The Flight and the Return

In the Botanic Gardens

We settled back into Edinburgh for the last few days of my family’s trip and of my time abroad. We visited Stirling Castle, Edinburgh Castle, and the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens, and it all seemed like a dream after such a long semester.

We drove to airport on June 3rd, and rushed in, since my family had an early flight directly to Newark. I had a flight that had been booked with my original flight, so it was later in the morning, and had a layover in Heathrow. My first flight was delayed, however, because Heathrow was ‘temporarily full’. Anxious, I eventually boarded the plane and flew into London’s enormous airport, and ran. I took a shuttle, went through another security checkpoint, and emerged into an incredibly long hallway in the correct wing only to look up at a monitor that told me, in terrifyingly red-colored font, that my gate was CLOSING. I ran. As fast as I could, I ran. Bags flying to and fro, I ran down a hallway that seemed to go on forever, so long indeed that I needed to slow to a fast walk at one point in time. But I was determined. I thought to myself ‘I will run back to America if need be’, and I ran until my lungs could do no more, until at last, there was my gate. I managed to run into the end of the line for checking tickets, and very soon found myself boarding the plane back home.

After a long flight, it was announced that we were arriving into JFK, and I looked out of the window and saw, for the first time in five months, baseball diamonds. Personal swimming pools. SUVs. I saw things that I had hated, and I was surprised at how happy I was to see them, just for the fact that they were so characteristically American. I still remember getting off the plane, and entering the citizen line, passport in hand, and being called to one of the customs booths, where a stern man looked at my documents, and seeing a vagueness in my declarations, asked, “What gifts did you bring back?”

“Um... I don’t know, just some little ones, I-” Stumbling, exhausted and trying to remember...

“Like what? Come on, start listing” How fast he talks!

“Um, okay, ahh... a stuffed animal, some books, a bottle of whiskey...” He jots them down as I talk, and before I go on, he stamps my passport.

“Welcome home.”

“Oh, thank you very much.”

Using only public transit (which I love dearly), I traveled seamlessly from the airport to Greenwich, where my grandparents greeted me with a warm meal and a warm bed, which I collapsed into at once. The following day, never stopping my momentum, I moved into Connecticut College for my summer research. I was greeted by my friend and roommate for the summer, Corey, who was still in his pajamas, which, as I think of it now, was quite the contrast to my state of mind. And my first major act in America was to go to a Dinosaur Park with Corey and Kate, which was appropriately hilariously fun, and made me feel that I was very much back home.

I quickly settled back into life in America, with brand new perspectives on the country, my lifestyles, my friends, and my life in general. It was a semester with good and bad, and it was a semester that I needed.

Thanks for reading.

Best Regards,

Riordan

Fields of the Dead, Valleys of Life

Dollar Glen, a second time

The second big highlight for our visit into the Highlands of Scotland was our visit to Culloden battlefield. This field was were the Jacobite rebellion faced off against an English army for a war-ending battle. The Jacobites were Scotsmen fighting for independence, armed with claymores and fierce battle cries, not to mention bagpipes. They had been marching all night, however, and they were hungry and standing almost knee-deep in marshy land, which was not their favored terrain. The army of the English (most of the army wasn’t actually English, it was primarily comprised of mercenaries of different nationalities) were armed with rifles, and had the advantage of land, nourishment, and numbers. It was a massacre. The Scottish were soundly and utterly defeated, and the few survivors were forced to give up their weapons and their clan system, along with their whole way of life.

We arrived on another sunny day in May, to find a field no longer as marshy, but otherwise seemingly frozen in time. There were flags set up on each side to help visitors see where each side took their stand, and the historical museum set up by the field had an excellent explication of both sides of the rebellion and the events of this momentous battle. Most significant on the field were the headstones that marked the mass graves of the dead, which were primarily separated by clan. Most poignant for me was this marker:

The field was peaceful, but eerily quiet. There was a definite aura that something worth mourning had happened there. I am told that it holds a similar feeling to that of the beaches of Normandy.

