My Fare-The-Well, Until My Next Adventure

So here it is folks, the end of my trip is near, I'll board a plane in
roughly 34 hours, bound for Amsterdam, and from there, the States.

I think I'm supposed to say something profound, and maybe something I
say actually will be profound, but first, before all that mushy gushy
stuff, and I warn you, Halmark has offered me a job no less than five
times (har-de-har-har), I need to finish my adventures, my "Canterbury
Tales" as more than one of you has referred to them.

I saw a castle. Beat that. Okay, you've seen a castle as well, but I
walked through it's last remaining wall, climbed up it's narrow,
original stone, spiralling trip-step stairwell. It was cool,
literally, as it was right on the lake, and figuratively, as it was,
you know, built in the 1600s. The castle is called Ross Castle, those
of you who have put google to good use throughout my recounts know
what to do at this point, those that haven't and don't, well, now's a
great time to learn. Situated in the middle of Killarney National
Park, and roughly a 2.3km hike from the entrance, it sits on the edge
of a choppy, cold lake, looking out at tall, misty mountains sheaved
in green foliage. Very picturesque, and, strategically, a smart
location back in the day. The castle was what is called a defence
tower, built for the Ross clan in turbulent times, and the castle is
built vertically. Don't romanticize yourself with graneur images of a
sprawling castle surrounded by a wall which encompasses acres of land,
this was built not for a king, but a family clan, a tribe if you will,
albeit a wealthy one, and those in their employment, servants, guards,
that sort of thing. Unfortunately, there is no photography allowed
inside the castle chambers, as they have tried hard to replicate the
original setup, including furniture and art dating back to the 1600s,
and I guess they're trying to preserve the artwork by prohibiting
flashes mainly; makes sense, right? The castle has served purposes
besides its original, and over the course of 300 years, fell into a
state of drastic disrepair. An Irish-American in either the 50s or
60s, I believe the 60s, purchased it and some 16000 acres of land, but
because restoration would be such a daunting and expensive project, he
dangled it under the nose of the Irish government, promising to
transfer ownership to them if they would restore it, using only the
original methods used, for instance the oak floors and roof have no
nails or rivets in them, only handmade wooden pegs, other floors could
only be constructed from the original stones, pieced together again
like a giant, heavy puzzle. The doors were all studded with rivets
that, once upon a time would have been sharpened to a point to
discourage shouldering said door open, they were also double planked
to prevent entry by axe, and then from inside the chamber, with the
door closed, an oak post, acting as a bolt, was pulled from within one
wall, and inserted into the other wall, further stabilizing the wall
and serving as an exceptionally rigid deadbolt. If intruders made it
into the chambers after getting through all that, there were of course
guards waiting in the room, longbows and swords at the ready. Not to
mention the appropriately named "murdering hole" in the chamber of the
first floor, located direclty above the main entry, which was a hole
large enough to pour boiling substances, jab spears, or shoot arrows
down at the first wave of intruders. I think defence tower is an
appropriate name...

The national park itself was gorgeous, very green, the mountains
offering incredible views, etc etc. There were some swans and ducks
milling about in a syreamlet running towards the lake, and the swans
had two young with them, all gray fluff and black beaks. I bring them
up only because I was reminded of a very old children tale, apparently
a timeless one at that, when a little girl, no more than four, ran to
the edge of the stream yelling "Mommy! Daddy! Look at the ugly
ducklings!"

Killarney itself was another shopping town, expensive food (I found a
place that slathered curry all over fries for a good price, so I stuck
to those), and lots and lots of little tourist shops. On Sunday I
found a pub called the Sandtrap, and parked it for the better part of
the afternoon watching the final round of the Open Championship, the
first Alpine stage of the Tour de France, and Gaelic football,
ireland's national sport and a confusing blend of soccer and rugby.
Four Americans sat next to me at one point, all from California, and
after leaning I was from Texas and making a quick joke about Bush,
they apparently felt guilty or something, and bought my drinks for the
next hour and a half. Nice guys, they were, and I tried multiple times
to assure them I was in no way offended by their joke, was in fact
relieved not to hear someone else ask me "are you in that cult???"
(google David Koresh if you're confused here), but they insisted
they'd be offended if I declined, and therefore got 3 free stouts and
a dram fr 12 year old pot still Irish Whiskey, delicious stiff by the
name of Redbreast, definitely worth having a look for back home.

Now I'm in Cork, and I've taken it very easy for the past two days,
once tomorrow rolls about I won't be getting much rest for the next
week or so, besides what I can sneak in on the plane. I thought about
going out to Blarney Castle today, but it rained a good part of the
day, and I nixxed that idea and watched another stage of the Tour.

So tomorrow I'm off to Dublin, will get there about lunch time, just
in time to face my demons and maybe try one more baguette (third times
a charm right?)...I'll mill about the city for several hours, have one
last traditional Irish meal for, possibly revisiting O'Neils for that
Guinness and Irish Beef stew again, and then I will head to the
airport to spend the night, no use getting a hostel when I'd have to
leave it around 3am, this way I can just snooze at the airport and not
spend that money.

I'm looking forward to getting back to work, after three weeks of
depleting my funds without anything coming jn, I'm ready to be the
bread winner again, not the bread buyer as much. I'll no doubt have
put on five or so pounds since leaving, walking is good exercise, but
pub grub and stout beers are too good here to not enjoy, and once I'm
back I can get back to my diet and exercise routine with ease, and the
pounds should be gone within a week or so. I'm also looking forward to
getting Molly back, apparently in my absence my father has been
training her to eat donut holes and become a waterdog, the waterdog
part I like, but the donut holes...well, i think she and I both like
grapes better.

