Adventure to the Isle of Mull

Day 1 - Traveling to Oban and Mull 

Being our last weekend before classes started, Maddie and I decided to take advantage of the (somewhat) warm weather and plan a trip to the Isle of Mull, a little island off the western coast of Scotland.  We left at around 8:15 a.m. on Friday and the morning was a very groggy one of rolling out of bed, packing food for the weekend, and wandering around a foggy Glasgow looking for our bus stop.  As can be expected of the Scottish wilderness, the scenery on the way over was stunning – rolling hills, leaves turning colors, ribbons of creeks and waterfalls, and mist mist mist.

After a three-hour ride, we arrived in Oban just before lunchtime.  Oban is a very small and cute seaside town that’s natural smell is one of salt and fish and chips.  I always feel very smitten with the ocean and therefore wanted to stay longer in Oban, but alas we had to board the ferry that was taking us to Mull.  The ferry was very large and spacious and had plenty of room to snuggle up in inside, but I wanted to sit on the deck so that I could watch the waves and Oban disappear behind us.  It was frigid standing up top, but I’m so happy I did, because during the 45-minute boat ride I saw a seal dipping about in the waves, a couple of dolphins, several neighboring isles and hills, and Duart Castle materialize on the shoreline as we made our way into Mull’s ferry terminal.

Duart Castle as seen from the ferry to Isle of Mull

Once we had gotten off the ferry, Maddie and I loaded ourselves with our bags and began our half-mile trek to the seaside hostel we’d be staying at in Craignure. We felt so thrifty and empowered marching straight on past the buses and strings of tourists forking their money over to get to their more comfortable, albeit more expensive, lodgings.  As we were walking, we spotted blackberries on the beach, so we stopped and filled one of our empty lunch Tupperwares to the brim with the sticky little fruits, laughing the entire time at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.  Two friends spending a blustery Scottish afternoon picking wild blackberries on the shoreline of the Isle of Mull – we don’t live such bad lives…

We then checked into our little hostel.  The first thing I thought of when I saw it was a commune where hippies live.  It consisted of a smattering of little white tents speckling the hillside.  Inside each tent were a little brick hearth, two cots, questionably stained bedding, and a threadbare rug (okay so it wasn't *that* bad but the online description’s use of the word “carpeted” was a little generous).  Further up on the hillside were more tents that housed some sinks and showers for dishes and bathing.  As janky as it all was, I did find it pretty cute.

Maddie's and my tent

my cozy little cot 

After we got settled in, we made plans to spend the afternoon visiting Tobermory, the town that houses 2/3 of the isle’s population in brightly colored seafront houses.  We waited patiently at the bus station only for our bus to never come.  Confused and quite chilly, we found a tourist information center to inquire about the bus schedule.  As it turns out, the bus schedule we had based our weekend plans on was the summer schedule and they were now operating on their autumn times.  No more busses were coming that afternoon.  Oops.

So there we were, stranded in Craignure, home to hippie commune tent village, some blackberries, ominous rainclouds, and not a whole lot else – not the best place to be spontaneous.  We stood in the rain deliberating what to do and after going through a rather diminutive and bleak list of options – walking (in the rain), renting bikes and exploring (in the rain), sitting on a park bench and reading (in the rain) – we turned around and boarded the next ferry back to Oban.  It seemed like a ridiculous course of action since we had just been there, but I can’t help but love those decisions that seem so illogical but are still exactly what you want to do.

So once we were back in Oban, we wandered around waiting for a socially acceptable time to eat dinner and comparing prices at different restaurants, trying to find a place that sold more than just fish and chips.  It turns out that the seafood capital of Scotland is not the best place to be a vegetarian.  We eventually found me some pasta and sat down to dine.  After supper, we got ice cream and with the company of many seagulls, a couple of ducks, and even a swan, watched the sun set on the pier.  We then sat at the ferry terminal for 20 minutes only to have the exact same bus fiasco happen – we were attempting to operate off the summer schedule but soon realized our next ferry wouldn’t come until 11 in the evening.  At least Oban is pretty at night…

