Gaun shopping

The trip through the Highlands confirmed one of my suspisions: it is impossible to find a spot in Scotland that is not absolutely breathtaking.
Look at this. Just look at this:



Although somebody told me Glasgow is really ugly?

I've been living here for the past 4 months, and I've started thinking how life has changed. Take shopping. All high streets in Britain are similar to the point of nausea. Boots, Tesco, Costa, Asda, Next, Monsoon...one has to travel further than Inverness to escape the manifestation. Not that I'm complaining, since I come from a country where the quality of your shopping experience deteriorates, or rather unravels, as you travel further from the main cities. At least here I know what to expect from a Boots and a Tesco, and to see my favourite range of 'Finest' pizzas brings a warm feeling to the stomach. There are more independent stores up here, or more low streets, with varying degrees and conditions of merchandise. There are also way more Asdas and Morrisons than Sainburys, a pity if one is a label-reader like me. Not for 'Dior' or 'Gucci', don't get the wrong idea, I'm not that type of snob. I analyse contents and Asda's products have more ingredients with shitcolourants, natural and unnatural additives and hydrogenated veggie oil than Sainburys, Tesco and Waitrose put together.

I'm THAT type of snob.

Cycling away

Last week, Duan and I cycled from our house in Fife all the way to Inverness. In three and a half days. Applause, applause - I am mightily pleased!

Cycling tours have so far proven to be one of the best discoveries we have made as a couple. I mean, we could've spend our free time watching dvds of corny old Sci-Fi series like Star Trek and Babylon Five, or waste days reading brainless whodunnits or playing Medieval Total War into the wee hours of the morning. Which are actually also things we have been doing lately. But we balance these passive leisure hours with periods of serious activity, and now we can relax again in front of series two of Lost. We are offsetting our passivity with calorie-burning exercise, like trading in carbon emissions and whatnot. Maybe I should start a company?

We left without incident on Monday, three hours after our planned starting time. I belatedly discovered that Vossie, my beloved furball, has not been innoculated recently enough, and after a deperate dash to the vets, they were dispatched into the kennels. In between we also quickly had to make an offer on a house (again), so we left a bit later. This time Duan did his husbandly duty by towing most of our luggage on a quaint new trailer. I love it, especially the yellow flag.


On Tuesday the weather was atrocious, and as I bore forward against a mighty headwind, I swore under my breath and wondered why I chose to spend my precious holiday time in such a barbaric manner. My average speed dropped to approximately 2,snail km an hour, and it started dripping. Conditions worsened when we saw the campsite don't click here at Pitlochry where we had booked to spend the night. Don't go there, it is horrible and depressing. Crowded, loud music, litter lying around, just not nice.

Everything became lovely again on days three and four with perfect sunshiny days and the most incredible cycling scenery on Route 7 of the National Cycing Network. They don't always get it right, but if they do - and on Route 7 they really, really do - it's amazing. Never a harsh hill to climb, mostly traffic free or on a minor road, and surrounded by the most breathtaking scenery this world has to offer. It was spectacular, and we promptly celebrated by spending a night at the charming Scot House Hotel in Kingussie. (Pronounced King-yoosie).


We saw loads of animals, including red squirrel times three, gazillions of sheep and coos, and, of course, rabbits. We had such a hard time getting one of these highland sheep to stand still and pose for a photo, but Duan ambushed an unsuspecting ram and managed to snap a pic:



My holiday is almost finished, so I have to make the best use of my time and return to the next episode of Lost.

LondonEdinburgh

My very best friend, Ronelle, has come for a visit.



She landed in London and it was great to show her the old place. It is an endless city; its sites and histories are a gaping mouth ready to slobber you up and spit you out exhausted and bewildered, at the other end. A must-see, maybe a must-live, if only for a few months.

The first evening in London the grime stuck to us like an invisible veneer. Ronelle politely mentioned the ubearable heat of the Underground on the second day, and the Circle Line and District Lines were out of service - on a Saturday in the middle of Summer! In the past I've always left London with a feeling of longing, of wanting to stay there and nestle in its vibrant (under)belly. Not this time.

I was happy as a puppy to return to Scotland. Edinburgh!
Ronelle visisted the city on her own the first day, and she was sensibly impressed.


She also found the locals very friendly.


(Thank you, Sporranclan, for the pic)

"Whoore loo auch wee Jhd8e&%p3 hoose wee*^@", says the smiling man.
"I don't think I understand what he's saying?", whispers Ronelle.
"Oh, how do you take your coffee," explain I, proud of my understanding of the burr after a few months.

She also adored the wildlife.







And the neverending beauty of the scenery.






And by the time we hade to bade farwell, Ronelle was converted: Scotland is greaet!