It's been an incredible trip; incredibly fun, confusing, and
exhausting. My lack of gameplan going into each city has surely meant
that I've probably missed some really cool things, but if I was out
doing those things, would I have met the girls from Sweden who assure
me a couch is always waiting for me should I get a chance to go there?
Would I have gone to a nightclub in Belfast with three Australians and
danced to European Techno with a crowd easily 20 years our seniors?
Would I have been in Belfast for the marches, or would I have shot for
a less violent, emotional time before or after? There are lots of what
ifs, but the fact of the matter is, I did my trip exactly the way I
wanted to do it, I saw the good, the bad, and the ugly of a country.
I never quite did figure out how weak the dollar is compared to both
the Euro and the Pound, though travellers beware: even if it's cheap
in Euro or Pounds, multiply it by like 1.5 to figure roughly how much
you really are spending in dollars, and you'll find that even Subway
or Burger King are expensive. I'm coming back broke, but still under
budget! I rode a mechanical bull in Galway. I met a cute girl from
Wales who walked with me and talked with me for a good hour, and then,
an hour after we parted ways, I ran into her again at a nearby park;
this time I got to meet her boyfriend too, lucky me, or, in Italian,
"che fortuna!"

I saw the harbor where the Titanic set sail, the last dry ground she
ever saw, and the small college where C.S. Lewis studied, along with
the forest behind it where he is believed to have recieved inspiration
for his Chronicles of Narnia series. I had to teach Scottish and
Irish folk how to drink Coors Light (NOT from a champagne glass with
ice!), assuming they must drink it at all, and I walked in cathedrals
older than our nation. I dipped my hand in the Atlantic ocean, and I
now barely hear the Irish accent, my ears have adjusted. So too, have
my eyes, as today I mused over the fact that it was no longer strange
to see the steering wheels on the right sides of cars rather than the
left, however, I still look the wrong way when crossing the street.

I've had great food and bad food, from Haggis to Black Pudding, and
I've slept in beds both comfortable and un (mostly un). I've found
people who snore louder than I ever will, and I met up with great
friends in London, friends who I met a year ago in South America and
only knew for four days, yet who jumped at opportunity to meet up
again. And the funny thing was, nine of us could believe it had been a
year, or that we hadn't known each other before, it was if we had all
known each other for quite some time.

So thanks for staying tuned in, I've immensely enjoyed the feedback
from you all. I've enjoyed writing these posts, more than I thought
that u would, though I'm sure an actual keyboard would make them even
more fun to write ;-)

check in occasionally, I might just start a new blog pertaining to
whatever else in life seems mildly entertaining, I'll start a new
category for it obviously, so you'll have to check for other stuff
I've written, and then one day, hopefully before too long, the lonely
traveler will once again shove things into his backpack and set out on
some random, chaotic, hectic new adventure.

Gratefully,
Bryan, the Lonely Traveller

Ireland and wrapping up loose ends from the last post

Well see what I get for trying to structure my last post so I wouldn't
get off topic and ramble forever? The whole "this is what I'm going to
cover in this post" approach failed epically, because writing these
things takes awhile and an hour into it I'd already forgotten about my
bullet-point approach. So to wrap up the two I remember not
addressing: Scotland scenery, which I can actually tie that in with
what i've seen of Ireland by train as well, and my issue with
"crisps."

The crisps first. So over here, and in the UK, potato chips are
called crisps, and of course fries are called chips. Crisps just
doesn't make a good noun in my opinion, it's a great descriptive word,
but it'd be like replacing rice cakes with rice crunches or
something...I'm not feeling it, and I'm not feeling these crisps
either. Of course, in theory and practice the name is the only
difference, physically they are one and the same, so they should taste
just fine right? Becoming the train traveller that I have, I've grown
accustomed on travel days to scrounge the vending machines for my
hearty fare, and when I tire of Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bars
(seems impossible doesn't it, to tire of something so wonderful?)
well, a bag of chips/crisps could hit the spot...that is until I see
the flavors...oh man, Houston, we have a BIG problem. Let's see,
should I go for Roast of Beef, Bacon and Sea Salt, or Chicken? Would
someone like to explain to me why on earth a sodium rich, crunchy
processed wafer of potato needs to taste like chicken?!?! Doesn't
everything in the world already taste like chicken? Can we not at
least preserve the sanctity and integrity of our beloved potatos?? I'd
honestly rather purchase a tin of roast beef or sea-salted bacon from
these machines than have a dried potato taste like said meats.

One of the cooler things about travelling by train, is of course, the
scenery, and I've got to say, the cows back home would moo with envy
if they could see what they're missing over here; rolling, green
fields, the grasses always tall and well watered, a cool breeze
constant on their hides, and rarely more than an hour or two of direct
sunlight to bake their hides...yep, Texas cows are missing out. Beyond
the sight of happy Irish and Scottish cows though, it's really very
relaxing to just park it at a window for a few hours and take in the
rolling hills, occasional ruins of castles, cottages probably built in
the 1600s which occupy fields, long abandoned and with their thatched
roofs long gone, looking both inviting and desolate all at once. I've
met a lot of travellers who prefer busses, saying that the take almost
amount of time, sometimes less (this honestly is true in Ireland alot
of the time) however, travelling by bus, the view just isn't the same,
you don't feel like you are cutting through the middle of the
countryside so much as plowing through it on an artificial and ugly
stretch of pavement. Scotland was especially great, as that was the
only time I had mostly spectacular weather on the trip, but the
constant grey and rain in Ireland does manage to keep everything at
its greenest and most vibrant.

I wrapped up an altogether unspectacular stay in Galway, minus a few
cool people I met, from the States and from Sweden. Most of my
companions seemed to enjoy Galway, but other than a quiet hike around
the bay while the tide was out, I felt like Galway the town was
nothing more than a tourist trap on the coast. Lots and lots of
subpar street performers out in town for the upcoming arts festival
such as the two Indian fellows with golden microphones cranked up too
loud performing hits from Snoop Dogg and other hip-hop artists while
doing a strange version of the robot and attempting to break-dance.