Oban's boats and buildings at nighttime 

We resigned ourselves to wander around Oban some more, but everything was closed except for fish and chips joints and pubs.  So we chose a small cellar pub to visit, purchased a half pint of the cheapest beer we could find, and sat down to watch the football/soccer game and see just how long we could nurse our drinks before being asked to buy another.  Our first half hour there was very uneventful and slightly awkward.  If somebody were to take a snapshot of the scene we had immersed ourselves in, presented it to a random person, and asked, “What doesn’t belong here?” let’s just say he or she would not have chosen the grizzled war vet, thickly-accented bartender, or either of the two ruffians playing pool in the corner and choosing aggressive Scottish drinking tunes on the jukebox.  At least we were getting to know the locals right?

notice outside of the cellar bar

The atmosphere quickly changed, however, when a gang of Scottish teenagers rolled in with their last names embroidered on their upturned collars and the most ludicrous haircuts I have ever seen.  They began speaking very loudly in unintelligible slang and harassing the bartender for drinks even though half of them were clearly underage.  Maddie and I melted into the background, no longer concerned about attracting attention, and prepared ourselves to behold what was quickly becoming a bizarre hybrid episode of Skins and The Jersey Shore.  We spent the rest of the evening there with smiles on our lips and flat beer in our glasses. 

We finally made our way back to Mull on our ferry and walked back to our tent in the pouring rain.  Since we were planning to wake up quite early the next morning to go visit the Isle of Iona, we decided to take showers that night, which turned out to be one of the coldest and most miserable experiences of my life.  There was no hot water and the faucets were automatic – I felt like such a masochist punching the knob every 20 seconds to voluntarily douse myself in ice water.  Brrrr! We then did our best to bundle up and fall asleep to the sound of rain hammering on our canvas roof.

Day 2 - Isle of Iona

During my freshman year at Dartmouth, at each floor meeting, my undergraduate advisor would have each of us share what we considered the high and low of our week.  Now if somebody were to have me do the same with this trip, my low would definitely would have been Saturday morning.

Damp. So incredibly damp. My hair was damp, my covers were damp…even the pound notes in my wallet were wilted from the moisture.  Getting dressed was like slipping back into a bathing suit you had peeled off earlier and our fresh baguette had been transformed into an oblong sponge.  This was not the worst fate our food suffered however.  What hadn’t become a wet and pulpy mess had been infiltrated by various critters during the night.  Earwigs in our granola.  Slugs in our blackberries.  It was a grim morning.

Yet, unwilling to be deterred by the bugs and drizzle, Maddie and I wriggled into our soggy jeans, nibbled at what was salvageable of the food, pulled ourselves up by the straps of our Wellies, and marched through the puddles out onto the main road to catch the bus that would take us to Fiohnphort…only to watch it, ten minutes early, zoom right past us and around the bend at the end of the road.

However, this is the point where our melancholy tale turns around. The bus driver must have caught our expressions of sheer American desperation as he whizzed by because a few moments later we watched the cumbersome vehicle lumber back around the corner in reverse and stop directly in front of us. Hooray for Scottish kindliness!  And so began what turned out to be a magnificent day at the Isle of Iona.

laundry drying outside on the Isle of Iona

It’s a little embarrassing to admit this, but Maddie and I didn’t have the slightest awareness of the historical and religious significance of Iona when we first decided to take our daytrip.  Yet once we exited our ferry and began wandering around the island in the early hours of the morning, watching the sunlight creep across the Sound of Iona and shed light on the wee island, we began to get the feeling that there was certainly a reason why being on Iona made us feel so peaceful.

To be brief, as many of you much better educated people may already know this, the Isle of Iona is basically the place where Christianity in Great Britain and Ireland originated.  Somewhere around the end of the 6^th century. Yeah. Pretty darn impressive.  The rich religious history of the place is a tangible one, as you can actually walk around the ruins of a 13^th-century Augustine nunnery, a 13^th-century Benedictine abbey, and an ancient cemetery that contains the graves of numerous Scottish kings, including Malcolm and Macbeth (I was especially excited about this).  It’s absolutely unreal.

 the most complete remnant of a medieval nunnery in Scotland

About 150 people live on the island, most of them members of an ecumenical Christian group called the Iona Community.  At first I found this a little creepy, but the sense of community and companionship they’ve built there is truly amazing.  And I suppose it’s difficult not to feel spiritual when you live in a place that looks like this:

shoreline of Iona

We ended up spending nearly the entire day on Iona just meandering – it’s a place that lends itself nicely to walking slowly and taking several breaks to stop and sigh.  We even got to know some of the locals, mainly really relaxed looking sheep and a persistent little cat that was intent on us sharing our couscous with him.  I named him Penry.

