TRAVEL STORIES AND HOLIDAY GREETINGS

Fall is the time for mushrooms.

      In the next few blog posts I’ll be presenting a few of the stories that will be in my next book of travel stories which I hope to publish in the spring. Sales of Ten Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales have been encouraging.  The next book’s working title is More Travel Stories, but somehow I don’t think that’s quite catchy enough.  I did consider seriously the title Fourteen Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England, Wales, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Road Trips in America and Canada, and Other Travels--I thought hard for us all then pushed the title into the bin (with apologies to W.S. and those among us who get the not so subtle allusion)--in other words, I threw that idea away. If you have a title suggestion for the new book please let me know.

Buchanty Fall 

Buchanty Spout is a waterfall (more a strong cascade) on the River Almond near the little hamlet of Buchanty in central Perthshire, Scotland.  The falls is a favorite spot for photographers, picnickers, water watchers, and fisher folk who watch the salmon leap the falls in the autumn run.  I’ve been down the short 200-yard hike to the falls several times for photos, but have yet to see the “spouts”--deep circular holes in the rocks are said to cause spouting when the water runs high.  

Buchanty Spout

The spring of 2011 was particularly rainy and all the rivers were running quite high.  I decided this would be a good time to see Buchanty Spout in spate and hopefully get spectacular photos.  Anne let me go alone since she knew I really did know the way to Buchanty and the falls--she kens (Scottish for "knows") I have basically no sense of direction and can get lost in a grocery store, so is very cautious about letting me out without a navigator.  She did admonish me with the caveat, “Be careful and don’t fall in.”  And she was correct to give me the reminder since falling into the river along the falls would indeed be life threatening.

The drive to the parking area at Buchanty was a non-event.  On the short hike down to the falls I did take note of the slippery conditions on the trail.  I was slightly disappointed that there was no spouting at the falls, the water was high but not high enough.  I was extremely cautious on the rocks as I took some good photos of the powerful cascade.  I was not cautious enough to notice the moss around the spout hole as I backed away from the rock edge.  The next thing I knew my right foot had slipped on the moss and I tumbled down with my leg mid-thigh in the hole.  Instinctively I saved my camera and lens from damage, but not my leg.  It took a couple of minutes to recover my senses and extricate my leg from the spout hole.  I count myself as very lucky to have been able to limp back to the car with only a bruised shin bone and a major scrape, rather than a broken leg.  

Sma'Glen, the Highland country near Buchanty Spout.

There was no way I could hide either my embarrassment or my bloody pant leg when I got home to the B&B.  Anne was a great sport; she didn’t say, “I warned you.” The photos I took that day, by the way, weren’t that good.

Sneaking onto the Golf Courses

People will do anything to save a buck, bob, quid, or pound.  That includes sneaking onto golf courses without paying.  We’ve had a couple of encounters with these sneaky duffers.  In 2004 we played the second course at Montrose on Scotland’s east coast.  It’s a relatively easy track being a relief course for the Championship Montrose GC and not very expensive.  It was quite a surprise when several holes away from the clubhouse three people walked off the road with their clubs, threw down balls, and started playing in front of us.  We’d never seen that before.  Several holes later the threesome found an easy egress and left.  

Moray Old GC and Lossiemouth Lighthouse.

A year later at Moray Old GC in Lossiemoth on the Morayshire coast of Scotland we had a similar situation.  On the third hole we saw a man park his car by the side of the road next to the course and walk onto the course and start playing behind us.  He seemed to be in a hurry and was pushing us until on the seventh hole he disappeared.  He could have left and walked back to his car, got kicked off the course, or just hop over to some other hole, but we didn’t see him again.  

There are other, more sophisticated ways of sneaking onto a golf course.  A Scottish friend of ours said he could get us on a major golf course for £25 each when the normal price is £150.  We said sure, set it up.  

Crieff Ferntower GC (not the course we sneaked on to).