Food in Galway was even more expensive than in Dublin, and after two
days of eating "fresh" at Subway, I bit the bullet and went in search
of an Irish place with seafood chowder. I found a place that offered a
reasonably priced two course meal, and I ordered seafood chowder to be
followed by shepherd's pie. I guess you get what you pay for, my
chowder came out nice and steaming, and I fished in to see what
treasures lay in wait, only to bring up what I prayed were just
strangely colored and shaped scallops, but was instead treated to
steaming chunks of imitation crab meat....yeah, on the bay, right
next to the Atlantic, I was served fake crab. I actually like the
stuff, but not in what I had been preparing myself for; fresh Atlantic
seafood. Bummer...well, there's hope for the Shepherd's pie, right?
Wrong again, as it came out doused, no, drowned, in what was probably
McCormick's minute brown gravy mix, hydrated powder straight from a
pouch. On the plus, I'm going to contract with Dorito's or Tayto's (an
Irish crisp company) to bring out two new flavors or
crips...McCormick's Sheperd's Pie with Veg, and Imitation Krab. I'll
be able to retire by Christmas!

So out of Galway and on to Killarney, where I am now, after another
long travel day. The ironic thing is, while Galway to Killareney
would probably only take an hour or two by bus, it took about eight by
train (that's six more hours of scenery I got over you bus loyalists
though! ). The reason for this is that for whatever reason, many of
Ireland's railways lead back to Dublin, which is to the far Eastern
coast of the island, and so in order to get to other villages, you
must first backtrack nearly back to Dublin, hope off at some little
tiny station, wait an hour or two for another train which will take
you to yet another station, rinse and repeat, until you finally arrive
at your destination. These travel days can be great on your pocket
book, and are great for reading. I've now finished three books on this
trip, one an 1100 pager from cover to cover, and the newest was a 340
pager I traded my 1100 pager for at my hostel this morning. Yep, I
read the whole book today...started it when I hopped on my first train
at 11, and closed it about 10 minutes before rolling into Killarney at
7. Alll in all I've probably read close to 1600 pages in my 17 days,
but the only book I'm considering trading out for at this hostel is a
400 page book about something, an it's entirely in Italian...honestly
have no clue if it's fiction or non, it's got a map of China printed
inside it, so we'll see how that goes.

Killarney has a national park within walking distance that I am
looking forward to hiking around tomorrow, and admission is free which
is even better! Monday I will head to Cork for two days, and then
it'll be time to return to the States after a quick one day return to
Dublin and then a hike to the airport to sleep for a little bit before
flying out at 6 am Thursday morning.

As always, thanks for tuning in, I'll probably get one more post in
before I head back, maybe two, but that's pretty optimistic with my
luck or lack of with the Internet lately.

Ciao
Bryan, the Lonely Traveller

Yep, I'm still alive.

I know I know, I owe you a REALLY good post today. Four days all
rolled into onE. Part of the reason I've been derelict in my duty to
keep you updated. But hey, more reading for you, and more furious
tap-typing for my thumbs.  Our topics for this post are broad; we'll
cover Edinburgh, my biggest problem with crisps, Scotland's
countryside, arrival in Belfast, and the day-long excursion I took
today.

So, to Edinburgh again shall we?  On my arrival, it was, as with every
other city I've visited so far, grey and rainy, but on Saturday, the
sun came out.  I woke up early (by my standards) and walked around in
search of more old buildings to gawk at.  The first was another old
cathedral, St. George's, if memory serves me right, which was of
course both huge and old. Unfortunately for myself, by the time I
reached St. George's the combination if sunny weather and a decidedly
spring-like climate brought on my allergies, and the quiet morning air
was soon punctuated frequently and violently with my sneezes. Great,
now I'm at a cathedral, sneezing an entire orchestra of noises from my
nose and mouth, and my eyes take on their customary red, watery glaze
that renders vision nearly impossible and keeps fresh tears cascading
down my cheeks. In a matter of moments I go from looking like a
tourist to a sneezing, silently weeping, stoned tourist.  Perfect for
a cathedral wouldn't you agree?  I stumble, half blind, to my hostel,
my body already aching from the force of so many sneezes, ask where
the nearest pharmacy is, and go purchase zyrtec. It might be almost 10
am by this time, and until the meds kick in, I'm worthless, so back to
the hospital to lay on my back and sleep it off. That afternoon,
feeling somewhat better but sounding rather goose-ish and with a nose
as red and raw as ground beef, I hit the town again and do a TON of
walking, as I try and take in the whole of the city and get accustomed
to it's layout.  For those unfamiliar with European streets, they
change names about five or six times without changing direction, and
maps that hostels give you are almost always awful (well, they are
free after all), so walking as much of the city is highly recommended
so that later, when others are lost and can't tell left from right,
you are depended upon as "the guy who knows where we are"...if you've
ever held this title, you know how awesome it is, but oh man, don't
get cocky and attempt what you believe to be a shortcut, lest ye be
certain it actually is a shortcut...folks don't quickly forget those
sorts of things...
Annnywhooo, I DID go up to Edinburgh castle, twice actually, but both
times the line to get a ticket just to get in was over an hour, no
spank you, this isn't six flags, and there are plenty of free
attractions without a wait to explore, so I walked down the "royal
mile" (a street leading up to the castle lined with old
cathedrals-now-turned-cafes/hostels/anything except a cathedral.) and
did some people watching, saw a lady who claims to be in the guinness
book of world records for the most piercings in her face...quite a
spectacle I assure you. I also revisited the national gallery for a
closer look at the paintings, and also visited scotland's national
museum, which covers all of scotland's history and has tons of
artifacts. Got to meet the Maiden firsthand, which was surreal. The
Maiden was a very famous guillotine back in the day, google it to find
out some of the heads that rolled under her blade. Also got to see
some of the artifacts of the real William Wallace (remember
braveheart?) and the helmet of Graeme Obree, who, several hundred
years later, set world records in track cycling for Scotland. A very
much all-encompassing museum, definitely worth spending some time in.

