Museums and memorials

The schedule for Sunday included the Burrell Collection, the Hunterian, evensong at the Glasgow Cathedral at 4 pm, and then the Necropolis. We managed to maintain momentum for most of the day, even after a diversion or two, although we were yawning by the time we climbed the hill to the Necropolis in the evening.

Sometimes I want to kiss the satnav in our Kia, and other times I want to punch it in the face. Sunday was a punch-it-in-the-face kind of day. We programmed it for the Burrell Collection and it took us to a gate that had that name on it. We found some free on-street parking, always a nice bonus in the UK, and entered the gate. And we walked, and walked, and walked. We eventually caught up with a nice elderly couple who told us that the building was at the end of the road, but that they had come to see the trenches at an event called Digging In, which we were about to reach. We are always up for a detour, so we went into the field and spent a while at the trenches. It is an educational project intended to teach children about the realities of living in the trenches during World War I. We rather enjoyed it. 

The trenches will be left in place for a few years to weather, so they will end up looking very like the actual trenches in Europe. There was an Allied trench and a German trench. 

And there was a man in a kilt. 

We walked on and found the Burrell Collection, which is a free exhibit. It was right next to a very nice car park. The collection was donated to the city of Glasgow by Sir William Burrell, a shipping merchant who became an avid collector of ancient and rare artifacts, most of which he acquired at bargain prices! The collection contains over 8,000 pieces, not all of which are on display. I am only including two photos, the first of an oak trunk that is about 500 years old, and the second of a Flemish tapestry from about 1450. 

I am awed by the talent and number of hours that would have gone into this tapestry. It is about 9 1/2 feet by 10 1/2 feet, is made of wool and silk and the details are exquisite. The fact that is has survived for almost 600 years is amazing.

There will be random street scenes included in these posts, but I usually have no idea where they were taken. We just drive around with our mouths hanging open most of the time.

After we hiked back to the car, we drove back to the cathedral area that we had visited the night before to visit The Hunterian, a museum that is part of Glasgow University. It is also the legacy of a philanthropist collector, a man by the name of Dr William Hunter. He was an obstetrician and teacher and bequeathed his collection to the university in 1783. The museum is home to over a million artifacts. Jeff was interested in the Cradle of Scotland exhibit, which is all about the excavations at Forteviot in Perthshire. The dig has revealed much about Scottish history from prehistoric to medieval times. I was a bit bored by it, but after Jeff was done I did a quick whip through the art gallery while Jeff sat on a bench and had a rest. There was a pretty cool collection of Whistler paintings and other memorabilia. That Whistler was an interesting character.

Next we were off to the cathedral for evensong, which was accomplished in good time after finding another on-street free parking place. This was a completely free and culturally edifying day when all was said and done.

Evensong was beautiful, as always, and we called it church for the day. I was a little disappointed that the choir seemed to consist of university students instead of the male choir that we prefer, but it was still uplifting. Afterwards, we headed to the Necropolis, an ancient cemetery that contains many elaborate tomb monuments. It is next to the cathedral on an adjoining hill, so after asking a dour Scotsman where the Necropolis was (s'roit thur, we think he said) and feeling very foolish because I was standing almost right next to the entrance gate, we commenced the walk.

And he we are. 

We got rained on a bit, and I slid gracefully down a grassy embankment without breaking any bones, and the views were spectacular and the memorials were poignant and grand. We could see the cathedral from the hill. 

The tall statue that is next to the large memorial on the right is of John Knox, one of the leaders of the Scottish Protestant Reformation.

And back out again.

And a view of the cathedral from the place we parked the car.

And we went back to the flat and fell asleep at about 7 o'clock and woke up two hours later.
Jet lag is the pits.

Day 1: Groggy in Glasgow

My first view of Scotland was breathtaking. It was through the window of our Icelandair Boeing 757 and the veil of grittiness in my eyes from watching movies all night. 

I loved Glasgow airport, it's not too big and customs was easy-peasy. As in, do you have anything to declare? No? Off you go then!

But drama happens.

In the weeks before we left on this trip, I spent countless hours preparing a folder containing a detailed itinerary, tickets to various attractions, receipts, and maps. I had rented a little Fiat 500 from Europcar through a third party company called Auto Europe and I had double-checked that everything was covered in the rental price, including insurance, because we had been taken by surprise by added charges in previous travels. Imagine my horror when the lady behind the Europcar desk refused to let me take the car unless I paid twenty pounds a day for insurance coverage. That would have more than doubled the cost of the car. It took about 30 minutes on the phone to Auto Europe to find out that for an extra $30 we could be fully covered by them for the whole trip. Win for me, especially considering that I managed to remain polite to the Europcar person throughout the encounter. 

