..."

JULY 13, TUESDAY: Our train route north takes us through the center of Scotland, north to Inverness the official gateway to the Highlands. The sky is heavily overcast, rain comes and goes, often obscuring a clear view of the landscapes. We see many wild deer in the grasslands along the tracks. The train travels primarily through flat valleys planted with crops or fenced for sheep. The foothills are forested, and often higher mountains are visible beyond.

In Inverness we arrive too late to catch a train to the coastal town of Kyle of Lochalsh where we hoped to catch a bus that would carry us the full length of the Isle of Sky. We planned to stay overnight in the village of Uig and take a morning ferry to the Isle of Lewis.

Over lunch we consider other travel options.

"Let's take a bus to Ullapool," Tara says. This is further north on the western Scottish coast. "We'll arrive in time to catch the 5:15 ferry directly to Stornoway."

This is a better plan than our original. Stornoway, the largest town on the island, is as close as we can probably expect to get to the standing stones. "Let's see if Thomas Cook Travel can reserve us rooms on Stornoway."

After a rep calls all the hotels, we learn there's a Gaelic music festival this weekend. No rooms available. Instead, we'll sleep in Ullapool and take the morning ferry to the island. Tara asks the Thomas Cook lady if we'll like the town. She says, "Ullapool is a quaint little place, you'll love it."

The bus trip to Ullapool takes 90 minutes, at first through land much like we've traveled on the train, but as we climb into the Highlands, pasture lands give way to open country, heather and rocky mountains that become taller by the mile. Only occasionally do we see a power line.

Dropping back down to sea level, Ullapool comes into view. The Caledonia MacBrayne ferry is nearing the docks. The black-and-white buildings on Shore Street face a notch of water in Loch Broom. The village was built by the British Fishery Society in 1788 as a port for herring fishermen. The buildings still look as they did at the time of construction, although probably considerably more weather beaten.

 It's raining and the temperature is about 50 degrees, but we enjoy shopping along the street. At a music listening bar, I find some unique high-energy traditional music by a group called Shooglenifty -- "Venus in Tweeds" on an Edinburgh label. I have to have it. From what I've seen in the music stores of western Scotland, music means one thing -- traditional, in its many forms from folk to ceilidh.

We have reservations at the Harbor Lights Hotel -- a short walk past the shopping street. The comfortable rooms offer expansive views of Loch Broom and the hills across the water. My memories of this hotel would be forever positive had we not made the mistake of eating here. As an understatement, let me just say this is the worst service and worst food I've experienced in Scotland. Management must figure that visitors won't return to such a remote place so why try. When we've received no food and not so much as a dinner roll after 40 minutes, I order rolls.

Ten minutes later, I complain to the sour French woman who seems to be in charge. "I ordered rolls ten minutes ago and I've never waited so long for a simple meal in my life."

Her only response is a "so what, and fook you," facial expression.

When the rolls arrive they are warm on the outside, frozen in the middle. To Hunter and me, the meal is terrible. Cheyenne, who has decided to be a vegetarian, has ordered soup and potatoes. Hard to screw up boiled potatoes. Tara claims to be quite happy with her chicken. 

JULY 14, WEDNESDAY: As with most hotels in Scotland, breakfast is included. To our surprise, coffee cups are refilled. The French woman makes the rounds to refill the cups at every table but ours. Our toast arrives when we're hosting our backpacks to leave.

 "That which you resist you draw to you," Tara says.

"And I drew to me the only grumpy French person in the Scottish Highlands?"

Tara smiles, nods.

We board the Caledonia MacBrayne ferry at 9:30 AM for a two-hour-40-minute crossing to the Isle of Lewis, the largest and most northerly island in the Hebrides. The name means "island of heather." Actually the Isles of Lewis and Harris are the same island in spite of different names, and the combined length is 95 miles. The width varies from 18 to 28 miles. From what I've read, Gaelic is commonly spoken and Presbyterianism is still very strong here. I was raised Presbyterian at the instance of my Celtic mother, but I never knew it as an austere religion. Here some B&Bs don't allow you to watch TV on Sundays.

Harris Tweed clothing has a world-wide reputation as the finest woolen attire. I treasure two sportcoats from here. Harris makes up the southern 35 miles of the island, where over 600 weavers make their living creating the tweed.