I also had a baked potato (not at the musem), that was packed to the
hilt with goodness, and it was all vegetarian (kinda nice to get a few
veggies other than potatoes, although be sure there was still plenty
of that as well.), loaded down with vegetarian chilli, spicy hummus,
and a roasted corn and red pepper mix. Quite good, and different from
the pub food that dominates your world here if you aren't eating
baguettes or burger king.

I wrapped up my stay in Edinburgh with a visit to an old, old cemetery
(the newest tombstone I saw dated 1850s) at about the same time that
the rain came back, and it got all gloomy. Fitting, considering
Edinburgh is supposed to be the mist haunted city in Europe.

Another loooong travel day yesterday, from Edinburgh to Glasgow (1
hour), to Stranraer (4 and a half hours), ferry to Belfast (2 hours),
and of course all the waiting in between.  Apparently July 12 is a
national holiday for Northern Ireland, and because it landed on a
Sunday, they waited until Monday to celebrate, the day I arrived.
When I started walking from my bus station in Belfast to my hostel,
the rain started pouring, and upon exiting the stationand setting out
on the streets, I was greeted by a large wall mural with a masked
gunman proclaiming that I was now entering the Loyalists of Sandy Row
territory, (anyone unfamiliar with Belfast and it's history should
google Belfast conflicts and also Belfast murals so you have some idea
what I'm talking about and why I would be just so thrilled to be
greeted with this in the pouring rain, on a national holiday. in an
unfamiliar city.  In a celebratiob that involves burning of massive
bonfires, Irish "tri-colors" (again, google for pictures and
explanations) and a massive, drunken parade that weaves through
several other towns, and traditionally catholic, Irish national
neighborhoods. People line the streets as band after band after band,
each representing a different group of L.O.L.s (Local Orange Lords)
who belong to different neighborhood loyalist Protestant groups (I
hope I'm getting this right, I had to piece this together from many
different jubilant, yet intoxicated, sources) march through the
streets and celebrate victory over nationalists so many years back.
It's their fourth of July, in a sense, only much rowdier, drunker, and
messier. It's also supposed to bring about a brief stint each year in
which there is a significant rise in violence between the nationalists
and loyalists, who have been working on bridging the gap between them
for some time now, but with this public display of defiance and
disrespect (it's not necessary to march through nationalists catholic
neighborhoods, even most drunk loyalists were quick to tell me that
much), it's kind of like ripping a scab off that and letting the wound
bleed all over again.

I tell you this earnestly, I have never seen more union jacks and
white flags with the red cross and red fist of ulster flying or being
worn, probably combined in my whole life than I saw in half a mile
yesterday...I reminded myself this would not be a good day to conduct
a delayed fourth of July celebration.

Today I took a tourbus from the hostel to a rope-bridge out on the
coast, the carrick-a-rede rope bridge if you've kept your google page
open..wow! This is what I've been waiting for! Beautiful coastal
scenery, rolling, green hills falling away to jagged cliffs and a
blue, blue sea below them. We were fortunate to have beautiful weather
today, and could actually see Scotland faaar across the water. After
the rope bridge we then made our way to Giant's Causeway, an
incredible honeycomb of natural Basalt rocks that have shot up from
the ground, each rock pretty daggum close to a hexagon in it's shape,
said to have been made, many many years ago by giants (there's another
causeway whose name eludes me on the far Scottish shore) it's hard to
describe, but magnificent to see and climb around on, so dare I
suggest, once again, that you become friends with Google? Hey, maybe
they'll pay me for this!

From there, a hot steaming bowl of Irish stew, and then on the ride
back, we passed and saw a real, legitimate, skeleton of the old castle
Dunluce, which is built right onto the cliffs over the sea.  Tomorrow
I'm going to go hunting for more murals, and we'll see what else from
there, and then, on Thursday, I'm off to Galway!

Unfortunately I have no remarkable new culinary dishes to tell you
about, but rest assured, I'm always on the prowl!

Looks like more rain tonight...thanks for tuning in!

Bryan, the lonely traveler

First Day in Scotland

Well, as cool London was, I think Edinburgh might oust it in several areas, primarily though, in its scenery. The city appears to be split down the middle, on one side, a large hill that hosts Edinburgh Castle, as well as many other stately buildings of postcard quality. On the other side, buildings that are probably only a couple hundred years old, most of which are shopping centers now. My hostel is kind of in between both, and is massive! It's like a hotel for backpackers, which you're probably thinking is what all hostels are, but I'm talking scale here, not function. My room requires navigating through countless halls, stairwells, and sets of doors, all festooned with modernistic paintings and murals. I believe, and could be wrong on this, that my room is on the fifth floor above ground level, but I'd be lying if I could tell you with any certainty that from where I'm typing this, within the hostel, I could find my room with confidence. With a huge open area on or around the third floor, this place is a nice kickback after a day of hiking, and they even have a bean bag cinema (yep, bean bags, dark room, surround sound, big screen) where I watched about half of Reservoir Dogs tonight.

But my primary adventure today was getting to Edinburgh. It started off fairly simply enough, hop on the first tube leaving Hendon Central, head to Euston, where I could swear I'd read just yesterday that trains departed regularly for Edinburgh. Not the case, I needed to be at King's Cross station, which, luckily is only about a mile away from Euston, if even. Unluckily, I wore a short sleeve shirt today, to keep from sweating, and of course, as fate would have it, today would be a pretty chilly day. So, at King's Cross with time to kill, I look over my options: I can take the 7:00 train to Glasgow which calls on both Edinburgh stations along the way, or I can wait an hour and get on the 8:00 to Edinburgh, where it terminates. I opt for the 7:00, as King's Cross is a pretty small and boring station, and I figured I'd get to Edinburgh an hour earlier.