After that spiritual experience of sorts, we headed back towards Edinburgh, stopping first in Dollar Glen. This was my second visit there (the first is detailed in an earlier post), because I knew that I had to bring my parents there, and it was another excellent visit. The lushness of that valley, and of the castle that nature is slowly reclaiming astounded me to no end.

We explored the castle, its gardens, and the wild abundant forest around it with joy and renewed energy, even with the mountain trek still making our muscles ache. It was a lovely trip, and the glen secured its place as my favorite in Scotland, aside perhaps from Holyrood Park.

Brendan and Mom enjoying the sunny day at Castle Campbell

Ben Nevis

At the end of the week, we were all cosy and established in a Bed & Breakfast in Fort William, and we decided to undertake the task that we had planned for months in advance: climbing Ben Nevis, a 4,500ft tall mountain, the highest peak in the British Isles. After a very filling Scottish breakfast, we suited up, and headed out, ready for anything.

Now, there is only one path that begins the trek up the mountain, and it is a relatively steep but well-worn one that leads up to a small loch in the mountainside, which is where mom decided to spend her day, which turned out to be a wise decision. My dad, my brother, and I all forged boldly ahead, away from the main path. You see, the main path continues up the mountain in a challenging way, but a way that is not as challenging as the other possible way, which is... frankly, more dangerous. Thus, the main path has been dubbed the ‘tourist trail’ or the ‘pony path’ by the locals, and those names make more intrepid explorers shun the path, despite its difficulty.

So we set off in the opposite direction of the tourist path, circling around the mountain to a valley (pictured at the top) where we could look up at its snowy peak, and around at all of the gushing streams and rugged terrain, dotted by sheep and deer alike. We quickly discovered that there was no discernible path through this valley or up to the peak from the valley. None whatsoever. So, we ventured the length of the valley, and looked up around us to discover that our only feasible option was to climb up a very steep slope in order to reach its ridge, which we could then walk along up to the peak.

Lucky us, the slope was covered in scree. Not just small loose rocks, but big rocks the size of my head that looked quite solid, but would give way just when you most needed them. The three of us made very slow progress, climbing on all fours, all but scaling this slope. About halfway up, my dad knew that it had been a bad idea (as he told me later, thankfully) but he also knew that the only worse idea would be trying to go back down. So, we forged ahead foot by foot, rock by rock, and breath by breath. When we reached the top, we exhaustedly collapsed and broke out the Kendal Mint Cake, which is essentially a block of flavored sugar that UK mountaineers use, and that I would never eat in a normal situation - but in that situation, it was the best thing ever.

As we rested, a Scottish couple came casually trotting along the ridge with their dog bounding on ahead of them. My dad asked them how they had come up on the ridge, looking so effortless, and they responded that they had taken the path, of course. They pointed down the ridge, which eventually tapered down to a place at the very beginning of the valley - which we had ignored when we headed directly into the valley. Oh. We just climbed up... never mind.

Sugar rushing through our systems, we stood once more and ventured along the ridge. This ridge:

I hardly knew how to separate Lord of the Rings from reality here, and part of me didn’t want to. Luckily, there was no Saruman trying to BRING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN! Mom had given us all rules when we departed for the peak: no frolicking, bird watching, or unnecessary rock climbing, which corresponded to each of us in particular - I’ll let you guess which one corresponded to which person. We didn’t do terribly well there, and I was accused of breaking the first rule when I started scrambling across the ridge, giddy with LOTR and mint cake. After the ridge, we were greeted with another rocky slope entirely devoid of a path, but this time the rocks were secure. All the same, we were just so tired...

But suddenly, there it was. The summit sprung up on us quite unexpectedly, and it was actually quite flat, and came complete with the ruins of an observatory that was maintained at the end of the 19th century. It was also covered in snow, and we very much appreciated the cool winter setting in the midst of the warm May day. We took the tourist path back down (because we aren’t completely insane), and on the way down both my father and brother frolicked a bit - and I have proof!

It wasn’t just me.

At long last, we descended the mountain to find my mother, quite anxious due to the two rescue helicopters that had been called to the mountain that day, and due to the fact that we were gone for seven hours. But we reassured her, collapsed into the car, and were swept away to a pub, where we ate a hearty meal, and I ordered a glass of rum, on the rocks.