kitty nom nom nom

Before we had to board our ferry back to Mull, we just sat on the beach and soaked it all in.  If there is anything to make you feel very small and so at peace, it is quietly sitting in the sunshine on a white sandy beach of an island off of another island off the coast of Scotland (which I suppose is itself part of another island).  Leaving was unfortunate, but once we got back to our tent village we discovered that when not drenched in rain, Craignure is not only tolerable, but positively charming. One benefit of Scotland's bipolar weather patterns is that they make for excellent rainbows and we saw the most fabulous one stretched across the sky right as the ferry from Oban was coming in.

this picturesque moment has been brought to by
water, sunshine, and the ridiculousness of Scotland

We had planned to spend the rest of the night in our tent reading, but the evening was too beautiful not to be outside, so we walked to a convenience store, bought ice cream bars, and sat on the rocky shore, watching the ferry travel back across the water and skipping stones into the sunset.  All and all, not a bad day. 

goodnight Craignure

Day 3 – Attempts to Hike and Torosay Castle

Maddie’s and my plan for our third and final day on the Isle of Mull included a grand scheme to do what we had originally gone away for the weekend to do: hike! After talking to some locals, we decided on a hike that was apparently not only a short walk from our hostel, but also “quite trekky.” So we laced up our sneakers, set off for the trailhead, and began hiking! The first hour was very promising.  Most of the trail was straight uphill and filled with many lovely waterfalls.  We seemed to be following a stream up into the mountains. Perfect!

Scotland is pretty

However, after only about ten minutes after our encounter with the stream, the trail began to curve away from the mountains and back downhill.  Very confused, we backtracked to the last sign we had passed to make sure we were going the right direction. We were.  So we decided to just keep following the path down and hope that it turned back toward our pretty mountain again. It never did.  We ended up right back where we had started, staring stupidly at a sign that expressed its hopes that we had enjoyed Craignure’s 5-kilometer hiking loop and would visit again soon. That was it.  Maddie, leading force in Dartmouth’s Cabin and Trail, and I, Miss Colorado State Pride were pretty disappointed.  Apparently attending a college where walking on the Appalachian Trail for 50 miles straight without stopping for sleep is not only considered normal, but enjoyable, turns you into a pair of hiking snobs.

We considered bushwhacking on up the mountain anyway, but decided that might be bad form, so we trudged back to the tourist information center to consider our options.  After surreptitiously rifling through some guidebooks and consulting some maps we didn’t want to have to pay for, we decided to walk about a mile and half up the road to visit Torosay Castle and Gardens, which turned out to be an excellent decision.

view of Torosay Castle from one of the many backyards -
it seriously looks like a set for a Shakespearean play

Torosay Castle was built in 1858 and people still live it in, so obviously we couldn’t tour inside, however much we wanted to.  We could, however, take plenty of pictures of the imposing mansion from the outside as well as explore the garden and grounds, which were delightful and extensive. 

view of the tiered backyard

I had just finished reading Rebecca so I felt as if I had been directly transplanted into the setting of Daphne du Maurier’s novel.  The castle and grounds had everything it needed to be Manderley – the wild woods, the blue azaleas, the sounds of the sea, and the haunting feeling of secrets.  Coincidentally, when I was looking up the history of Torosay online later that evening I discovered that du Maurier’s older sister, Angela, had actually visited Torosay in the 1930s when her companion Olive Guthrie became a widow. Go figure!

Since we had nothing better to do after we had seen everything there was to see of Torosay, Maddie and I took our shoes off, stretched out in the grass, and took an afternoon nap.  It was a very relaxing afternoon.  And for those of you who know Nigel, he also thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

Nigel and Maddie soak up the sun

And as must always happen with great adventures, we eventually had to pack up and head back across the water to Oban and back through the winding roads to Glasgow.  But hopefully we shall meet again someday Isle of Mull!

another sunset photo - taken on the bus ride home

For more pictures of the Isle of Mull, here ya go! A lot of them look the same, but it's hard not to take a lot of photos when you're in a beautiful place!

Isle of Mull Adventure

Weekend at the Burn

I’m a little behind on updating (already), so this post is not about this past weekend, but the one before that, and oh what a wonderful weekend it was!  I, with my eight FSP mates, our trip advisor, and two University of Glasgow professors, trekked off to northeastern Scotland to spend the weekend reading and learning about Scottish history and literature in an 18^th-century mansion house.  I think the lovely Miss Emmy’s reaction to this tidbit of news was quite appropriate – “What are you, some member of the landed gentry?”