Stornoway, with 5000 residents, is the only real town in the Outer Hebrides. Located on the eastern side of the island in a landlocked harbor, we are delighted to arrive in sunshine, although it is surprisingly cold.  The bus depot is located at the pier. A bus leaving in 20 minutes will pass the Standing Stones of Callanish. It will return to the stones at 5:10 PM.

"That would leave us four hours to explore the stones," I say, "But then what? With no rooms available here, how do we get off the island at 6 PM?"

Tara is pissed. She wants to experience these stones and she expects Mother Scotland to make this possible. She leaves the bus station at a half trot, heading into the business district. The kids and I rush to catch up. On one of the streets, I spot an ATM machine. We're extremely short of cash, so I stop.

"Watch where she goes," I yell to Hunter.

He watches, but he isn't leaving me.

Clutching £100, we head off in Tara's general direction.

"Where did she go?"

"Don't know. This way."

We walk another block and a half where we spot Cheyenne in the Crown Hotel doorway. Tara spins out of the revolving doors. "Got us two rooms."

"How did you do that?" I assume a deceased spirit has led her directly to the one hotel on the island that had rooms available.

"We sleep here and go to the music festival tonight. You'll like that."

Oighru, a friendly woman behind the front desk, gives us keys and tells us we can give her credit-card information tomorrow. "Go, go to the stones," she says, waving us off. We drop our bags in the rooms and literally run several blocks back to the bus, arriving in plenty of time. In fact, standing outside the bus, we have ten minutes to talk to a friendly young German couple who are also going to the stones. Dirk and Christine are backpacking in Scotland for a holiday. He's an electrician and she works with battered children for a social service agency. We're very attracted to their positive energy. Dirk speaks English like an American.

The bus ride across the island, east to west, takes about 20 minutes. Judging strictly from this ride I would describe Lewis in two words, "bleak bog." Once we leave Stornoway, there isn't a tree to be seen. Everywhere, the land is scarred by peat mining. The people cut away the first foot of their land, then allow it to dry, so it can be burned for heat in winter. Obviously, the locals are spending July getting ready for winter. I find this depressing. Environmentalists who abhor strip mining at home would love this. We don't travel 200 yards without seeing new scars. The island is being devoured, or so it seems.

One of my books says that Lewis is treeless because long ago the Norse raider, Magnus Barelegs and his Viking warriors burned all the trees. Efforts at reforestation have been unsuccessful. I would, however, assume that to reforest the land you'd have to give up the zillion sheep that roam the island. Supposedly, Lewis lamb is the sweetest mutton available, because the animals feed on nothing but heather.

Skeletons of rusty cars and abandoned machinery in the yards of drab-looking houses, reminds me of remote areas of Alaska and parts of Montana -- an edge-of-the-world mentality I've never understood. I dare say, no one has every moved to Lewis because they found this island irresistible. They either grew up here and accepted what is, or they had to no way to escape.

As the bus nears Callanish, we see two smaller stone circles on rises, silhouetted against the now cloud-shrouded sky. Tara jabs me in the shoulder, then stabs air in the direction of the circles. Her shamanic way of orienting to the world naturally synchronizes with these ancient sites.

We step from the bus into rain, 46 degrees and howling wind. Before climbing the hill to the stones, we take refuge in the visitor-center restaurant. Soup and crusty bread fortify us for our stone encounter. Sheep grazing outside our window, stop nibbling every once in awhile to watch us eat.  

At the stones, we are forced to don raincoats. My hands freeze as I take video footage. Within moments the camera is drenched and I hide behind a large stone to wipe water from the camera lens. This is mid-July and it feels like a blizzard in the making. The children immediately beg to be allowed to return to the visitor center. I give them a pound each to buy dessert.

The central monolith is 16-feet tall and surrounded by a circle of 13 stones in a circle. Then branching from the circle is a cross of stones. The top and side arms are single rows. The bottom, twin rows, I would assume to allow processions to march between them to the circle. In 1980 excavations showed that the stones were erected between 2900 and 2600 BC. The site predates Stonehenge and was in use for several centuries thereafter.

I'm surprised to find that the stones form a Celtic Cross, because the site was created thousands of years before Christianity. Some researchers believe the Christians took the Celtic Cross from this site as part of the absorption of Paganism into the new religion.