When the appointed day came we went over to the course and our friend paid the starter £100 “under the table” for the four of us.  We were put into the queue as the Thompson foursome and the starter said when they check us at the turn we had to be the Thompsons.  None of us played well, we were all nervous about being caught as phony Thompsons.  At the turn we did everything we could to avoid the attention of the marshalls (After all, don’t outlaws usually avoid marshalls?). 

Gleneagles Queens course (not the course we sneaked on to).

I don’t know how the people at Montrose or the guy at at Moray could do it.  Our one experience with sneaking onto a course was enough to cure me.

     This next story is in honor of the season and has been published in various newspapers and magazines over the years.  It was first published on November 19, 1978.  Accompanying the story are some seasonal photos.

Thanksgiving Trip, 1964

“Closed.”  “Sorry.” The signs reflected off the glistening streets.  Neon colors splashed from the wet sidewalks.  Arcadia, California, was a lonely place for a stranger on Thanksgiving Day. 

All day I’d been involved with a speech tournament at Humbolt State University.  Amidst camaraderie and competition I hadn’t given much thought to being away from home on Thanksgiving.  But the coming darkness draped around my shoulders the shroud of the loneliness of a Linfield College freshman away from home.  

Canadian Geese at Baskett Slough Nation Wildlife Refuge.

When you’re eighteen and a freshman in college everything new is an adventure.  A tournament at Thanksgiving only meant a chance to see a new place and meet new people.  Reality, though, has a way of catching up, even with a freshman.

Geese and Mt Hood.

So, here I was wandering the dim streets, alone in a strange town seeking the only inexpensive restaurant within walking distance of my motel.  The garish florescent lighting of the cafeteria blinded me as I sought to adjust from the night.  Servers filled trays with the contempt of those forced to work when they too wanted to be home with their families. 

“THANKSGIVING SPECIAL -- A Complete Traditional Thanksgiving Dinner (with all the trimmings) -- $1.98, drink extra,” read the sign taped to the glass window overlooking trays of limp lettuce.  At the end of the line my tray had on it two thin slices of pressed turkey (mostly dark meat), a scoop of dressing, a scoop of whipped potatoes almost as runny as the speckled gravy on it, a small paper cup of cranberry sauce.  I paid extra for a glass of milk and a cup of coffee.

Two of Canby's wild turkeys in the neighbor's yard.

My hunger overcame my growing depression.  I found myself enjoying the food in spite of the surroundings.  As the plate to mouth motions became automatic my mind strayed out the rain streaked windows.  My thoughts wandered into the darkness and all the way home.  The family would be gathered at either an aunt’s house or our place.  Dinner of plump hot turkey, which I might have gotten to carve, fluffy dressing bulging with sausage and mushrooms, both mashed potatoes and yams with brown sugar, and all the extras that make traditions live would have been cleared away hours ago.  Uncle Lee and Dad would be lightheartedly arguing about who would deal the card game.  Aunt Loretta, Mom, my sister, and the cousins would be cutting the pies, whipping the cream, and sneaking bits of meat off Henrietta Hen’s carcass.  Someone might have pulled out a Christmas album which propriety dictates can’t be played until after Thanksgiving--or at least until the dinner itself was over. 

A car honking outside the cafeteria interrupted my communion.  I finished my coffee and left so hurriedly that I left a tip even though there hadn’t been a waitress.  Back on the damp street I tried to recapture visions of family and warmth.  The moment was gone.  I’d had my Thanksgiving, but would have to wait a few days to share it with those who mattered. 

Our house in Canby decorated in fall colors.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE from Bob and Anne

STORIES AND PHOTOS #2: Black and White

Mt Hood and Mollala River

Anne and I have spent quite a bit of time in the last four months preparing our next travel guide.  It is a revision and expansion of our third guide, Hidden Gems II: Scotland and Wales.  The new edition, Golf in Scotland II: Hidden Gems of Scotland and Wales, has descriptions of more golf courses in both Scotland and Wales, more than double the number of B&Bs and small guest houses, numerous more recommendations for pubs, restaurants, and tearooms, and plenty of suggestions for non-golfing days.  Now that the book is done and out on Amazon.com and AmazonUK in print-on-demand as well as Kindle, my reflectiions on all this work, most of it in black and white, has inspired the two parts of this blog entry: an introduction to the new book and random black and white photos.