Wellll......my good friend Murphy, (you know him, the one who has that law written after him?) I guess he decided he'd let me have a pretty easy trip to this point, and he was just hankering to tag along on the train ride. The English and Scottish countryside is magnificent by the way...Newcastle and Berwick-upon-Tweed are both probably worth visits based on what i could see passing through them. As we call on the first Edinburgh station, Waverly, I opt not to get off, because, according to the hostel's directions, the next one, Haymarket, which we were also set to call on, was the closer of the two. No big, right? So we're rolling through Edinburgh, the sites are gorgeous, and I feel the train start to slow, so I hop up, with my bag, and make my way to the nearest exit. The problem comes in here: generally a member of the crew announces each stop over the intercom as the train is approaching and then as it is coming to a complete stop. Then, before the train departs the station, said crew member announces that the train is ready to depart, please clear the doors and take your seats. Well, apparently at Waverly we got a new crew, which we were told we would, and this crew skipped the announcements for Haymarket. As I stand at the door and the train comes to a stop, I don't see much that looks like a station, and I reason that the train might be waiting for another train to clear the platform before we pull in. After a couple minutes, I believe this less and less and believe more and more we are at Haymarket (by the time a train has stood still for a couple minutes, by the way, you are on borrowed time) so I see a platform outside the door, and decide oh Hell, if I'm wrong, I'll play the dumb American standing on some platform in between stations, and I'll get a cool rescue mission that will be embarrassing but a fun story. But alas, my door won't open, even after I press and hold the open button for a good five seconds (normally these things open if you so much as breathe on them as long as the train isn't moving). And then, we start moving again...alright, makes sense, we're probably getting to the station now, that's why the doors wouldn't open. And then, we speed up...alot. Bye bye Edinburgh...talk about embarrassing, now I, the dumb American, have to make the walk of shame back through the coach, my backpack rubbing against cheeks and with straps dipping into peoples' mid day coffee. Is he getting back to his seat? Did he take his pack to the lavoratory? Oh, no, he's just cool enough to have missed his stop, one that we were stopped at for a good FOUR MINUTES! Nothing like being cool, plopping down in your seat, resigned that you are now heading o the same town you just a day ago cancelled all bookings for...neato!

After another thirty minutes, we call on a station somewhere between Edinburgh and Glasgow, and, thinking completely logically, I hop off here. Motherwell, Scotland....the train pulls away, and now, where in the love of the motherland am I? Good call Bryan, abandon the train taking you to the other large city to try your luck in Small town Scotland...don't get me wrong, aspects of small towns are appealing, but when you are in a transportation squeeze, not always the best place to get stuck. I ask one of the platform employees when I'll possibly be able to hop back to Edinburgh, and he looks down at his watch, chuckles and says ''Not till 5 past 2 I'm afraid, miss your stop did you?'' or, in an attempt to make this sound like he actually put it, ''Nawht tell fehyve pasttuh ahm'freed, ye'mis yehr stohp did ye?'' well, yes, funny story about that... ''well ye shohdntve gohten off here, neh, ye shohdve gohntuh Glasgow'n coht a natex (short for national express train) bahk tuh Edinburgh.'' So helpful, stating the facts for me. So now, with two hours to kill, I ask a couple other employees where I can get a spot of lunch around here. The first, excited to help, and probably very proud of her offering, tells me about the McDonalds in town...just what I was looking for...I thank her, but tell her that McDonald's proudly serves Americans approximately 2.5 million burgers per day, and I was hoping for something a little more ''cultured.''

I'm sent to Scoff's, a small town cafe just off the shopping center, where there are two waitresses, one who proudly proclaims to me that I'm at the best cafe in all of the motherland...sounds good to me! I look over the menu, and voila! there is my beast of burden, something I have to try before I leave, and where better than a non-touristed village (though one with not just a McDonalds, but also a Pizza Hut I notice sadly) to get a good fresh serving of Hagis. To be exact, I order Hagis, Neeps (pronounced Naypes) and Tattis (tah-tees). I ask if it's any good, to which the girl makes a face and tells me that ay, if ye care for Hagis, then ay, but she herself, doesn't think so. Obviously this leaves me feeling good about my choice, but when she brings it out, it looks pretty darn good to me. A big heaping mound of grey meat, with oats differentiating it slightly from the look of a meatloaf without ketchup slathered over it, the tattis are of course potatoes, mashed, and the neeps, I'm still not sure what they are, but they look like carrots, mashed, with more the flavor of brussel sprouts and the aroma of broccoli (obviously these were not my favorite). Wait, wikipedia tells me that they might be mashed turnips...hmm...that would explain their look, but I've roasted turnips before without that kind of flavor or smell. Also, let me give you their definition of Hagis: ''Scotland’s best-known regional dish. It is made from lamb’s offal (lungs, liver and heart) mixed with suet, onions, herbs and spices, all packed into a skin, traditionally made of a sheep’s stomach'' Hungry yet? Honestly, it was good! The initial bite was well, different, I was expecting the texture of meatloaf, and was greeted with more of a gruel or even a warm, mushy pate, but the taste was excellent, and I cleaned everything on my plate, except for a small offering of Neeps, which I really hope made it to my dear friend Murphy, wherever he may be.