A man in full traditional Scottish dress greeted us at the door – finally, I have seen somebody wearing a kilt! – and ushered us into the family room to tell us a bit about the history of the house and 190 acre estate.  Built in 1791, the house has possessed a variety of owners and has even been visited by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in the 19^th century.  During the early 20^th century, the Burn House belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Russell and their children James and Marjorie.  However, in 1944, James Russell, aged 21, was killed in action during WWII.  Thus, in 1948, the family decided to donate the house in James’ memory to be used as a holiday and study center for students, graduates, and academic staff around the world.  Pretty generous, eh?  Now the house has been completely modernized and includes a drawing room, dining room, TV room, indoor games room, and 18 bedrooms.  

the Burn House

After learning about the very touching history of the house, we sat down to eat a hearty Scottish dinner, during which David (the man in the kilt) introduced us to the most popular, and most sickening, soda in Scotland: Irn Bru (think liquidized cotton candy).  And I thought haggis was going to be the most disgusting thing Scotland had to offer… Once we were finished with our meal, David directed us to the drink cart (fortunately Irn Bru free) where we all fixed ourselves a steamy cup of tea before settling down in a variety of squashy armchairs to receive our first lecture on Scottish writer Lewis Crassic Gibbon. I have come to notice that Scotland has a tendency to make me feel very absurd – here I was, holding a fancy little cup and saucer of tea, nibbling on delicious buttery biscuits, and listening to a very intelligent Scottish man teach me about tartantry and tradition. Like I said, absurd.

The next day, we received a couple of more lectures before setting off on our first field trip to Dunnottar Castle!  I’ve been longing to see a castle since I first read Harry Potter, but I don’t think I was really prepared for just how striking the experience would be.  The day was a pretty nondescript one, windy and drizzly, until we stepped around a corner of a little stony path and there it was – Dunnottar Castle, a ruined medieval fortress sitting atop a rocky headland, surrounded by steep cliffs plunging about 50 meters into the North Sea.  It almost hurt to look at it.

Dunnottar Castle

Like any over excitable girl from a landlocked state, I first scampered down to the water to stand in the waves and fill my pockets with seashells and pretty rocks.  I regret this decision now, because it turns out that these sorts of treasures aren’t nearly as lovely when you take them away from their home.

my collection of seashells

After exploring the shoreline, I picked my way up to the narrow strip of land to visit the actual buildings, largely built in the 15^th and 16^th centuries (although the site is believed to have been an early fortress of the Dark Ages).  Before coming to Scotland, I always thought of castles to be a sort of thing you appreciated from afar; I never imagined actually getting the chance to wander through the individual rooms. There was so much to take in – crumbling spiral staircases, mossy passageways, and far too many exhilarating views of craggy cliffs and the pebbly grey shoreline below.  Leaving was a melancholy affair, but when we got back to the house, David had set out tea and chocolate muffins for us next to a crackling fire in the family room.  I wish he could have come back to Glasgow with us…

The next day, I woke up early to go on a run and explore the grounds.  I didn’t actually get that much of a workout in, however, because I kept getting distracted by the river, cows, grassy knolls, heather, thistle, and turning fall colors.  At one point I even ended up stumbling upon an old ruin of some sort, just lurking in the forest, growing saplings from its floor. Another interesting discovery was a long stone tunnel that traveled from one side of the house to the other.  David told us that this was the "Cattle Tunnel."  Apparently, the former lady of the house did not like seeing the cows pass from pasture to pasture right through her yard everyday, therefore, the tunnel was built so that their daily movement would go undetected. Oooh rich people.

the "Cattle Tunnel"

After the run and breakfast, we all tried our best to beg David to let us stay at the Burn House for the rest of the term, but alas, it was time to leave.  We said our tearful goodbyes to David and the house and set off on our final excursion to Edzell Castle.  Edzell is also a ruined 16^th century castle, but is significantly less rugged than Dunnottar – more of a country home than a defensive fortress.  It is still very beautiful though with reddish stone buildings surrounding the courtyard and many sheep grazing around its perimeters.  The castle also includes a walled garden, laid out by Sir David Lindsay in 1604.  Intricate relief carvings line the walls that surround the immaculate hedges and roses and apparently this type of garden is unique to Scotland.  I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of work that goes into maintaining it.     

view of the Edzell garden - taken from inside the castle

After Edzell, it was unfortunately time to journey back through the hills to Glasgow.  Yet even though we don't have any Davids in kilts to serve us tea and chocolate muffins here, at least we are surrounded by good company.

