#202 Four Stories

Sqiddy, Our Resident Squirrel, taken yesterday

This post is a mixed bag of stories—one suggested by a good friend and former debater, Dave Carlson, two stories from early travels to Scotland and Ireland, and one unbelievable story that just occurred [actually, I do believe it because it happened to us]. The accompanying photos will be a mixed bag of whatever I can find that might be appropriate to share—sorry, I’ve not been getting out much recently (weather, a cold, and a bout of Covid).

The Fiats in My Life

We bought our first Fiat sports car in 1969, a new red Fiat 124 Sports Spyder, when we were newly married and teaching in SoCal. It was a fun and comfortable car to drive, classy and sporty. We loved that car and the love affair lasted until we moved back to Oregon in 1970. Oregon and the SoCal Fiat did not get along. We soon learned that FIAT really did stand for “Fix It Again Tomorrow.” Bye-bye Fiat 124.

Fast forward to about 1990. We were living in Canby where I was a speech teacher and high school speech coach. A sexy yellow 1981 Fiat X1.9 came on the market for a good price and my Fiat memories had mellowed—golfers always forget the bad shots and dwell on the good ones. Anne said I could get the car if I was sure it was okay. I had the car thoroughly checked by a local foreign car mechanic—at least I thought he was thorough—and he said it would be a short list of repairs to get it into top shape. So, we bought it. Then came the short list of repairs which got longer the more we broke it down. To make it road worthy I had spend half again what I bought the car for. Finally, with the repairs done, the car was ready to drive.

I loved driving the car to school, it was the coolest of teachers’ cars. Exciting to drive on the twisty back roads, the car commonly called the Poor Man’s Ferrari was loud, fast, low to the ground and soon proved that it really was a Fiat, “Fix It Again Tony.”

The first problem came when the gear shifter came away in my hand as I shifted into 2nd gear on the way home from school. Soon after the engine overheated when at high speed, then at slow speed, then upon start up. The brakes went bad. The wheels wouldn’t align. The targa roof panels wouldn’t fit right. My beautiful little car was spending more time in the repair shop (the same foreign car mechanic) than on the road. All the Triple AAA tow drivers knew both Anne and I by first name. Anne refused to drive the car because she didn’t know what was going fall off next.

The car sold quickly and for practically nothing. It had been an expensive second chance for Fiat. All this came flooding back to me when Dave sent me an email with an ad for a modified ’81 Fiat X1.9 for sale. It was a pretty car. He sarcastically asked if I was interested. I thanked him kindly and immediately started writing this post.

Ardvreck Castle, Northern Scottish Highlands

Petrol Strike in Scotland

On our first trip to Scotland in September of 2000, we had plans to see a lot of the small country driving our rental Vauxhall Wagon on the Other Side. After our third day in the country our plans were put in jeopardy by a nationwide petrol strike—petrol delivery drivers were refusing to deliver fuel because of high government taxes on petrol. We tax gas mostly for money for roads and transportation while in the UK petrol taxes are much higher and cover things such as education and health care as well as roads. At first there were reports of limited outages, but then we started hearing that 80-90 percent of stations had only reserves left for emergency vehicle. Poor us: foreigners not knowing the country, on our first trip, in a rental car, driving on the other side.

A Gathering of Lotus Super 7s in Crieff, central Scotland

We started making plans with the remains of our first tank of gas in mind. Local stations were closed. For a couple of days we would only drive a few miles to see sights or play golf, always keeping enough reserve to get back to Glasgow and the car rental company. One afternoon in a local pub we were accosted by a drunk trucker who blamed the Americans and Tony Blair for the troubles and what were we doing in his pub! [BTW, that was the only time in 34 trips to Scotland that we had trouble with anyone over anything—a real One Off.] We considered turning our car in at Glasgow and turning the trip into a train trip. In a couple of days the claims were getting wilder: all stations everywhere were closed, they were rioting in the streets of even small villages, even the potato crop was rotting in the fields because farmers had no fuel.