After packing away the video camera, I stand behind the tallest stone to warm my hands in my pockets and hide from the wind.

Long ago, a man named Martin Martin interviewed locals and conducted extensive research on the site. In 1716 he wrote that in the time of heathenism, the chief Druid stood near the big stone in the center and addressed himself to those surrounding him.

Right where I stand.

Although the wind never diminishes and the temperature never varies, it does stop raining, and the sun momentarily breaks through dark clouds. I grab the camera and begin to snap photos of my wife with these stones, which have been so important to her for so long. She takes off her raincoat and sweater.

"You're going to freeze to death," I say.

"I'm fine," she says.

I snap away among the stones.

Thankfully, other tourists spend only a few moments before rushing back to the visitor center or sanctuary of their tour bus. I seldom have to shoot around other people. I do pick camera angles to avoid including the big tour bus that sits just beyond the outer fence and all the houses in the vicinity. Thankfully, conditions are not conducive to me posing bare assed at Callanish. Whew!

Tara wants to meditate, so I take her bag and return to warmth of the restaurant. While ordering tea, I ask the young women behind the counter if the weather is always like this. "Oh, this is wonderful weather," she says.

Later, Tara joins the children and I in the restaurant. Her rain jacket is dripping with water. Her hair is shooting in all directions and she has a wild look in her eyes.

"You've been meditating in a blizzard." I buy her a cup of hot tea.

While the children happily play a travel game, Tara and I move to the next table so she can tell me about her experience. Rather than share it in my words, I'll take it from her travel journal:

"I decide to do some meditation and sit on the ground cross-legged and face north. I close my eyes and start going into trance. I'm still in a light level when I feel someone standing over me. I focus upon a woman in a woolen shawl. She extends her hands to me and I take them -- slightly cold. I ask who she is but she is greeting me in Gaelic. I only understand the word failte', which means welcome.

"I tell her I have to speak English to understand her. She says yes that the English have come. I ask her who she is again and she says she chose to stay and oversee the temple and burials. That when she lived here in life that the temple was covered and so was the processional lane -- that they had ceremonies for couples, babies, water, changes of weather, crops, animals, harvests and funerals. The funerals -- they took the hearts from the victims for the ceremony and buried them at the stone of love to the left of the entrance into the temple from the procession. This was a place you could pray for your loved ones. They buried the bodies in the cairns.

"I asked what stone I was leaning on and she said it was the stone of peace. The stone of understanding was across from the processional opening. She said the stones were larger than now due to the weather and that when she was born to them they were uncovered and so her people covered them. The other circles in the area were all different temples of natural worship--one was for children and another safety. But that this was the major temple and people had homes all around were I could see -- a vast area -- a big village.

"I asked her why she didn't go to the light and have another life on the island by the stones. But she said she was perfectly happy at the temple and had no intention of leaving it. She was well aware of the changes on the island, but as long as the temple land stayed sacred that is her only concern. She raised her hands over my head and chanted Gaelic. She reached again for my hands and her last words were 'Greadhnach, garh robh.'

"Then she was gone and I got up and looked around at the beautiful circle -- remembering her last words. In the visitor center I found a Gaelic dictionary and looked up the meanings: Greadhnach means magnificent. Gabh robh means that it was."

Dirk and Christine, our young German acquaintances, stop by to tell us goodbye and to wish us well on our journey. They've found a B&B nearby, so won't have to set up their tent in a sheep pasture. We invite them to join us. We talk about their lives, our lives, their hiking and camping experiences in Scotland. On his Ordinance Survey map, Dirk shows me the 24-mile trail they walked to get to Ullapool -- the difficulty fording small rivers and their problems with midges -- a small flying, biting insect that plagues hikers and climbers.

We enjoy Dirk and Christine's take on values. They have no interest in computers. In the UK, the disco island of Ibiza is promoted as the ultimate young people's vacation site. We ask if they're interested in such sites for a holiday. (They don't know the word "vacation.")

"Oh, no," Dirk wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "We're only interested in going north. Scotland, Denmark, Finland, Sweden." To these people a holiday is a chance to explore the outdoors. We ask if they've ever considered coming to America or to Canada. Tara tells them that if they like northern Scotland, they would probably love Alaska.

"Oh, but it is so far away," Dirk says. "Too far away."