For more pictures of the Burn House, Dunnottar, and Edzell, click here!

The Burn House, Dunnottar, & Edzell

Wallace Monument and Queen Elizabeth Forest Park

A month or two ago when I was registering with the University of Glasgow, I also had to choose some well-known Scottish landmarks that I would like to visit during International Student Orientation.  I selected the Wallace Monument and Queen Elizabeth Forest Park.  So last Wednesday I piled into a big tour bus with my roommate Maddie and a bunch of other international students to embark on our first adventure into the Scottish countryside!

Our first stop was the Wallace Monument.  The monument is a 220-foot high stone tower situated on Abbey Craig about two miles north of the town of Stirling.  It was completed in 1869 after eight years’ construction and was built to commemorate Sir William Wallace and the Scottish victory at The Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297. It was from on top of Abbey Craig that Wallace watched the English army approach before leading the Scots into battle...  

the Wallace Monument on top of Abbey Craig

We learned all this from a very patriotic Scot dressed as William Wallace himself who gave us a very entertaining and theatric performance of the tale.  It wasn’t quite as dramatic as Braveheart, but his accent was certainly much better than Mel Gibson’s. We were even allowed to pose with him afterwards!

please excuse the awkwardness of this photo - "William Wallace" held his
dagger to my throat right before the photo was taken and I was most bewildered

After our brief history lesson, we were allowed to enter and climb the 226 spiral steps to the top of the monument.  There were three levels before the top, each containing a room that was dedicated to something pertaining to Wallace or the battle.  One room housed a 3D model of Wallace that spoke (a little hokey I know) and included information on his death, which was rather gruesome.  Apparently he was hanged, drawn and quarter, decapitated, and then divided into pieces - his head and body parts sent around England to be put on display to remind what would happen to traitors to the crown.  I know it sounds horrific (and it is), but apparently this was considered standard punishment for those who committed treason. Yikes.

a statue of Sir William Wallace outside the monument

Once we got to the top of the monument, the day cleared up significantly and we had beautiful and expansive views of the town of Stirling and Stirling Castle, the Ochil Hills, Forth Valley, the Trossachs, and Loch Lamond.  It was absolutely stunning and much more of what I expected Scotland to be like.  So green and so many sheep!  We were eventually driven down by the whipping wind though and boarded our bus again to head off to Queen Elizabeth Park.

the view of Forth Valley from on top of the monument

Along the way we stopped right outside of the town Callander to visit one of Scotland’s most famous celebrities – Hamish the Highland bull! I still don't quite understand the hype behind Hamish, as Highland cattle seem to be everywhere in the countryside, but that didn't stop me from petting him (he was exceptionally friendly), taking a billion photos, and then buying a Hamish poster for Maddie's and my room.

Hamish enjoying some attention

Then it was off again to Queen Elizabeth Forest Park!  The park is named after Queen Elizabeth the second and lies between Loch Lamond and Strathyre.  The park is filled with forests, mountains, lochs, small settlements and villages, glens, and abandoned railway lines; all of the trails make for great walking and even mountain biking.  Unfortunately, we didn't have much time at the the park and only got to explore a limited area.  Maddie and I started at the very touristy David Marshall Lodge, where we ate some very Scottish and very yummy potato and leek soup, and then took a long walk around the surrounding area.  Even if we didn't get to visit all the beautiful sites the park had to offer, we did find some wild blackberries, a lovely waterfall, several arresting hilltop views, and a playground that was like a miniature Hogwarts (sorry for all the HP references - they're so easy to make here!).

Queen Elizabeth Forest Park

The day was a long one and we felt like quintessential tourists, but I enjoyed every moment.  It felt so refreshing to journey out of the city and into the countryside.  Even though I'm very appreciative of the urban experience I'll be gaining in Glasgow, my trek around these iconic Scottish sites only reaffirmed that I am a small town country girl through and through! 

