Europe 2013: Just Another Day with the PictsAugust 16, 2013
As I type this, I am watching my tent dry out in the sun, which is a welcome change from yesterday, where I just mentally shrugged, and packed up the sopping wet tent in the Oban rain-mist. I've picked out some Pictish symbol stones to visit (two of which are very close to the Aberlour Gardens site I camped at last night). The sheep are still bleating myopically across the valley. After the generally uncomfortable, what-am-I-doing feelings yesterday, I hope today will be better. I'm thinking after visiting the stones today, I'll either end up back here (sheep aside, it's very nice), maybe even spring the five pounds for wifi access, or head for Inverness, where I know there are good campgrounds as well.
Let's see what the day brings, shall we? (By the way, major kudos to the Aberlour Gardens campgrond for having both a picnic table, and the weather to permit me to sit down and type at it.) ---- I've landed at The Lodge B&B, a small country house in Roybridge, which situates me well for hitting Glenuig tomorrow. Since discovering that it was booked up through Saturday, I realized that I won't be able to stay there, so I wanted to treat myself to a real bed and a proper shower for at least one night. Considering it costs only seven pounds more than my last tank of gas (about which more later), it seems like a bit of a steal. I departed Aberlour Gardens, after saying my farewells to the kind Swiss couple who allowed me a couple hours' time with their shore power to charge one of my camera batteries, and waving goodbye to the Nottingham couple who chatted with me about cameras the previous night. The campground was about 80% German speakers, from what I could tell. (My ability to speak German came in handy when asking about charging the battery -- I addressed them in English first, and the first thing anyone said was when she exclaimed, "What did he say?" in German.) My first Pictish stone for the day was the one in Mortlach Kirk, in Dufftown (Whisky capital of the world, according to the sign). After wandering around and making a wrong turn or two, I found the right place, but all I could see was gravestones. I wandered the kirkyard for about 20 minutes before a helpful woman across the street yelled down, "The Pictish stone is in the middle!" and pointed. I went in what I thought was the right direction, but eventually had to walk back up and call her attention again. She very kindly walked down with me to point it out. No wonder I missed it, it was in the middle of a row of new-looking gravestones, although it is itself weathered and around 1500 years old. I just didn't see it in the row. This is one of the class 2 stones I mentioned yesterday, early Christian, with both pagan and Christian symbols on it. I found myself vaguely disappointed, since I'd wanted to find one of the earlier class 1 stones. I took a few pictures, but the symbols were well-worn, and quite hard to see in the light we had available.
I moved on to my next goal, the stone(s) at St. Peter's Church at Inveravon. This turned out to be easier to find, and I was quickly parked at the church. I found the sign describing the stones, and had to walk around before I found the stones themselves. They'd been moved from the wall of the church, where they'd been suspended for many years, and into a little covered vestibule all their own, including motion-activated lights. I actually exclaimed, "Oh, lighting designers," when the lights clicked on -- they showed the carvings in much better relief than the light coming through the door could. I was standing in front of my first crescent-and-v-rod stone in 17 years. It's the symbol that's always appealed to me, and is the only thing I've ever considered having tattooed on my body. Still thinking about it. It was nice to see one again, and not just a drawing of the symbol on some random website. There is something nebulously profound about actually seeing and touching a stone that was carved so well by a mysteriously vanished warrior race from 500 AD. (The Picts vanished from the historical record around 850 AD; they were either destroyed or assimilated, but all mention of them disappears. This is also just the time Kenneth MacAlpin ascended as the King of the Scots, which had not been a previously recorded job title. Coincidence?) I set up my little tripod and took a few silly pictures of myself in front of the stones, trying to touch them as little as possible, and mostly succeeding (no need to unnecessarily abrade them any more than nature and other people have already done). As I was getting ready to head out again, having had my moment with the stones, I heard an insistent buzzing, like there was a really big mosquito right in the middle of my head. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, and I contorted and swatted around my head, trying to ward off the insistent insect. Finally, puzzled where the bug was, I looked down the front of my suit, and imagine my surprise (and dancing around and blaspheming) when a giant bumblebee flew out from inside! Amazingly, I didn't get stung. I also can't figure out quite when the little guy could have gotten in there, but I can only assume it was when I was riding, and the only bug strike of a sufficient magnitude that I could remember was perhaps half an hour earlier. Surprising, of course, but clearly it was the power of the Picts protecting me, or something. Obviously. My next stop was the Rhynie stones, which were (mostly) preserved in a little shed in the parking area for another church, in Rhynie. There was yet another crescent-and-v-rod, along with a number of other symbols, all of them pre-Christian as well. There was also a sign describing the stones, and the Picts, that made me reflect a bit. I was going over all googly-eyed over these mysterious symbols, yet they were created by a society which we know to have been both militaristic and aristocratic, two values I pretty much eschew. Why am I so interested in these symbols by class-obsessed warriors? The glib answer is that I don't care, and the symbols are cool looking. The real answer deserves more thought. Also at Rhynie was the Craw Stane, a stone that is still standing where it was erected lo these many millenia ago. It's most of the way up the hill from the church where the other three Rhynie stones are in their shed. Access to this hill is actually pretty well barred, with a wall all the way around, and the field is full of cow pats. Clearly this is just a stone that lives in some farmer's field by a church. I suspect I was trespassing when I hiked across the field (stepping judiciously) to the Stane. There was raw earth all the way around it, primarily covered in hoofprints from, for instance, cows. I suspect this ancient monument's main purpose in life now is to be a back-scratcher for a bunch of cows. It seems, honestly, a bit of a letdown. I forgot my tripod back at the bike, so I took a few unsatisfactory selfie-style pictures before hiking back down.