After eating, I plodded back over to the train station and waited, and at the appropriate time, hopped on, heading back towards Edinburgh....please, don't let me miss is this time, I'm going on 9 hours of travel for the day at the point, and as I've made a habit of not sleeping the night before to make sure I don't oversleep, I'm getting pretty tired. If I miss Edinburgh going the other way, its over an hour until the next station, so this really isn't an option. But I make it, and after some walking and initial confusion at the layout of the city (I'm just going to say it, Europeans are very lax on maps and street names...I guess they just expect us to know everything inherently by instinct.) I make it to my hostel. After dropping my stuff off at my bed, I walk around the town, entertained by a group of men dressed in traditional highlander garb and playing giant drums and bagpipes, and eventually making my way into one of Scotland's national galleries, where there were some absolutely incredible paintings and sculptures. Unfortunately, because of the time, I only got about thirty minutes in there, not enough to find the Renoir and Van Gogh pieces that are hiding there, so I'll be going back tomorrow after the Castle to try again.

Dinner was Cullen Skink, a traditional white wine chowder of baby potatoes and fresh Haddock, and a pint of Belhaven, as smooth and creamy as ever, maybe even more so.

That was my day, what did you do with yours?

Cocky, lost, and found in Edinburgh,
Bryan, the Lonely Traveler

The Secret to the Tube and a Taste of Heaven

Let's get to the food then shall we? While in London I've had three
notable meals, a Full English Breakfast, a Cornish Pasty, and Bangers
and Mash.

So after doing my laundry Tuesday morning, I hopped in a cafe to try a
Full English Breakfast. This consisted of toast, an egg, sausage
link, hash brown, mushrooms, and baked beans...oh, and ham. The ham
was great, the mushrooms and hash brown were as well, all pretty
common, but the baked beans for breakfast felt a little squirrely,
pinto beans would probably work a little better. The egg,
unfortunately, was fried, and, me not thinking, I didn't ask for the
yolk to be cooked. So out comes this beatifully fried egg white with a
quivering yellow time bomb perched atop, just waiting for the perfect
time to seep over everything on my plate. It's like an ink tag that
explodes if you shoplift, but no crime is required with the egg. It
just sits there, glistening up at me, laughing I would imagine, and
then telling me it's most reassuring voice "no matter what you do to
eat around me, you are inevitably screwed!" sooo I had runny yolk
flavored beans and ham and egg white and toast. No bueno.

Sausages and mash, or bangers and mash as they are properly known in
pubs, are basically sausage links served over a cloud of mashed
potatoes with a drizzle of gravy, and, at least where I got mine, a
bit of onion chutney as well. Very simple, very tasty!

And then there's the Cornish Pasty, which I pronounce "pay-stee" and
my lovely English gals pronounce "pah-stee" ...one way or another it
sounds silly, but packs some serious punch in the taste dept. This is
a crispy, golden, puff pastry much in the same shape as a calzone, not
the ringed sort, but the pocket type. Anyways, this pastry is filled
with a stewed beef, onions, potatoes, and cabbage. Imagine all these
stewing in a crock pot or something, and then straining all the liquid
out, then taking that filling and putting it in flaky golden heaven.
Most excellent, it's a tasty pasty!

My evening out with girls was nice, it really is unreal to meet up
with someone from another country that you've met less than a year ago
in a completely different country, and I've had the fortune to do that
twice in a row here.

Now that it has been a week since my plane left DFW (to the minute as
I write this actually), I've had some time to wonder how I haven't
been hit by a car here yet! Let me assure you that while seeing
evryone drive on the wring side of the road is most unusual, it's just
second nature when crossing a road to look left, and then right.
That's flip-flopped here, and has probably been the hardest habit to
break. It sounds simple enough, but every intersection I cross I still
find my head reeling in confusion at where to look, despite the
painted directions on most every road crosswalk.

On the other hand, I think I've mastered the tube, and how to appear
too Texan (except when I wear my ball cap). In order to look like you
belong on the tube, you must create a stoic, unmoving, bored face. Do
not look around, if you bump into others or they bump into you, see
who can pretend to be the most bored, without ever so much as glancing
at the other party/parties. If eye contact is made, don't nod, ooooh
man nodding is such an American giveaway, just look past their eyes
and if possible glaze your eyes over. Wear headphone, 90% of the tube
riders young and old, have headphones in their ears at all times, at
least in my observations. I saw a lady with two sets of headphones
today, one set in her ears, the other draped around her neck at the
ready. I'm pretty sure she sensed me looking quizically, so I resumed
my statue face and by the time her eyes were at mine, I was very
unimpressed, obviously thinking about important matters elsewhere.
Also, grab a free Metro, they're everywhere, and are the prime reading
material on the Tube offering small pieces of local and national news.
This is especially important in the mornings, when Metros are
abundant, it would be a grave and costly tag of the tourist to not
have a Metro handy. This morning, I read, in great concentration but
without emotion, a painfully long three-page spread on a cricket
match. Cricket...really? I kept my eyebrow furrowed and chewed my lip,
crunching the meaningless stats, praying for the page when it would
end. After a three page spread, I still can't tell you who won day one
or who performed well. Cricket...yipes, why not the Tour, or a piece
on American baseball and how Andruw Jones has hit four home runs and
had 7 RBI in two games againt the Angels, my beloved Rangers' rival
team? Later in the afternoon, when Metros are in short supply, find
someone reading one, sit next to them, and read over their shoulder,
personal space and proximity be damned! If you can do this, and
refrain from speaking,congratulations! You've hot what it takes to
conquer the tube!

As I mentioned yesterday, my itenerary has changed a bit, I will no
longer be going to Manchester tomorrow, but heading straight to
Scotland, as I found out it's a very short trip, 4 hours as opposed to
the eight I thought it might be. Also, after talking with everyone
here, they all recommended Edinburgh over Glasgow, so to Edinburgh I
go tomorrow, and then I'll be there until Monday morning, when it's on
to Belfast.