More on how to buy a hoose

Our beautiful stone cottage was not to be. Sigh.

The process of buying a property in Scotland is a wee dilly, like lots of things oover here.
When you've found the property of your dreams, you have to contact your solicitor and through him/her, either make an offer on the place, or register a note of interest. Sounds straightforward so far? It's not.

Houses are advertised as either 'Offers Over...' or fixed price. If you and 15 other hopefuls like a place, and say you've all put in offers or notes of interests, the sale moves to a closing date. And on the day of the closing date - everybody by this time has put in an offer - the seller decides who gets the prize. Charming. And once you've put an offer in, you have to wait to hear whether you've got the house or not, because, if your offer is the lucky one to be accepted, you are bound by law to buy the place. Except if your mortgage is not approved or five million other things that can still go wrong.

In effect, you bid on a place and hope for the best, like gambling. And don't think if you put in a monstrous offer just because the abode is your heart's desire, it will necessarily be accepted. The seller can choose anybody's offer, so if he/she doesn't like your name or solicitor, tough.

But the sun is shining today, always worth a mention!

Hoose hunting

How does one buy a hoose in Scotland?

1. Search for a property. We have big dreams, and had a look at this.


It comes with its own island, which is handy, but alas, we lost all our money betting on Floyd Landis last year.

2. So onto something more modest.

This was perfect, within our price range, but unfortunately I would have had to commute 4 hours per day to work.

3. A more realistic proposition for our part of Scotland was this:

But we felt faint at the idea of committing ourselves to suburban bliss at this tender age.

4. We decided to make an offer on this.


Please, please please, let it be ours!

More tales

I am managing to tear myself away from Facebook for long enough to update this blog. Back to ol' Scotland. We went to the Bruce Festival in Dunfermline, and it took place in Pittencrieff Park. This park is most beautiful, somebody is keeping it in a mint condition, and it has a nice tale. Apparently Andrew Carnegie, as a wee lad, wanted to enter the park, but because he came from a poor family, he was not allowed in. His revenge was to become super-rich, purchase the park and open it up for everybody, entrance free.
For more on the park, please click here

The Bruce Festival was modest, with volunteers parading around in medieval costumes. This lady explained how the poor folk were mostly vegetarian during those times. You were lucky if you could afford a piece of cow or chicken! These days only the rich can afford to eat veggies.


Even though the jousting event was a re-enactment, it still quite took my breath away. The horses are huge, and the knights imposing and deadly in their armour. Here are some pics.

This is the parade beforehand to goad the masses into wild excitement:


And we cheered for the red knight, who won.







The band, Soar Patrol.


Duan having a haggis an' neeps burger. Local is lekker!!

It's raining again

Last year was apparently a fantastic, sunny summer. This year, however, we've been blessed with an abundance of clouds and rain. Karen, my hairdresses says, 'Last year the sun shines and everybody blames it on global warming. This year, it's raining and cold all the time, and again people say it's because of global warming. Make up ye minds!'

Karen is just one of the good things that's happened to me since we've moved to this charming nook called Fife. After a disastrous, five-second cut at a local salon, the piano teacher at school told me about Karen's salon, tucked away in the most quaint of villages, Aberdour. She took a long time cutting my hair, gave me cappuccino, and after two hours we've covered family, love, sex, and surprisingly, Christianity. And my hair looks great!

It is the start of the long summer holidays and I've completed one almost-term at my new job. (From now on I'll refer to the school as "The School" until such time I can establish what my rights are re discussing my job, colleagues, students and so forth in this blog. Don't want nae lawsuit.) I enjoy the work most of the time, but there are days and moments when I want to run, screeching, from the place, snatching out chunks of hair in exasparation and frustration. What I find hardest is dealing with 13 year- olds who feel they have the right to inform me what they will and won't do in my class. MY class!!!! Of course they have a right to speak, I usually grant them that, but my patience starts wearing thin if they don't get it after the fourth or fifth time of the same discussion.
'I cannae do this. I don't wanna do this, I don't like music.' Big sulk.
'Fair enough, you've said how you've felt and I listened, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Since you have to be in school - go look at the country's constitution - and since you've decided to come to this school and adhere to these rules - go check your school contract - you have to do the work, as set out in the syllabus, that I am kind enough to interpret for you in as user-friendly a manner as possible.'
But usually I say, 'Shut up and get working.'
And then the whole spectacle rolls on, of having to cajole him/her, mostly ending up handing out a punishment or detention , and so forth and so long, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, et al. The joys of having to work with teenagers.

But apart from my struggles to establish a dictatorship, these kids are mostly great. As John Smeaton, the hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow Airport, aptly illustrates: Scots are tough, resilient, take things in their stride, and are blessed with a sense of humour as dry as puddle in a heat wave.