Maddie's boots hanging out with some blackberries

And for your viewing pleasure, here are some more photos of the monument and park:

Wallace Monument and Queen Elizabeth Forest Park

Glasgow

I arrived in Glasgow around 7 am last Sunday and the view out the plane window was absolutely breathtaking.  It looked exactly like what you think Scotland should be - rolling green hills, fog, flocks of sheep, rocky outcrops, etc. etc.  I was half expecting a castle, a man with bagpipes and a kilt, or the Hogwarts Express to appear out of the mist at any moment.  Naturally, I was thrilled.

Unfortunately, Glasgow is not like this at all.  With a population of over one million, Glasgow is Scotland's largest city, makes up about 41% of the country's population, and is apparently the "Stabbing Capital" of Europe. Charming. So even though "Glasgow" comes from the Gaelic word "glaschu" which means "dear, green place," the city itself is pretty bleak. I'm sure it will become more enchanting as the term progresses, but my first impressions all included words such as "dingy," "sketchy" and if I’m feeling particularly Scottish, “dodgy.” However, I believe I am being entirely too harsh.  Situated on the River Clyde, Glasgow used to be one of the world’s most distinguished centres for heavy engineering and shipbuilding during the Industrial Revolution, therefore, it has been undergoing a bit of urban renewal ever since.  So to give the place a little more credit, it is certainly rich in history and does have a smattering of promising nooks and crannies.  My FSP mates and I have already discovered some beautiful parks, the botanical gardens, several used books stores, as well as an old church that has been converted to a bar and boasts 250 different types of whiskey.  

view of Glasgow from above

And obviously, one of Glasgow’s most redeeming factors is the university.  Established in 1451, the University of Glasgow is the fourth oldest university in the United Kingdom, after Oxford, Cambridge, and St. Andrews.  And I thought Dartmouth was old! It has had three different locations throughout the city and only two buildings of the original structure remain.  Most of the other buildings were built around 1870 in the Gothic revival style; so really, most of the campus looks much older than it actually is.  It is still very impressive though and I am eager to begin taking classes.

University of Glasgow from the back

the very Hogwarts-esque cloisters

Another endearing facet of Glaswegian culture is the Glaswegians themselves!  The Scottish pride themselves on being a very patriotic and friendly people and I can certainly see why.  Most every Scot I’ve interacted with has had some pretty fierce “smeddum” (spunk) and they all are exceptionally willing to give me directions, advice, information, or simply sociable conversation.  One of the most interesting pieces of advice I have gleaned from a local thus far is that I should not wear any of my Dartmouth clothing, as green and white are the colors of the football (that is, soccer) team, the Celtics, and if I sport these colors in the right (or rather wrong) part of town, avid fans of the rival team, the Rangers, will most likely beat me up.  So, if I am to become a football fan while here, my best bet seems to be to support Aberdeen, as they, much like the Quidditch team the Chudley Canons in Harry Potter, are simply no good.     

Also, accents galore! The younger people are pretty easy to understand, but when it comes to the older generation of Scots, all you can do is smile and nod when they talk to you.  Listening to them is like listening to a song - you can tell they're speaking English, but you only catch about every third word. As I said though, most everybody is very friendly and willing to repeat himself or herself once or twice.  And apparently I sound funny to them too. A professor of Scottish literature recently told me he liked my “cowboy accent.”  I also had a bus driver mimic riding a horse and shooting pistols when I told him I come from Colorado.

And of course, there is the weather.  I thought I would be prepared for the rain as I view Hanover as a rather rainy place and I was sure to come armed with galoshes (“Wellies”), an umbrella, and a raincoat.  Boy was I wrong.  Somehow the rain feels colder and more miserable in the city and the wind makes using an umbrella or hood entirely pointless.  When it comes to dealing with the inclement weather, the Glaswegian advice seems to be simply this – just give up.  Most of them walk about wearing their everyday normal clothes and don’t seem to be the slightest bit bothered by the fact that the driest they will be all day is when they step out of their showers in the morning.  Oh well, at least this will probably build character right?

So basically, even though Scottish writer Lewis Crassic Gibbon described Glasgow as, “that strange, deplorable city which has neither sweetness nor pride, the vomit of a cataleptic commercialism,” it does have a certain degree of charm and I’m sure this term abroad will be a very worthwhile adventure, especially once I get into the Highlands and/or hear “Scotland the Brave” played on the bagpipes.

Here is a link to some pictures I took of the Botanical Gardens: 

Glasgow's Botanical Gardens

More stories and pictures to come soon!