One of our many Scottish rental cars.

It was decision time because we were scheduled to move on. Our B&B host arranged to get us a small amount of petrol to make us more comfortable and said he didn’t believe what we were hearing. He said, “I’m sure you’ll be alright once you get the motorway (freeway).” He was correct. The stations on the motorway were operating fully and there was plenty of petrol. We’d had our welcome to the UK by British Press.

Typical local pub near Dingle, Ireland.

Finding Our Way in Ireland 

We found our way to Ireland on our first trip (May 2002) with no trouble—north from Portland, turn right at Vancouver, and head east for several hours. Finding our way to anything in Ireland was a different matter. First we discovered that highway signs didn’t contain important information, such as road numbers. In fact, when we were leaving our first B&B near Swords we asked our host how to get to highway R3200 and his reply was, “Our roads don’t have numbers. To get to where you want to end up just turn right at the third barn, go a mile and take the left fork with the big white house, and stay on that road for 2 miles.”

Merrick Round Tower, Ireland

We also found out that road signs would often name the furtherest large city or town on the route. So to use a map, the navigator had to find the destination and then look further to see what might be mentioned. For instance, you might want to go to Macroom from Cork to play golf, but there are no signs to Macroom. All the signs say Killarney, but don’t tell you Macroom is on the way to Killarney. It only takes a little work to figure it out, but it’s the Irish way. Another stumbling block is that some destinations have more than one name. We discovered this when looking for the route to Londonderry in Northern Ireland while we were in the Republic. We kept seeing signs for Derry, but no Londonderry. Duh! We were in Ireland where they wouldn’t say Londonderry. To the Irish it was Derry. When we crossed the border into Northern Ireland the speed limits changed from km/h to mph, road numbers changed from Ns and Rs to As and Bs, roads got wider, and signs said Londonderry.

Corcomroe Abbey near the Burren, Ireland

The last major problem with signs in Ireland is that often there aren’t any—or at least not enough. This is especially true when the destination is some tourist point. At one point we were looking for an abbey listed on our map. From the main highway we could actually see the ruin in distance and a sign told us where to turn off to head to the abbey. They forgot the four signs needed at four intersections to get to the abbey. We made our best guesses, looked for other clues on our map, backtracked several times, and finally found the abbey. There was a sign that said “Abbey” which was a ruin in a farmers cow field—even the road was so mucky I couldn’t get out of the car for a picture.

This Winkle seller was easy to find in the middle of Tuam, Ireland.

Don’t get me wrong, we loved our four, month-long Ireland trips. We love the country and the people. And though the craik and music is great in Ireland, the signage was not.  

Has this Happened to You

A little over a week ago Anne got a text on her phone that an Rx was ready at the local RiteAid pharmacy. The only thing unusual was that we quit going to RiteAid about two years ago and now use Fred Meyer pharmacy. Anne thought the prescription might be for an inhaler from her allergy doctor, a prescription that comes only every couple of years. Since I was going out I said I’d stop at RiteAid and check on the prescription. It was an inhaler so I pickled it up and brought it home.

Now it gets stranger. When I got the Rx home Anne said she’d never used that medicine before and couldn’t have because it contains sulphur which she is allergic to. Reading the label closely we discovered that although Anne’s name, address, and DOB were correct, the Rx was from a doctor she’d never heard of in Oakland, CA. How does a doctor she’s never seen or heard of prescribe her a medicine she didn’t order and can’t take?

We called RiteAid and they don’t know why or how it happened, but we can’t take it back and have already paid the $15 co-pay which we can’t get back. Our insurance company says medicine which can’t be returned will still be charged against our account. They did say they’d check into how it happened and get back to us in a day or two (that was 10 days ago). We’ve paid for medicine we didn’t order and can’t use or return. Thoughts anyone? 

