Weather Report

Tonight, I did not have the 6 p.m. missing Thacker Mountain Radio blues like most Thursdays. I had a ticket to the Scottish National Jazz Orchestra season opening concert at Caird Hall. The two and a half hours of the late 70s jazz band Weather Report arrangements glided by like the last long sip of a chocolate frosty. The former WR drummer Peter Erskine came to play with the orchestra. I get more enjoyment out of watching a balding, silver bearded 65 year old jammer than almost anything. I still balk at getting old, but now I'm just trying to figure out how to be a debonair grandfather. On a related note, I sat by a nice old lady with a young blonde lab seeing eye dog. God bless seeing eye dog trainers.

1st Go Round Edinburgh

For my first Edinburgh trip, I'd like to give a shout out to Ben Hewitt. I was so glad to hear "y'all" again. What reminiscing could be better than discussing at the Jazz Bar over some pints the sacrifice we made to miss Proud Larrys for a semester. Tribute to you Davis; we both missed ya.

Brief highlights of Edinburgh: a Sunday morning service at St. Giles Cathedral, four coffees at J.K. Rowling's favorite haunt, the Elephant Room, the monumental Benjamin West painting for Scotland, climbing up the 287 steps of the Sir Walter Scott monument, clubbing with hip thirty year olds at LuLu's, and hiking up Arthur's Seat and seeing Edinburgh in panorama view.

So as one can see, I have never practiced brevity.

Onto the Picture Recap.

Guinness, Guys, and God

Today, I had a truly Scottish university afternoon. Let me elaborate. I had told my colourful friend Xander to meet me at the Art Bar for a pint or two -hence two- after class today. At the bar our numbers grew to six aspiring historians, English majors, and philosophers. After a deep sip of beer under the coffee and creme colored foam, I joined in the stories, exaggerations, philosophizing, and dreams. We talked of Mississippi blues and Smoky Mountain Tennessee. We talked of the trials and tribulations involved in cruise ships, lifeguarding, and gardening. We had a good rehashing of several movies ranging from Half Baked to Alien. We bemoaned grades and praised university life. As the afternoon waned, the thoughts turned to parents then Catholic schools, and then God and Christianity. The conversation was thoughtful, careful even. Stumbling blocks to my friends were not just social norms. Creationism and authorship were a puzzle of an equation that did not balance to some of the guys. The self-described atheists were not confrontational. Instead, there was a wistful glumness about the conclusions. Perhaps for the first time, I learned what it means to not have hope. There was no triumphal pride, just a grim acknowledgement of reason. Xander and I did our best to give the reason for the hope we had; however, we made a mistake. We could not win the unresolved conflicting questions, because faith is not valid proof to someone outside yourself. We should have just said, "You know it is just about Jesus."

Until another day.

I'm Eating Salmon

I am sorry blog for neglecting you. You knew I went to Edinburgh a few weekends ago, having the time of my life. You found out via facebook or maybe a victory tweet. I apologize. As a person who has been dumped three times by text messages (multi-page of course), at least, I should have known better. To pacify you, let me talk like a wanna-be hipster. Facebook is too mainstream. Twitter is only worthy because it is a personal news feed and a platform for heckling @Forward_Rebels and @newtgingrich. I'm so over retweets. Okay the last two sentences were blatant, non hipster lies, but I'm in stream of consciousness mode. Tell me a better justification for poor writing from a poor writer. Virginia Wolffe, my woman. Anyway, to provide some vindication, I average a sent text message every two days. Small wonder my fingers twitch.

Since I get to write for "Ole Miss Abroad Bloggers" !...!, I am going to have to use some greater liberty on this one. So I feel like going in to journal mode with digressions. Today, I woke up in a funk. I blame it on a delightful previous evening of sippin' rose wine, which tasted like strawberry hi-C, and reading a collage of The Atlantic and The Economist web articles, poetry of William Butler Yeats, and my Bible. Some mornings are Monday mornings even if it is Tuesday. On Tuesday I finish class at 5. I am starting to think that is ideal because the rush from getting finally done at 5 is the equivalent of a classes canceled on Friday email. Between classes, I started to put together a resume for this bioethics fellowship for this summer. Creating a resume is frustrating for a honest person. The things you are most proud of sound wordy or seem to shine like dusty gravel on the page. The bull activities you put down as space fillers (Big Event) shame you. I really would like to know if someone read it. Also, I really wish you could read rec letters. Assuming you are wise about whom you get to write the letter, a complimentary letter's vindication would just make your month. Instead, the rec letters are read by a stranger who recognizes the wording but not the student's name from the last letter he got from that person. I worked out to Maylene & the Sons of Disaster. Maylene, I've never forgotten my first mosh pit or that bleach blonde girl with the circular nose ring. Middle school was a great thing. Stop, stop, stop. Nostalgia starts with N-O. I'm hoping to talk to my cousin Bill tonight on Skype. We may be planning some spring break activities. Skint night is tonight. Skint means broke in Scottish vernacular. I will never understand Tuesday being the night to go out.