Back in Stornoway, we pickup dinner for the children who are content to remain in their hotel room to read and watch TV if there is anything worth watching. Tara and I go off to search out the music festival. In the bar below the hotel, four young guys are playing delightful traditional tunes: two mandolins, a guitar and fiddle. But soon other musicians arrive to join in. Four men playing accordions completely drown out the stringed instruments. Not our sound. We take a cab to a TV studio where a concert is being performed, only to find out the event is sold out. We walk a couple miles back into town.

In McNeill's Pub a band is setting up and we like the energy of this place. Five young German backpackers sit at the table next to ours. Across the room are older locals, and tourists of every description. A couple of the band members can't be over 16, but they're fine musicians and play with great enthusiasm. Everyone in the room is tapping their feet in time to the Gaelic tunes.

 Another couple squeezes in beside us and we're soon in conversation. The moment they speak we know they're English. Matt and Jo live in Newcastle in  the northeast corner of England, about 50 miles below the Scottish border. They're camping on the islands for a holiday. Matt's hair is five years into dreadlocks. Jo is beautiful, 30-years old and dressed like San Francisco in the early 70s. Jo and Tara are instant friends. The couple are landscape architects, and are building a small house with their own hands. Matt has recently acquired a horse, so he and Tara have plenty to talk about. They'd like to use a small horse-drawn cart as their primary mode of transportation at home. Matt and I talk traditional music, which he and Jo love as much as Tara and I.

Another longhair joins us -- sensing his own kind, I assume. He was born on Stornoway, left to live in Glasgow for a couple years but the city was too much for him. He returned to live on the island. I ask him about the winters here. His answers sound like a first-person account of hell on earth.

Everyone we talk to is fascinated by the fact we're from Los Angeles, a city of mythical proportion to those who haven't visited California. They feel familiar with the city because they've seen it so often as a TV and movie setting. Everyone has questions.

At 11 PM an expanded and electrified version of the band begins to play. The pub is packed to the point you literally can't make your way to the bathrooms. Everyone is here to drink and listen to the incredible music. I love this experience far more than any standing stones, but by 12:30 AM, after inhaling a few packs of second-hand smoke, we return to the streets and walk a few blocks back to the hotel.

What a day!

JULY 15, THURSDAY: Time to return to Edinburgh if we can make it back in one day. The hotel offers a full Scottish or Scandinavian breakfast. The Vikings were a strong force in the settlement of the islands. Hunter tries kippers and decides he's found a new breakfast delight. Personally, I'll stick with Scottish.

We arrive at the bus station just as a bus to Tarbert is leaving. The landscape south is similar to the bleak bogs of yesterday for the first 35 minutes. But as we ascend into foothills, the sheep disappear and scrub trees cover the land. The switch-back road ascends into mountains covered with expanses of bare rock and heather, before dropping back to sea level on the Isle of Harris in the tiny village of Tarbert.

The ferry leaves within the hour for Uig (pronounced "u-wig.") and takes an hour and 45 minutes to cross to the mystical Isle of Skye -- largest of the islands of the Inner Hebrides.

While sitting at a table in the galley, a black woman with an American accent introduces herself and asks where we're from. She has been sitting at the table next to ours and gets into a conversation with Tara. She lives on Lewis with her Scottish husband and they have five children who are traveling with them. Tara asks how she ended up living in such a remote place. She was living in New York when she fell in love with a man from Lewis. Their oldest child looks to be Hunter's age. As the ferry approaches Uig, she wishes us an enjoyable holiday before descending to the car deck with her family.

Uig is a tiny village that appears to exist to serve ferry travelers. A couple shops sell overpriced souvenirs. The tourist office dispenses information to a seemingly non-stop procession of visitors, including many backpackers. The woman in front of me is in search of another Gaelic music festival supposedly taking place nearby. The counter man knows of the festivals in Stornoway and at Portree here on Skye, but nothing else.

A mile and a half north of Uig is where Flora MacDonald brought Bonnie Prince Charlie as part of his escape after the disastrous battle at Culloden Moor. Five miles north, Flora MacDonald is buried wrapped in a cloak used by the prince. Her grave is marked with a Celtic cross.

In stark contrast to Lewis, Skye is lush and beautiful. Someday, we'll return and take a few days to explore the island, but today we cross the 50-mile length by bus. Tara and I sit in the first seats for the best view. Skye Bridge now connects the island to the mainland.