 

Stories and More

Forest walk from Rumbling Bridge

New Word Learned in Scotland. Mahlneid (maul-need) means “meal envy”—seeing others’ meals go by in a restaurant and wishing you’d ordered that. We’re all guilty of mahlneid.

Journaling Our Travels

Fall Flowers

A Couple of Firsts. For these stories I have to go back a few years—51 or 52 is a few isn’t it? As a senior at Linfield College and president of our debating team, my partner (Michael Harrell, who had been my debate partner in high school) and I traveled extensively for speech and debate tournaments and had some unique experiences, a couple of which were “firsts.” For instance, Mike and I qualified for Sr. Division finals at the University of Montana tournament.  That in itself wasn’t a first, but then they told us that the final debate would be held in the university’s television studio and that it would be broadcast over the state’s public broadcasting service. The tournament director also said it was to be the first televised final tournament debate in history (or at least it was to their knowledge). I honestly don’t remember if we won the debate or not, but it doesn’t matter because we know we were the first.

One of my best Brookings HS debaters, Stacy Shiver.

Another first happened to us at the Brooklyn College Tournament. Every other year the Linfield debate squad took what we called “The Transcontinental”—a month long trip by train to several special tournaments in the eastern US and ending with the National Championship tournament (that year in Whitewater, WI). At the Brooklyn College Tournament Mike and I found ourselves again in a finals round, this time against Harvard. As we set up in the auditorium for the championship debate, our coach Dr. Roy D. “Hap” Mahaffey (a giant in the forensic world and a truly great coach and man) came over to our table to talk to us before the round. We guessed we were in for a good pep talk, but instead Hap looked at us seriously and said, “You must lose this debate!” As he saw our startled reactions he said more strongly, “Don’t ask, just make sure you lose this debate!” I don’t know if we could have beaten Harvard in that debate, but we did as Hap asked and made sure we dropped some important arguments so that we lost the debate. At the awards we were called up to receive our second place awards and then Harvard was called up. Hap said to us, “Here is why you had to lose.” Harvard was awarded first place and a six foot tall Winged Victory trophy and it was announced that Harvard would be back next year to defend their championship. If we had won we would have had to buy another seat on the train for the trophy and would have had to guarantee to return to the tournament the following year — neither of which our minuscule Linfield forensic budget could ever stretch to cover.  

Participating in the first televised championship debate was indeed a privilege, but throwing our first championship debate seems like a better story fifty years later.

Anne at our tablet Samhain Festival in Salem.

First he danced to the bagpipe, then he showed us how to put on a Great Kilt...

You lay it out on the floor, pleat it, lay on it, and roll to get it around you, then tie it off with a belt. I'll stick to my small kilts.

A See’s Success Story.  A few years ago we took our Scottish friend, John Clifford, a birthday present of a one pound box of See’s Famous Old Time Candies. We heard later that he’d had one piece of the See’s and not more because his wife Jacky thought it was the best chocolate in the world and ate the rest of the box. Now we are sort of expected to bring See’s with us when we come to Scotland as birthday gifts or as a thank you for Jacky—a task we are always happy to perform.

This last trip we brought a box to Jacky as per usual and one as a thank you gift for our whisky guru, Andrew Cuthbert, for storing our golf clubs over the summer. When we presented the gift to Andrew and his wife Evie I said, “Do you like chocolate?” “Oh, yes!” was the reply. Then I asked, “Do you like fine Belgian chocolate?” They sell it in their store, J L Gill, so of course they said, “Very much!” Then I said, “Well, I have something that we think is better than Belgian chocolate,” and gave them the box of See’s. They thanked us appropriately, if not enthusiastically.

Rainbow over the Village

     A couple of days later I asked Andrew if he had tried the See’s. He said, “It’s gone!” and he told me this story. He told me the two of them weren’t very excited about the gift because neither thought very highly of American chocolate, preferring Belgian or even Scottish chocolates to American. Then they tried the See’s and were amazed. They ate the whole box in a couple of days fighting over every piece.