Windows to the Soul

Old Farm, Yoder, OR

Isle of Skye Road, Scotland

To introduce Golf in Scotland II; Hidden Gems of Scotland and Wales I present the story we use in the opening of "Chapter I: Getting Started":

The day was not going to be the weather we really wanted when playing a world class course like Royal Porthcawl in southern Wales--it was fiercely windy, spitting rain in squalls, and completely overcast.  We also knew by the friendly greeting we got in the golf shop from pro Peter Evans that it was going to be a great day of golf despite the weather.  We weren’t disappointed.  

Rain gear, including jacket, pants, gloves, hat, and bag cover on from the start, we headed to the first tee.  I like it better when we can start fully prepared rather than having to interrupt play to don our gear; it’s always easier to shed rain suits than to put them on during the round.  The first hole, the one seen in the Wales tourism commercial with duffers and Wee Welshman Ian Woosnam teeing off in glorious conditions, is a fair starting hole.  A demanding drive, but not too demanding, followed by a tricky second onto an elevated green with interesting slopes.  The wind, howling at a steady thirty miles an hour straight into us (measured with a portable anemometer), added character to the shotmaking.  Bogeys were good on this championship start, but the score really isn’t that important. Anne and I are retired after more than thirty years of teaching, we’re in Wales, the land of at least my paternal ancestors (although there’s English on that side as well), and we’re playing golf on one of the world’s great golf courses.  Bogey, double-bogey, or even birdie doesn’t much matter.  The rest of the round was a little better than the start.  The wind stiffened a little, but the rain lightened and stopped while we were still on the front. One curiosity was we kept coming into greens with the flags pulled out.  The first couple downed flags we ran into we cursed the inconsiderates in front of us.  Then as we continued to find flags down and realized it was the wind blowing them out, we apologized under our breaths.  

As we came off the tough 410-yard 18th with dips and hills and lush rough, we talked to the visitor who had played in front of us.  He was leaning against the building catching his breath. As we approached him, he smiled and said, “The course won.”  But he was smiling!  We told Peter about the four flags we found down on the greens.  He responded, “Oh, an average day at Royal Porthcawl.  Only a four flag day; we often see six or eight flags out in a round.”  And he was smiling!

From the golf course it’s only a few miles back to the Prince of Wales Pub in Kenfig near the interesting Pyle and Kenfig GC we’d played a couple of days before. We’d heard about the pub from the golf pro at P&K who said, “It should be in your book”--a phrase we’d heard several times before referring to this pub, that restaurant, or yon attraction.  After a drink in the 16th century (rebuilt in 1808) Prince of Wales Inn we knew he’d been right.  This pub needed to be in the book.  We enjoyed a pint, Guinness for Anne and local ale for me, heard about the ghosts, talked to a few locals who said “Good day for golf, isn’t it.”  And they smiled!   With a little adjusting of our itinerary, we planned a return trip to the pub for a meal, and then headed out for the hour drive to tonight’s B&B in Laugharne.   

Laugharne has a ruined castle and a literary heritage.  It’s the literary connection that gives the Boat House Bed and Breakfast its name--the Boathouse (around the corner from the castle along the water) was where poet Dylan Thomas did much of his writing.  We arrived in time to take a quick peek at the castle before checking in at the B&B.  We rang the bell and introduced ourselves to Angi, who looked at us a little strangely, but showed us to the Towy suite.  When we asked about her husband George a look of recognition came over her face.   Ann then introduced herself and her daughter Jenni who recently bought the B&B from Angi and George.  They said Angi and George had left our reservation, but no details or contact information.  After a good laugh we were told the dinner we had arranged would be in the dining room in about an hour.  