And. 

This was the car we paid for:

And this was the car we got. It might look the same, but it's a Kia diesel and has four doors. It is still very maneuverable and easy to park. We have decided that we probably wouldn't have fit our luggage in the back of the Fiat.

It was an uncertain day weather-wise, which, as we have learned, is the norm in Scotland and northern England. 

If you don't know, I always drive when we travel to countries where driving is on the left side of the road. It was how I learned to drive so, theoretically, it comes back to me fairly easily. So here I was, twenty-four hours without sleep, driving on the wrong side of the road with a manual gear shift, getting lost every time we got to a roundabout because Jeff was trying to navigate for me using my Mapquest printouts and failing miserably, trying to decipher all of the unfamiliar road signs in a city that does its best to hide street names on the sides of the buildings, and having small and frequent moments of panic. It was with much joy that the person who was renting her flat to us through airbnb was able to talk us (over the phone) into her road. It was with great gratitude that I parked the car in a very small space between two other cars.

This street, known as Pollockshaws, was a short walk from the flat and later we found a wonderful organic bakery and several good restaurants on it.

We took a short nap and then I dared to take to the streets again. We visited the Botanic Gardens and, it being Saturday, lots of families were out taking in some fresh air and enjoying the gardens.

We have been to better botanical gardens, but the greenhouses were pretty spectacular. There was a whole chain of greenhouses attached to each other, all with different themes. I found a little bit of New Zealand in one of them.

And these pitcher plants were in the "killer plants" greenhouse, which was the best show of carnivorous plants I've ever seen.

Proof that we were there.

On the way back to where we had parked the car, we heard bagpipes. 

Bagpipes are like honey to our ears, so we followed the sound to this school.

And this young man was piping his heart out by the front door. I think it was a back-to-school night or some such thing. He gave Jeff permission to take his photo.

We drove back to Torrisdale Street and ate dinner at Buddy's BBQ and Burgers, where I ate poutine for the first time. It was delicious, and there was enough for dinner the next night. Jeff had a burger. Of course. 

I had pre-paid for tickets that evening to the Scottish Fiddle Orchestra, which was to be at the Royal Glasgow Concert Hall in the middle of downtown Glasgow. We nixed the car and took the train into downtown. The station was just across the wall from the flat, so it was a short walk on that end. Which was just as well, because after the five-minute train ride, we couldn't seem to get our bearings in the downtown area and find the concert hall. Most people that we asked didn't know where it was, and the ones that gave us directions were wrong. After walking hither and yon for about 30 minutes we finally arrived, hot and sweaty, just in the nick of time.

It was a perfect concert, the audience was well-behaved, and the icing on the cake was that Princess Anne, who is the royal patron of the orchestra, was attending the concert. My first time ever in the presence of royalty! I'm not much of a royalty-chaser, but I like Anne for several reasons. She is thrifty, and actually wears outfits more than once. This website has an interesting look at some of them. She is patron to over 200 organizations and carries out over 700 royal engagements and public appearances every year. She has been known to be grumpy in public, but also has a sense of humour. Apparently, she hasn't changed her hairstyle in several decades. What's not to like, I say. This is a fun little article about her.

But I digress.

Many of the numbers were foot-stomping and hand-clapping kinds of songs. Some were sentimental melodies and I'm pretty sure the old gentleman next to me wiped tears from his eyes a time or two. A mezzo-soprano and a tenor joined the orchestra for some songs. But the best part was when the First Troon Boys Brigade Piper Band joined in.

The photos stink, but I have included a YouTube video of the two performing together a few years ago.

There were six piano accordions in the back row. 

And two Scottish dancing sisters.

And sometimes the accent of the announcer was so broad that we couldn't understand a word he was saying. But we understood most of this poem when he recited it from memory:

McAllister Dances Before the King

Clansmen, the peats are burning bright,

Sit round them in a ring.

And I will tell of that great night

I danced before the king.

For as a dancer in my youth,

So great was my renown,

The king himself invited me,

To visit London town.

My brand new presentation kilt

And ornaments I wore;

And with my skein dhu,

I rapped upon the door.

Soon I heard a Lord or Duke

Come running down the stairs,

And to the keyhole put his mouth,

Demanding who was there!

"Open the door!" I sternly cried,

"As quickly as you can.

Is this the way that you receive

A Scottish gentleman?"

The door was opened; word went round,

"McAllister is here."

And with the news, the palace rang

With one tremendous cheer.

The King was sitting on his throne,

But down the steps he came.