From now on our suitcases will have several boxes of See’s on the way over, to be replaced with bottles of whisky for the trip back. 

Proof that I was in Scotland.

The Rousay Ferry.  From Mainland Orkney, the largest of the Orkney islands off the north coast of Scotland, we had to take a small ferry (it held only about six vehicles) to get to Rousay Island, a treasure trove of ancient Neolithic sites such as burial cairns and brochs.

Historic Scotland, a national trust, preserves this 4000 year old burial tomb on Rousay.

We visited two brochs in the Orkneys; this one is the Broch of Durness on the main island. A broch is a circular defensive structure from about 100AD.

I pulled our rental car into the back of the queue for the ferry and went into the office to buy a return (roundtrip) ferry ticket. We sat in the car for a few minutes until the ferry arrived from Rousay. The queue seemed to be facing the wrong way to get onto the ferry, but it only took a minute to understand that we would back onto the ferry via a narrow slip and that I would go first. A ferryman came over to our car and told Anne she had to walk on and for me to go ahead—well, really, to back up. I asked him if he really wanted an American to go first. He laughed and said I’d be alright. I started backing up the very narrow ferry ramp and wildly waved at Anne to get some photos. She thought I was having trouble and quickly told a ferryman she thought I needed help. He assured her I was doing fine.

Backing our rental car onto the Rousay ferry.

 I parked right where I was directed the first time. Loading onto the ferry on our return trip was just as interesting—we had to fit three cars and huge tractor with mower—and yes, we all had to back on.

Our Canby home in full fall colors.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Stories Old and New

The photos for this post are all from a set of experiments with a special program.  Let me know what you like or don't like.

Himalayan Blue Poppies, Perth, Scotland

View: Valley of Fire, Nevada

Hieland Coos, also called Hairy Cows

Old Mission Santa Barbara

Our GPS Says to Us: Damn It, Do It My Way (A New Story)

       On our recent trip from Las Vegas to Death Valley, Lizzie Our GPS had a wee tantrum when she couldn’t get her way. After a nice breakfast at Mom’s Diner in Pahrump, Nevada, we wanted to go to Death Valley. There are two routes into the valley from the east (the Nevada side): the south entrance heading into Furnace Creek and the north entrance into Stovepipe Wells from Beatty, Nevada. We wanted to go into Death Valley from the south—that created the problem.
       As we left Mom’s we were heading north on Hwy 160 toward Beatty and wanted to turn off on Bella Vista Road to Hwy 190 towards Furnace Creek. As we approached the turn-off a couple miles out of Pahrump, we knew Lizzie was planning a route through Beatty. Sure enough, as soon as we made a left (west) off Hwy 160, Lizzie said, “In point two miles, turn right on 33rd Avenue, and then turn right.” She was trying to get us to go back to Hwy 160. But we weren’t listening. A few blocks further she said, “In point two miles, turn right on Melrose Place, and then turn right.” Again we weren’t listening. In a couple more blocks she said (only this time I could swear there was a grunt prefacing her comment), “In point two miles, turn right on 42nd Avenue, and then turn right.” We just laughed at her audacity. In another couple of blocks, with some viciousness, we were sure she said, “In point two miles, damn it, turn right on McGuire Street, and then turn right.” We sort of apprehensively chuckled, but kept going straight. There was a slight pause, then Lizzie took a new tact and sweetly said, “In point two miles, turn left on Bradford Way, and then turn left (please).” We knew we had gained the upper hand.
      Lizzie, our faithful GPS, got the last word though. About a half mile past her last direction, with an exasperated sigh she said, “Continue straight on for 35 miles.” We could hear in her undertones, “You will do it my way.”