Whenever we can we take advantage of B&Bs who do dinners--a nice change from always eating out.  The dinner at Boat House was superb!  A special smoked haddock appetizer started the meal for us and three other guests. The starter was followed by a main of chicken breast in special sauce served with potatoes and fresh veggies. Dinner ended with a scrumptious homemade pear pie.  My Anne and I sat for an hour after dinner visiting with Jenni and Ann about the process of starting up a B&B.  

Windy golf on a fantastic course. Pub ghosts and Guinness. New friends in a marvelous B&B. All in a day of touring in Wales.  

Eilean Musdile Lighthouse, Loch Linnhe, Scotland

Lights, Rothenburg, Germany

Tearoom Conversation, Kirriemuir, Scotland

We are now preparing for out spring visit to Scotland, but I will try to get one more entry up before we leave in the middle of April.  Welcome spring!

George the Cat

New Book, Eastern Oregon Trip Part 1, George the Cat

Anne and I both worked hard to get our latest golf travel guide done in time for our spring trip to Scotland.  We published Golf in Scotland: The Hidden Gems on February 28.  

Even though the book is just a revision of our first golf travel guide, because we completely changed the format and added numerous courses, eateries, and B&Bs, the book was as much work as doing a completely new product.  The book is done now and is already selling well (for a golf guide) on Amazon (a Kindle edition is due out in a couple of weeks).  For our efforts we decided to treat ourselves with a Road Trip to Eastern Oregon. 

We began with the drive over to Redmond where we stayed in timeshare at Worldmark at Eagle Crest.  

Mt Hood

The view of the mountains (Hood, Jefferson, Washington, Three Finger Jack, the Three 

Mt Jefferson

Sisters, Broken Top, and Black Butte) as well as a profitable stop at the Indian Head Casino at Kah-Nee-Ta enhanced the drive.  While having a light lunch at the casino, we watched a young worker pay close attention to the announcement of the new pope.  She was rooting for an American to be selected and was mildly crushed when Francis I was introduced.  I suspect that she was reacting much the same as many American catholics.  Photos of the Crooked River Gorge and Smith Rocks State Park helped to make the trip an artistic as well as financial success. 

Crooked River Gorge

Smith Rocks

The Worldmark resort at Eagle Crest is a five star stay--we had a one bedroom unit in the main hotel which had a full kitchen and views out to one of the Eagle Crest golf courses.  Dinner at the Brickhouse in Redmond was excellent, though expensive.  

Best of all was a killer marionberry cobbler ala mode large enough for the two of us to share.  The only slight negatives to the day were not getting to see Comet Pan-STARR because of cloud cover (one of the reasons for going to Eastern Oregon) and pulling down a Redmond one-way street the wrong way--can only blame that on lack of attention, I hadn’t had anything to drink.

Day two was an exploration day between Redmond and John Day.  After a forgettable breakfast in a local restaurant which we promptly forgot the name of, the day brightened up when I spotted a bald eagle and he landed close enough for photos. 

Very majestic!  Our first tour stop was at the John Day Fossil Beds Painted Hills Unit.  We had been to the Painted Hills once before for a sled dog race, but that was probably in 1978 and neither of us remember too much about the area through the alcohol fog of the trip.  

The scenery is truly spectacular and the colors are as vivid as the picture postcards we’ve seen--the red color comes from oxidized iron, the golden color from a mixture of magnesium and iron, 

and the black from oxidized magnesium.  Both getting to see three mule deer (we think) and 

being the only visitors to the Hills for the hour we spent there added to the experience.  