At Kyle of Lochalsh, we leap from the bus into the rain and run to the railroad station where a two-car train to Inverness is waiting. We've never experienced so much unplanned exercise in our lives.

If you plan to visit this area of Scotland, be sure to take the train between Kyle of Lochalsh and Inverness. And in retrospect, the route from Inverness to Ullapool then across to Lewis and back via the above route, makes most sense. You can get to Stornoway from Edinburgh in one day and back in one day. Today, every connection clicks exactly as if we'd planned it perfectly, which we didn't, but it still takes us 14 hours of solid traveling to get back to our apartment at midnight.

Back to the train trip from Klye of Lochalsh to Inverness: As we pull out of the station, the sun begins to shine. For miles, we run along the seawater Loch Carron. Hundreds of sailboats are anchored in the calm water. Tiny tree-covered islands remind us of the Pacific northwest. The train continues along a flat valley between mountains that get taller and taller until their tops are hidden in clouds. This terrain looks like Glacier National Park.

The train carries many young backpackers of different nationalities. On a table at the end of the car they make up a dinner to share, then wash their camping equipment in the train bathroom.

From the train window, we see hundreds of wild deer. Loch Dughaill and Loch Gowan appear and disappear. When the valley spreads out even more, a small meandering river reminds me of a highway that follows the Salmon River through Idaho on the way to Montana. The foothills are now edged by evergreen trees and tall mountains appear misty in the background. Loch Luichart is a huge fresh water lake in the midst of this pristine beauty. Birch trees appear along the water's edge. After 90 minutes of traveling, the land turns to farms -- pastures and crops in the valley between the mountains.

The food-cart man travels up and down the aisles of the train. We have tea. Later sandwiches. By the bathroom, Tara talks to the conductor and food-cart man. They point out things on a large wall map, answer her questions. Both were born in the area and never wanted to leave.

The last stretch of the journey into Inverness is along Beauly Firth, which is uniquely different from the previous terrain and just as beautiful.

At Inverness, we learn that we can't catch a direct train to Edinburgh, but we can take the Glasgow train and transfer at Stirling with a 15-minute interval. The landscape is deep in twilight shadows as we pull out of Inverness. We're all tired. I close my eyes and listen to Shooglenifty's Gaelic music on my headphones. A young Scotsman sitting at the table across from us wants to talk, but I'm not up to it. Tara gets into conversation with him, which she says helps her to wake up. Hunter reads his video magazine and Cheyenne plays a game as we travel 100 miles an hour across Scotland, back to our all-too temporary home in the city.

The transfer at Stirling is easy. The next train is on time to the minute. Waverly Station is nearly deserted. We jump in a cab and are immediately in conversation with Ian Campbell, driver. He knows we're familiar with the city, but wants to know, where we've been, how long were "stayin" and how we like Scotland. We tell him we're writing about Scotland for the Web and a potential travel book. So he proceeds to tell us insider things I might want to include. Some are funny and I will probably investigate further.

We fall into bed at 12:05 AM and are sound asleep by 12:06.

JULY 16, FRIDAY: We sleep for ten hours and awaken delighted not to be needing to do anything we don't want to do. What we do want to do can't be reported on a Web site, according to my wife.

JULY 17, SATURDAY: This is the day for Star Wars: Episode I. We left California the day the film opened and the children have felt cheated ever since. We attend an afternoon showing and are all delighted to join in the ongoing adventure. Hunter and Cheyenne both rank it as their second favorite movie of all time. I wouldn't go that far.

After a leisurely walk through Princes Street Gardens we make our way up and over the mound to La Rusticana, our favorite Italian restaurant. The head waiter remembers us and provides a warm welcome. "You are taking a long holiday?" he says.

"We've decided to live here," I say.

Not really.

JULY 18, SUNDAY (Partial posting): On Friday, I told Tara about a lengthy newpaper article on John Kennedy's George magazine. According to the article, the French publisher of the magazine would soon be pulling the plug, because George isn't generating enough revenue to continue.

Yesterday (Saturday), Tara awakened having dreamed about our discussion. She was saying to herself, "How sad if George goes down, but it will be even sadder if John Kennedy goes down."

Today, the headline on the Scotland On Sunday reads, "JFK's son killed in plane crash."

How very sad, indeed.

To be continued ...

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