I must interject now with a food update...while not particularly
English, I just scored the best lunch of my trip and am back on the
tube now (emotionless of course) clutching my dinner for tonight as
well. Because Emily works in London, she suggested I meet her for
lunch today. We went to a market, Borough Market to be exact, and it
was there that I found heaven on earth. As we walked along checking
out the vendors, we saw a great display of pies (remember a pie in
England holds meat and veggies, tarts hold the fruit) that we nearly
went for, but decided to walk on a bit and see what else we could
find....good call...there was a vendor set up with two very large
skilletes, each the about as round as a sumo wrestler, with what
appeared to be paella. Upon closer inspection, we found it to be a
Thai curry dish, one with seafood and chicken, the other just chicken.
We both got the seafood and chicken curry, which had fresh mussels,
shrimp, squid, chicken, stewed potatoes, onions and green bell peppers
in a green curry sauce...all served over jasmine rice. WOW...that's
all I can say. Desert was a slice of Bailey's Chocolate Cheesecake
with a brownie crust. That put the "edible" in "incredible!"
Afterwards, with Emily having to be back at work and myself debating
whether to go revisit the touristy areas or revisit the market, I
chose the market...once again, a good choice.

When I got back to walking around, I stopped and talked to an Irish
girl running a cheese booth, who gave me samples of cheeses, both goat
and cow, with varying tastes, textures, and aromas. Yes, I had my
first taste of a creamy, smelly cheese, and it was remarkable.
Suzanne, the Irish gal, educated me ib the cheeses, as well as wrote
down the name of an Italian deli in Edinburgh that is 80 something
years old for me to visit.

From there, I actually visited an Italian deli in the market, with a
proud and happy owner who gave samples of fresh mozarella, a kind of
cream made from the mozarella, and best of all, a big chunk of fresh
gorgonzola. I know at this point both of my parents are salivating, I,
too, am revisiting it in my
mind. The owner of the booth, after doling out samples, cut the price
in half on a small roll of prosciutto, mozarella, basil and tomato
that i'm now carrying home with me. He also threw in several slices
of milano salami, more of the mozarella creme, and some kind of a
cookie. The world needs more people like Joseph running businesses.

And for a grande finale, ooohh man, how do fresh scallops sound? I
walked over to a seafood booth where several large eel were making a
temporary grave in the ice display, and noticed the beatifully
displayed squid, tuna steaks, fish of all sort, and bam! There they
were, stacks and stacks of fresh dived sea scallops...beautiful! A
lady in front of me apparently ordered some, and the fellow running
this booth took them over to a grill pan, and grilles them up. Then he
looked at me, reading my mind before I even knew what I was thinking
and asked the magical question: "how many?" And sheepishly, in a
trance almost, I held up one claw in a 3, and while Pavlov may have
trained his dogs to salivate at the sound of the bell, that question
was all it took for me to become an eager, excited, hungry (funny, I
was just full a moment ago...) puppy. Served on a bed of bean sprouts
nested in a scallop shell, with a bit of fresh lemon squeezed over
them, this is what food is about. The whole market is a wonder, the
jewel of London I believe, with fresh fruits, vegetables, juices,
meats, pies, tarts, handmade truffles, and breads at your fingertips.
A cook's paradise, for certain.

So with friends and the borough market in London, it is safe to say
I'll be back, maybe next year, maybe two, or maybe sooner, but yes, I
will be back.

Fat and Happy in London,
Bryan, the Lonely Traveller

London Life

Alright, I've got two to write today, I was writing one last night, but unfortunately I lost it....soooo back to square one.



So far, London is a pretty cool city, I met up with a friend yesterday, Sandy, who I first met last summer in Ecuador. Sandy, besides living in and around London, has spent time all over the world, already having visited every continent except Antarctica.



Sandy and I walked around London yesterday, starting in downton, and making our way over a huge spread that covered the affluent banking district, the much pooerer Indian district, the touristy areas, along the Thames, up to the top of a skyscraper to have a look over the city and watch a storm come directly at us, and finally, to a pub, where we met up with Sandy's friend, Mary, from Ireland. For my beer followers, I've got a new one, and several ciders for you today: John Smith's Extra Cold, a creamy, smooth bitter with a strong pull on each sip. Not normally a cider fan, Sandy and Mary decided to change that about me, and I had my own cider tasting. Magner's Irish Cider has a light, tingling finish, which was quite pleasant. Strongbow, an English cider reminded me more of the cider we are familiar with back home, Woodchuck, which I've never cared much for. Each pull brought a dry bite that makes your mouth recoil. Mary and Sandy insisted I try this one, even though neither of them like it, and, go figure, baby Bry makes three! Finally, I tried Bulmers, another Irish Cider with a sweet, not overpowering and crisp finish.

The touristy stuff was exactly that: touristy. Buckingham Palace was packed to the hilt with a thousand or more tourists standing on any available pavement within 300 yards of the gates. On top of that, most of them had umbrellas out....dangerous for anyone not wearing protective glasses. Westminister Abbey was more of the same, a beautiful building, with way too many people around, and a £15 admission fee ($27 roughly) that this soul didn't feel like shelling out.
Both Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament were incredible, the architecture is just unreal and their size is, at the risk of sounding redundant, big. Be forewarned, dear friends and followers, when I get back, I will have pictures, but probably not good ones, as it is extremely hard to get a good picture without some obstruction (traffic signals, poles, pushy tourists) sneaking into the photo. After the madness around Big Ben, we walked up to and around St. Paul's Cathedral (if you're not familiar with it, look up pictures of it, it's incredible!).