Immediately the waiting Lord

Pronounced my magic name.

And all the ladies of the court

With pearls and jewels bedecked,

Did blush and tremble as I bowed

To them with due respect.

Slowly at first, with hands on hips,

I danced with ease and grace.

Then raised my hands above my head

And swifter grew my pace.

At last no human eye could see

My step so light and quick.

And from the floor great clouds of dust

Came rising fast and thick.

The Kind was greatly moved and shook

My hand in friendship true.

"Alas," he said, "Although a king,

I cannot dance like you." 

And the the gracious Queen herself

Came shyly o'er to me,

And pinned a medal on my breast

For everyone to see.

Her whisper I shall ne'er forget,

Nor how her eyes grew dim.

"Ach, where were you, McAllister,

The day I married him!"

But the best part was Auld Lang Syne at the end when the whole audience crossed arms and held hands and sang along. It was a fitting finale. 

One curious thing was that no one gave a standing ovation at the end. I have often thought that audiences in the US have devalued standing ovations by giving them too readily, when one should be reserved for a special honour after an outstanding performance. This audience of reserved Scottish men and women were obviously beyond moved by the performance, but only stood to sing the final song. I tend to relate to that reserve even now, after living most of my life outside of the UK. 

And one final photo of the railway station as we waited for our late train.

There's something that I really like about railway stations late at night.

Hello world

Hello world.
Yes, I still live.
It's been a busy summer.
Papa took the grandkids to free fishing day at Champoeg.

I had surgery on my toe.

Now I can wear shoes again.

You're welcome.

We seemed to have grandkids to stay quite often.

It was fantabulous.

The summer was hot and everything ripened early. 

Fruit prices were down.

Jeff actually helped me prepare cherries for drying.

It was fantabulous.

And unexpected.

The garden grew.

Little Jeff got baptised and his Peruvian abuelitos were there.

I got to spend a couple of weeks visiting faraway grandchildren.

And grand-dogs.

It was fantabulous.

More fun in the sun.

Moe and Shirley still hang out in the back garden.

Their existence hangs by a thread unless they start laying more eggs.

Mere cuteness does not constitute a reason for living.

Nana Camp happened.

Bubbles were blown.

And popped with glee.

Squishy balls were made.

On the second night, Madelyn woke up and threw up all over herself and Josh squished in beside me in the wee hours and had asthma attacks for the rest of the night. It was glorious.

And now summer is over.

In just over a week, we will be Scotland-bound.

Stay tuned.

Attila the Hen

Time for a little nostalgia, with the story of our first chicken.

When Jonnie was in first grade, a student of the fantabulous Mrs. Schroeder, the class hatched eggs in an incubator. It was an annual tradition in Mrs Schroeder's class. 

Annie was a about four at the time, and I often took her with me to help out in the classroom. We watched the eggs as they were hatching, which was fascinating for us as we had never seen it before. And then we watched the chickies every time we visited the classroom and found our favourite. It was a docile little chick and when it was a couple of weeks old we got to take it home. 

We assumed it was a girl (experience makes me amazed that it worked out that way) and called her Attila the Hen. Because Jeff jokingly called her our attack chicken, when she was really the sweetest chicken you could ever wish to meet.

We kept Tillie in the house for as long as we could. She liked to roost on the back of the couch and on our heads.

One day, not long after she came to stay with us, Annie and Tillie were outside by the front door. Suddenly, I heard Annie screaming, so I ran outside and she was crying that a cat had taken Tillie. I ran around the house looking for her and heard my neighbour out on her back porch scolding her cat. It was playing with Tillie, a prelude to the eating of her, but luckily she was rescued and handed over the back fence, traumatized but alive.

Tillie was a small bird. She had a wonderful summer, following us around as we dug in the garden...

...and going for walks and the occasional bike ride. Every time we passed a likely scratching spot she would jump off, have a good scratch in the dirt and then I would lift her back onto the handlebars and off we would go.

We didn't think she was laying eggs until one of the kids found a big pile of little brown eggs in some long grass.

Oops.

I was so ignorant that I didn't know anything about the proper food or egg-laying schedules or anything else about raising chickens. I missed Google more than I knew.

She spent the winter in the garage, roosting on top of the freezer and pooping all over everything.

I had forgotten this, but the photos tell a story of taking Tillie back to school for a visit, I think it might have been a science fair. The sign says it was two years hence, but I think it was probably one.

The sign reads: Tillie is a "returning student." She was hatched 2 years ago in Mrs. Schroeder's room. At that time we called her Licorice.  She now is the loved pet of the Osborne family.

And she was.