Iris, Branklyn Gardens, Perth, Scotland

New York New York in Las Vegas

Canadian Geese in Flight

    The next two stories are samples from our latest book, THE RAMBLING ADVENTURES OF A TRAVELER AND GOLFER, which is only weeks away from publication. It will be available on amazon.com and amazon.co.uk and a Kindle version will follow shortly.

The Good and the Bad of a Travel Dinner

      On a Saturday night in September we ate at the Brasserie at the Townhouse Hotel in Melrose in the Scottish Borders. Supposedly the restaurant is rated the #1 restaurant in the area by Trip Advisor. The food was excellent--we shared a fish cake as a starter and I had pan fried duck breast as a main. The service, though, didn’t match the food.
      Our waitress was not local (Polish or Romanian most probably) and was new to the job so we could forgive some things. We had a difficult time making ourselves understood and she didn’t do things she was supposed to--give us bread, check that our meal was right, see if we needed anything. She basically took our order, disappeared, brought our food, disappeared. At the end I had to get the manager to get our bill. When she brought the bill I asked about the lack of service. The manager said all those things should have been automatic, but she blew it too. She didn’t apologize for the poor service and made no effort to correct or make up for the problems--a free coffee or dessert or adjustment of the bill would have been nice, but we didn’t even get a “sorry about that.” She did say she would speak to the girl, but that’s no consolation for us.

      Oh, well, so far about 57,000 people have read my Trip Advisor review of the good (the food) and the bad (the service) of our Townhouse Hotel dinner.

Campbeltown, Scotland

Daisies

Festival Dance, Loch Fyne, Scotland

And Where Is Canmore GC?

      We arrived at Canmore Golf Course just outside Dunfermline at the edge of Fife in Scotland. They weren’t ready for us. The manager whom we had made arrangements with wasn’t there. The pro shop was closed. Luckily the girl in the clubhouse lounge was flexible. With our email confirmation for comped golf she got us on behind a group of locals. We could find only one functioning trolley, so Anne took that one and I carried my clubs (after lightening my bag by five clubs). Only once or twice I didn’t have the club I wanted, but I managed to adapt fairly well. I loved the weather--cool and slightly foggy--but Anne thought it was miserable. Of course, I won our match.
      That’s not the real story; it’s just the set up for the rest. Earlier in the year we planned a road trip (Love road trips!) to Alberta Canada to see Lake Louise and the surrounding area. We booked in at our Worldmark timeshare in Canmore, Canada next to Banff National Park. Before our Canada trip I worked on planning the fall Scotland trip which included trying to book into the Canmore GC near Dunfermline. I sent my usual email and a few days later got a surprising response: “Your books sound interesting, but I think you’ve sent your request to the wrong Canmore GC. Our club is located in Canmore, Alberta, Canada. If you are ever in the area I’d love to comp you golf for your book. Regards, Secretary Canmore GC, Alberta, Canada”
      I checked back at my email and could see that I’d pulled the Canada course instead of the Scotland track. I wrote back an apology and said, “By the way, we’ll be in your Canmore in about two weeks and would love to bring you a book for a round.”
      So now I know where Canmore GC is. At least two of them. We’ve played them both and I can highly recommend them both as well. 

Abandoned in Beattie, Nevada

Wet Lily

Truro Cathedral, Truro, Cornwall, England

Wary Cat

Two Stories and a Photo Lesson

This post contains a couple of travel stories that will be in our next book which now at least has a title, The Rambling Adventures of a Traveler and Golfer (not set in stone yet, so comments are welcome)--the book is into the editing stages now.

Loch Awe and Scottish Mountains.  This will be the cover of the new book.

Also in this post is my take on what makes a good travel photograph--this comes from a presentation I did for a local arts group.

Night Noises and a Strange Animal Pen

We found a lovely B&B in the Dumfries area of southern Scotland in the isolated village of Twynholm.  We had a quite nice large bedroom at Linnhope B&B, but a couple of things made the stay special.  First, on the menu for breakfast was “trout and scrambled eggs--when available.”  There was a handwritten note on the menu: “Available now.”  I ordered the trout because Sue, the B&B owner, is a fly fishing instructor and I figured she’d know how to do trout well.  I was right.  Breakfast was delicious home-smoked fresh trout and eggs.  Fantastic!