Getting around in London is some kind of easy, with the Tube and busses running every couple of minutes. All it takes is a moment or two to familiarize yourself with the route maps, know your stop, and you're good as gold. The Tube is a blessing for me, as the nearest tube station is only a half block from my hostel, which is on the outskirts of town, in a pretty plain and boring neighborhood. The Tube, I should explain, is London's underground, or subway system. Riding on the doubledecker busses is quite an experience as well, when sitting on the top deck near the front, you get an unprecedented view of the buildings and city. The drawback is that I find myself slamming down where the brake pedal in my truck should be though, as cars, pedestrians and other things disappear in front of the bus and I brace myself for a sickening crunch. We haven't hit anything yet, it just looks like we are about to. The other fun thing to do from the bus is a game I like to call ''Count the Starbucks Shops.'' With three or four stores on nearly every street, I'm here to report that Starbucks is alive and well in London and will probably be getting their own embassy in the city centre soon. This of course will lead to world domination by our friendly Seattle coffee chain, so beware.

Yesterday morning was a laundry day for me, and early in the morning, with clouds, rain, and 55 degree weather, I set out from my hostel in my sleeveless sleeping shirt, ratty old athletic shorts, and a backpack full of clothes with the distinct odor of Travel. If you've ever been camping, or traveled without the aid of a hotel, you'll know what I'm talking about, but if not, let me break it down. Imagine dirty socks, underwear, wet clothes, and wet and dirty socks all compacted in a growing lump over the course of a week or more, odors multiplying and spreading like a virus. It sounds awful doesn't it? The fact of the matter, it's really not, it's the smell of a trip done right, but the problem comes when you are in a hostel room with others also carrying their own strain of Travel. My room for instance, has 16 others in it. If you have 17 people with three pairs of dirty socks apiece, thats 51 pair of dirty, wet socks, or 102 individual dirty wet socks. No offense ladies, but those big bags you pack? They might help you prolong laundry day and save a couple pounds, euros, dollars, yen in the short run, but those big ol' bags harbor extra special versions of Travel, collectors editions if you will. These bags almost always smell worse than all but the dirtiest, earthiest male travellers....I'm sorry to break it to you this way. Laundry day is a refreshing day, a day to smell clean again, because not just you, but your clothes, all of them, are clean. It's truly a day to be treasured, and the added bonus if you're backpacking is no folding! Just roll it all up and stuff it in however it fits the best!

I'll be going into London again today, in just a few short hours, to meet up with two other friends I met in Ecuador last summer, Laura and Emily, and then tomorrow, one last trip before its on to Edinburgh, Scotland (I changed up my itenerary, but I'll write about that on the next one).
Also in my later post, I'll run down a couple new dishes I've tried between yesterday and today.

That's it for now,
Peace, Love, and Bacon Grease,
Bryan, the Lonely (but not in London) Traveller

A Long Walk

July 6, Americans on the move

Well, what an exhausting day this has turned out to be! I stayed up
the better part of the night to make sure I wouldn't oversleep and got
out of bed for good around 4:30...if there's anything I learned from
the last travel day, it's savor your shower, your next one could be
awhile. So, I took a nice long hot shower, packed, unpacked, repacked,
and headed out. Now remember that I, based on what everyone told me
yesterday, was expecting about an hour long hike to the ferryport.

5:30 is a chilly time of the morning in dublin, and to lighten my
pack, I wore my heaviest jeans, an undershirt, a long-sleeved rugby
style shirt, and then my light jacket. Oh yes, and my boots, not my
tennis shoes, that would be too practical. After about 35 minutes, I
decided to stop and ask the desk clerk at a hotel how much further I
could expect. "oh you're only 20-25 minutes if you keep on your
course!" says he. In retrospect, I call his bluff. At the time, I
didn't....my mistake.

So I walked and walked and walked, and finally the road turned where
it was supposed to, at this point though, I was already at my
hour...no great biggie, there were signs confirming ibwasbheading the
right way, and I left early to compensate for error. 20 minutes later,
I see terminal road, which is where all the ports are located, but, oh
wait! What is this just beyond terminal road. The airport?!?! I've
walked the distance equivalent to about a 30€ ride ($45-$50) in a
taxi, and low and behold, I'm not there yet! Turns out terminal road
is an impossibly long, neverending stretch of industrial ports, and
here's this fat backpacking tourist hiking down the road at 6:45 in
the morning. Now, I've been walking at a brisk pace for the entirety
of my hike, and now begin to worry about how much longer this
excursion might be, I pick up the pace further, to no avail, getting
all the way down terminal road takes another 30 minutes, putting me at
just under a 2 hour trek by the time I finally arrive, sweaty and
panting. Bless the Irish, not a water fountain in sight!

Purchasing my ticket, I make a joke about how I just walked from
beyond grafton street, and the ticket agent gets a very dismayed look
on her face and informs me that they have a complimentary shuttle for
pedestrians who arrange for it....perfect! I'm so glad my hostel and
the local police mentioned that service when they were telling me no
Dublin bus services the ferries. And to all those who said oh yeah,
only an hour at most, more like forty-five minutes, I challenge them
to try that little walk of theirs in boots, three layers, and a forty
pound backpack, while trying to make a certain deadline.

The great thing about the ferry: the Atlantic Ocean... cool ocean air
for thee hours. The bad thing: small children evrywhere! You know what
happens when toddlers are on a gently rolling ferry for three hours?
Screams, crying, boat-wide games of tag periodically pierced by more
screams and crying. Three hours...my ears are still ringing.

Now, as I'm sitting on a train passing through the Welsh countryside,
I've had a chance to reflect on all the Americans I've met today.
There was a group of about forty high school students from South
Carolina, a mother/daughter backpacking from Alabama, three guys my
age backpackng from Colorado, two girls about to kick off their
college careers from Seattle, and a family of six from Michigan.
Americans are on the move today it seems.

I wish I had some great anecdote or recount of a meal, but so far, I
haven't had a chance to eat. My caloric intake thus far has been one
pepsi. Maybe soon food will come my way...6 hours later...and it did,
subway, a chocolate bar and a bottle of water... Boring blog today,
I'm still beat from the walk earlier and London will get me large and
in charge tomorrow....

Thanks for tuning in!
-Bryan, the lonely traveler