But hey, I'm on vacation.

North to Nairn

So you want to go north to the beach in February, Neal, to see the winter sea. Did you need to pack any long underwear? Of course you thought not. As a six weeks veteran traveler of Scotland, such precautions were for the weak. Thus, Scotland brought along the fierce wind gusts, the largest snow flakes you had ever seen. Your skinny legs froze with only a damp pair of corduroys to protect you. You even dragged Marcel along for the ride.

The train ride was fantastic as the Scot-rail car meandered through the heart of the empty highlands.

But seriously Nairn was [insert synonym of choice for amazing]. Ehm, sensational, yes.

The almost tawny sand of the Nairn coastline was sprinkled within minutes with snow like a Cafe du Monde beignet's powder sugar after a mighty sneeze. If you get your mind right, you have to admit that you rarely feel more spry and alive than facing snowy, saltwater wind. I felt like no sensible person would be gallivanting down the coastline, so the enjoyment was tripled. I did not see a snow shark though. Ravens battled the wind. Ravenclaw seems more suitable to me daily. The bike tire has to be a metaphor. I'll expound on it someday, if I ever get that epiphany.

Marcel and I went to Inverness after some pub fare and hot tea. We decided not to immediately set out for Loch Ness, to our chagrin. We walked around Inverness. The capital of the Highlands, let me tell you, we have down pat. We saw the Flora MacDonald statue, a fake Nessie, and famous-ish Pict era wolf stone. Inverness offered some great views of the River Ness and some Ness Islands to walk around. The river moves very quickly. A rescue in the cold current seems unlikely. Nessie can do some fast wind sprints, I have no doubt.

A day was well lived. I can ask for little more.

Dunnattor Ruins or a Kingdom by the Sea

Planning a venture with others can be a fickle enterprise. Some people have different ideas of the appropriate measure of travel and adventure to satisfy their immersion experience. I have decided not to be held back by going somewhere only if my friends are. This is not exactly a change. I have seen people gape at me for eating by myself (by myself sounds pathetic) at Chick-fil-a before. Anyway, when a group decided to skip out on a weekend adventure in Glasgow, the home of Tennants lager no less, I was wondering what I should do for my weekend. I saw a stunning aerial photo of a Scottish castle that I had downloaded in December. The castle was surrounded by sheer cliffs on eighty percent of its circumference, almost an island. I was like, "Neal you bloomin' fool. There are castles nearby." I did not look specifically for that castle. But when I read of a seaside castle outside of Stonehaven just a direct train north, I decided to check it out. The first picture I saw was the same one I had downloaded. I experienced a transcendental epiphany. The castle was the Dunnottar ruins, former seat of the Keiths, the Earl Marischal of Scotland.

Some brief history of the site. St. Ninian built a church around 400 AD to convert the Picts to Christianity.
The Vikings, not Capital One, pillaged and burned the castle, killing the Scottish monarch King Donald II in the eighth century. William Wallace, according to "Blind Harry" burned the chapel to kill a garrison of English soldiers. The Honours of Scotland was saved from English seizure at the isolated castle. Sadly, around 1680 almost 200 Presbyterian Covenanters perished in captivity primarily from starvation just a floor above the castle kitchens. The age of the stones was magnified by the sheer cliffs, the pounding surf, and the ruined conditions. The castle is now a home for lichens, mosses, and seabirds. The people who milled about did not belong. The pervasive feeling was not one of "stepping back in time." Instead,
you felt as if you were a lost descendant of the












men who used to live there, gazing at the aftermath of a cultural apocalypse. I felt that instead of 15th century stone the walls were from the 6th century. How can solid stone crumble and fade so much. Dunnottar is a green castle now. Yet the was lived in as recently as the 18th century. If solid stone falls into disrepair so, ehm, quickly, where will the wooden buildings I know go? Dunnottar was such a place for introspection. The salt air and steady waves were broken up by the screech of gulls. I could feel the wind taking up my spirit. I'm sorry to be so transcendental but I'm telling you it is true. To the immediate south of the castle there was a beautiful pebble beach. Remember those neon rain sticks from the zoo that you could flip upside down and hear the rice fall down? A receding wave on a pebble beach has a throatier call. For about thirty minutes, I sat on the top of a rock that would be nearly underwater after the tide came in and watched a cormorant dive fishing. I thought I'd love to be an otter if I were an animal. The diving bird (I clocked him once a 36 seconds) surpasses the river beast. I thought real thoughts. Solitude is as cathartic as a well timed sauna.