The second reason Linnhope was special is stranger.  In the night we heard scrabbling noises above our bedroom, but the house is only one story.  We figured the noises were from some vermin in the rafters above the room; a squirrel or mouse.  The noises never disturbed our sleep. In the morning we looked out to the manicured backyard and saw a strange animal pen (our guess) in the yard.  It was about an eight foot square fenced in by 2x12 planks.  In one corner there was what looked liked a small dog’s house.  We couldn’t figure out what the pen was for--it wouldn’t have kept in cats, small dogs, or rabbits.  At breakfast we asked about the pen.  Sue said, “It’s for the tortoises.”  She explained that they have two pet tortoises who spend the day out in the pen and the nights in the house in the rafters above our room.  Ah, the noises in the night explained!  She went on to explain that the tortoises made great pet because in the winter when they close up the B&B and travel the tortoises hibernate in boxes of excelsior in the attic.  Then she said that right now they were overfeeding them to get ready for hibernation and then they would “purge the little guys” before putting them to bed.  She left the “purging” details to our imagination.  

Bus Tour vs Self Tour

Great bus tours are plentiful and can be a very effective mode of transport to see Ireland.  But we choose to drive ourselves.  It gives us more freedom and allows us to be flexible as we tour.  Perhaps the best explanation of the advantages to self-touring can be summed up in one experience we had on our first tour of Ireland.

Irish Round Tower and Celtic Cross.

Corcomroe Abbey is an early 13th-century Cistercian monastery located in the north of County Clare at the edge of the Burren.  Known as St Mary’s of the Fertile Rock, the abbey is famous for its detailed carvings and rich ornamentation.  Set against the limestone rich hills of the Burren near the sea, the abbey is a prime tourist location.  We drove into the parking lot just as a tourist bus was dropping off a large group of visitors and just as the heavy clouds dumped a downpour onto the tourists.  

Anne and I sat in the car waiting out both the deluge and the drowning tourists.  Soon the bus horn sounded and the wet tourists trundled back to their rolling cavern, which now I’m sure was steamy and smelled something like a wet puppy.  The bus pulled out of the parking lot at the same time as the sun broke free of the dark clouds.  It’s then that Anne and I starting exploring the lovely abbey now made more photogenic by the rising steam off the stones.  Is there any wonder we choose to self-tour rather than bus-tour.

Travel Photo 101

Cairn Holy Chambered Cairn, Scotland

Loch an Eilean Castle, Highlands

The preceding  pictures of Loch an Eileen Castle in the Scottish Highlands and the stones of Cairn Holy Chambered Tomb in the County of Dumfries and Galloway in southern Scotland are good examples of artistic photographs taken while traveling.  I would not call them great “travel photos.”

What makes a “travel photo” particularly good?  How is a travel photo different from an art photo.  While many good travel photos can also be good art photos, there are key differences.  An art photo, whether landscape, seascape, cityscape, portrait, or still life, emphasizes composition rules (or breaking those rules) and/or details like color, pattern, contrast, etc.  The key element to a good travel photo is the telling of a story.  In the following examples look for the story inherent in the picture or the story that the picture evokes.  A few of these travel photos are also good art photos, but primarily they each tell a story.

Tearoom Conversation, Kirriemuir Art Gallery Cafe, Scotland.

Fishmonger at a street market in Crieff, Scotland.

Fire Bomber, Mt Ashland Fire

Early Selfie--Snow Beard

Street Drummer in Portland.

Street Dancer, Dumfries, Scotland

This last example is my pick as the picture that is most successful as a travel story and an art photo.

Sunset on Princess  Street, Edinburgh.

Which are your favorites?  Let me know.