We made Mitchell, an 1860s gold mining town 50 miles east of Prineville and 80 miles west of John Day, our people refueling stop.  We didn’t know what to expect from Mitchell, but loved what we found.  In the Sidewalk Cafe and More I enjoyed a lovely slice of walnut 

pie, while Anne (good girl that she is) had a salad.  We also enjoyed the conversation between mother and daughter owners as they decided what to have on the menu for Sunday dinner--they decided on beef tacos for St Patrick’s Day dinner because that’s what they had the most of in the freezer.  As we explored the almost ghost town of Mitchell we were accosted (in a friendly way) by the Auntie Wainwright (BBC’s “Last of the Summer Wine”) of Mitchell.   Judy, from Judy’s Place (second-hand and souvenir shop), came out into the street and started telling us stories of Old Mitchell and invited us into her shop to see her historic photos.  

A Mitchell Boarding House

We finally bought some postcards so we could make our exit and continue our trip--actually I felt like I was paying for the stories which really were interesting.  

The main unit of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument is the Sheep Rock Unit which hosts the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center and Visitor’s Center.  

Besides holding the fossil museum, the Thomas Condon Center has a viewing area where we watched a paleontologist working on extracting a small fossil fragment from its bed stone.  We also hiked into the Blue Basin Area 

and stopped for photos of Cathedral Rock.

Our stop for the night was the Best Western Motel in John Day, a very nice inexpensive room.  Dinner, at the suggestion of the hotel manager, was at the Snaffle Bit Dinner House. 

For $12 we got salad, a main course (mine was fried chicken, veg, and potato), dessert, and drink.  I didn’t know bargains like this existed anymore.  It was delicious as well.

John Day Adventist Church

GEORGE THE CAT --  (?) 1997 - March 20, 2013

George, named by the neighbors, was a stray abandoned by the people who lived behind the neighbors across the street from us.  The neighbors neutered George and feed him, but he was just one of several outside cats the neighbors fed.  I started hand feeding George Tender Vittles in the mornings before I went to work.  He soon discovered that he liked coming into the house in the evenings, even if he had to share it with Muffy, Queen of the House.  Muffy took all the best sleeping spots, but George decided that even the second best spots were better than living on the street.  After talking with the neighbors and taking George to the vet for his jabs, he became our cat although weighing between 12 and 15 pounds he freely claimed the neighborhood as his.  

George was a lovey cat, but fairly shy among people.  He tolerated us having groups over, but relished group dinners when he’d get his own chair at the table--he was content to sit at the table and watch us eat, knowing he’d eventually get some scraps when everyone was done.  Ice cream was of course his favorite and almost any meat would attract his interest.  

In the 12 plus years we had George he got used to having sitters when we were away, first to debate camps and then to UK adventures.  For a while we used live-in house/cat sitters, then we had neighbors who would watch over things while we were gone--letting George in and out on a regular basis.  He didn’t like our traveling and started sulking as soon as saw the suitcases come up from the basement.  He never knew whether the trip was to be for a weekend, a week, or six weeks--after all, as smart as he was he never learned to read the calendar or the itinerary we always left on the table.  He was almost always happy to see us return.  In fact, one time we had left our car at the airport for a friend who was coming back from a trip a couple of days after we left.  When Scott pulled into our carport with our car George came anxiously running until he saw it wasn’t us.  Scott said he looked so dejected when he left in his own car. George would punish us, though, for leaving him (even if he had been well cared for) by demanding to be let in and out at his whim for several days.  Out of guilt (and fear, for George had claws which he kept very sharp) we always gave in to his demands.  This was the pattern for years, until this last short trip to Eastern Oregon.  When we got home George greeted us, wanted pets and a little lap time, but was far more interested in curling up in the bed we had for him in front of the heat vent.  This now was the pattern for several days--George became harder and harder to wake up.  He’d get up to eat his breakfast and dinner and wait beside us for our scraps, but then it was back to sleep in front of the heater without much lap time.  I had a chat with George’s vet, made an appointment, and took him in for his final visit.  

We hope George, good friend that he was, is now enjoying his long, permanent nap.   

Next: Eastern Oregon Trip, Part 2