My final stone was the Picardy Stone. The directions I have say, turn here, turn there, and it's on the south side of the path. They're amazingly vague, and I thought I'd passed it for most of the time I rode along, very slowly, but eventually I spotted a discrete sign, and there it was, a dozen feet into a field off the road. This one at least had a fence around it to keep the coos from rubbing up. The carvings were, as usual, hard to see, but it was still imposing to be in the presence of this multi-ton piece of granite that an Iron Age society had nevertheless carved well enough to last 1500 years, and stood upright for all to see.
After spending my time with Picardy, I considered my options. I was interested in going up to John O'Groats, the northern-most point in Scotland, but the GPS estimated it was a four hour drive away, which means it was actually a six hour drive, and it was already 3 pm. That's too late to arrive anywhere. I thought about going to Inverness (with no particular purpose, just to have a place to go inbetween where I was and John O'Groats). Then I thought about the date, and looking at the calendar, realized that in my mental planning for the trip, today was roughly the day I was planning to wend my way southward towards Wales. My schedule as mentally planned out didn't leave a lot of room for dallying, so I realized that I need to finish with Scotland, and get on to the rest of the trip. I'll hit Glenuig tomorrow during the day, and find a place to stay tomorrow night that's on the path to Wales, with the next night presumably finding me somewhere in England, since I expect the traverse from Scotland down to Wales to take two days at the rate I'm travelling right now. I'll have to speed things up noticeably if I actually expect to hit all the stops I have in mind, particularly given the distances they're separated by. So, I oriented myself southwards, aiming for a campsite symbol a little bit north of Fort William. The Scottish weather obligingly clouded over and started raining, encouraging me to avoid stopping for photos too often, and keep rolling. As I rode along, marvelling at this motorcycle's stability even with a big ungainly load on the back, I realized that I had put myself into another Fuel Situation. I had passed up a good price on petrol a hundred kilometers before because I was nowhere near needing gas, and now that I was actually nearing the end of the tank, there were no stations to be seen. Scotland seems to have pockets of habitation, with large stretches of beautiful, empty wilderness. I was in one of those large stretches as I rolled past 200 km on the trip odometer (my signal to start looking seriously for gas). As 220 went by, I was still in the wilderness. I violated all rules of road safety, and fiddled with the GPS to get it to show me nearby gas stations. Most of them behind me. Sigh. There was one that looked like I'd go past it at about 250 on the odometer (or nearly empty), so I pressed on. Then my path diverted, and I realized I was going to miss it because of the route I was following back toward Fort William. I searched again. The nearest was a station I'd never heard of (Lupo or something like that) behind me by 6 km. Then I saw a town approaching, and thought maybe it just didn't show up in the GPS's admittedly incomplete database. I rode through the town, but didn't see a filling station anywhere. As I accelerated back to A-road speed (which I've decided is 60 MPH through observation of other drivers), the GPS proclaimed that there was another Lupo station, 2 km behind me. Frustrated at these ghost stations, I pressed on (possibly not the best choice I've made), and a little while later the fuel light started flashing at me. 3.5 liters left, or about 50 km before I'm on fumes. The GPS shows a BP station 16 km away, which is more or less still in my direction of travel. The traffic is light enough on this road that I slow down and go into super-fuel-conservation mode, occasionally pulling over to let a car go past. I make a turn, and realize with a ridiculous grin that the GPS is sending me to Dalwhinnie. What is it about that town? So I filled up with the most expensive gas I've paid for thus far (1.499 pounds per liter -- something like $8 per gallon, although I don't know the exact exchange rate for the British pound at the moment), at the far end of Dalwhinnie, and rode back through town again on my return trip. As a consolation prize, I got myself the most expensive Millionaire's Shortbread I've ever had (2.50 or so, and Millionaire's Shortbread is this amazing shortbread plus very soft caramel plus chocolate that would remind you a little bit of a Nanaimo bar). I rode on, and ended up here in Roybridge. I spotted a camping site sign and made a turn, ending up at a sign that said Manager for Na Taighean Beagan (literally, "The Small Houses," but correctly translated, "The Outhouses," like, where you poop -- either a clueless prioprietor, or a little joke on the Sassanachs), who directed me to the B&B for a one-night stay. I've just finished dinner at the Stronlossit Inn, which was Scottishly delicious (which is to say generally boiled and covered in cheese sauce), plus a nearly two-pound bottle of "mineral water" when the waitress ignored my order. Frustrating mostly for the feeling I've been ripped off, plus generated more plastic waste into the bargain.
And, having just had a very civilized shower and shave, and propping myself up in bed with a bundle of fluffy pillows, I am very glad I decided to splurge tonight and not sleep in a tent. I'm enjoying the tent life, no doubt, but there's something to be said for being able to stand up next to the bed, and having the bathroom 5 feet away instead of 100 feet. Now to see about sending some of these messages (and, more time-consumingly, finding pictures to go with them) that have been piling up in the absence of an internet connection.
Return to the Europe 2013 page Created by Ian Johnston. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net. | |||||||||||||||||||||
