Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"The Clava Trio, Scotland" (c) 2005-2007

"The Clava Cairn Trio, South of Inverness, Scotland" (c) 2005-2007 Stu Jenks

[I printed this image a year ago or so, in the old Toole Shed darkroom. Very thin negative it was. Looked like crap, even after a lot of work. I scanned the 8 x 10 anyway, and then let the photograph fall into a coma in my LaCie hard drive, thinking It was gone for good. Then a friend showed me this Soft Light Layer thing in the CS2 and I was able to awaken this lost photograph, burning in the sky and the ground, deepening the Standing Stone and fluffing the cows a bit, like I couldn't before. The sepia color was inspired by a 100-year-old photograph of my great-grandparents on my mother's side, that hangs in my bedroom. The megalith and cattle were from a pasture, a stone's throw from the Clava Cairns. These two cows and many others were wonderful models, that late afternoon in October. I miss the livestock, the trees, the people, the grass, the wind, the sea spray, the rains, the soft drinks, the biscuits, and the Standing Stones of Scotland. More than I can say.]

Megaliths and Soda Pop: [The Table of Contents] (c) 2005-2007

[Throughout the StuBlog, you'll find my third photographic journal called MEGALITHS AND SODA POP. Unlike a traditional website (and due, in part, to my freshman skills as a blogger), the stories are helter skelter, here and there, not in the order that I envisioned for the book. Easy solution? Below is the table of contents for MEGALITHS AND SODA POP. Read the stories in order or as you come across them. Either way is fine. Most of them are written as stand-alone stories so you should be OK. All comments are welcome. OK, not all comments, but you know what I mean. Enjoy the journey and maybe someday, you'll be able to hold this book in your real hands rather than your digital ones. But this'll do for now.]

MEGALITHS AND SODA POP: by Stu Jenks (c) 2005 - 2007

[The Table of Contents]

LONDON:

1) “My Tribe”

SCOTLAND:

2) “The Clava Cairns”

3) “The Skye Cow”

4) “IRN-BRU & The Storr”

PARIS:

5) “The Taxi Goddess”

SCOTLAND:

6) “Charles Murray”

PARIS:

7) “Three Eclairs”

8) “Ambulance Blues”

SCOTLAND:

9) “The Standing Stones of Callanish”

10) “If Fairies Live...”

11) “The Uig Ferry”

12) "The Quiraing and Portree, Isle of Skye”

PARIS:

13) “Double Shot. Like Bang Bang”

SCOTLAND:

14) “Twenty Four Hours in Scotland”

15) “Findley McLean & Isebella McIntosh”

"The Standing Stones of Callanish" (c) 2005, 2007

    “The Standing Stones of Callanish” (c) 2005, 2007 Stu Jenks
    [Images: "Callanish: 28 mm", "Four Megaliths at Callanish", "Callanish 127", "Callanish Hoop Dance"     & "Callanish at Dawn" (c) 2005, 2007]

    We ain’t in Skye anymore.
    The Isle of Skye doesn’t have many trees but it has some here and there, and the hills of Skye are covered with heather and grass and life.
    Not here. Not on this part of Lewis. Rock and peat and more rock. I ain’t complaining. Sort of like the desert at home, but with water. OK, it’s nothing like home, but it feels like home.
    I’m beating feet toward Callanish. Left the ferry town of Tarbert thirty minutes ago. Looks like the turnoff to the town of Callanish is just a few miles up ahead. Then, if the map is right, I got about a fifteen-minute drive and I’m there. Hard to believe I’m really this close.
    I’m rushing, for the Sun looks to be only an hour from setting and Christ Almighty, It’s only 3 o’clock. I’m guessing I’m farther north than I’ve ever been, including my time as a child in Upstate New York. And it is October after all. But Good Lord.
    A sign points toward a paved road t-ing into my road from my left. ‘Calanais: 12’ it says. That’s it. Man, I’m close. I think. I’m thankful too, that Calanish in Gaelic is close to how it reads in English. Can’t be said for other places on Lewis, for the main city of Stornoway to the north is spelled Steronabhigh in Gaelic, that's pronounced Stornoway or close to it. And unlike Skye, where the traffic signs are in both languages, only Gaelic is printed on the highway signs here. This is a Gaelic land with a Capital G. A mix of Norway and Ireland as much as it is of Scotland and England. I take the left in my black VW and head due west.
    It’s cold and moist with a wondrous peaty smell. A dark rich fragrance, like centuries old dirt. I smile. That’s exactly what peat is. Rotting vegetation slowly compacting over a thousand years, not ever really dry due to the poor drainage of the land and the constant moisture in the air. It’ll stain your shoes like nothing else, and heat your home as good as coal. Once it’s dry that is. There, just off to my right is a tower of peat drying, stacked like a Boy Scout’s crisscross log fire, six feet high. It’s said that how they found the Standing Stones of Callanish was when digging peat in the 1850’s. I love the smell. Stirs something in my DNA almost.
    Lots of clouds, but no sign of rain. Big clouds, moving fast. Wind at about 20, 30 miles per hour. Again, there was wind on Skye but nothing like this.
    I check the odometer. Wonder if I could miss it. Map says they’re on the left near the village of Calanais. I crest a hill and there, I see them. A good two miles away, on the top of a flat hill, like fingers coming through the earth. The Standing Stones of Callanish. I need no sign, no point of interest plaque. I’ve seen photographs of these boys for 25 years. It’s them. I cry.
    I take my foot off the accelerator and look in the rearview mirror. No cars. Haven’t seen a car in 15 minutes. I look through the windshield at the stones in the distant. Time to get down to business and take some serious shots. Now how do I get up there?
______________________________________________________________________________

I’ve been shooting for hours now. As the sun set, after the sun set, with the Brownie, with the 35 mm. Long lens, wide angle. Rollei on a tripod. I touch the stones from time to time but I’m more busy than spiritual right now. I tried some hoops dances at dusk but I doubt they’ll work. It’s almost completely dark now yet the Full Moon lights some of the eastern sky. A few more hoop dance shots, I think.
    “You have it in the can,” says the quiet still voice within.
    I know, I think, but I just want to be sure.
    “You have it in the can,” it repeats.

______________________________________________________________________________

    It is so cold. Probably not freezing but close. Add the heavy moisture in the air, the 40-mile an hour wind and my desert-thin blood and I can’t get warm. Granted I have on my heaviest North Face jacket and a wool scarp tightly wrapped around my neck two times, but I brought only my Krispy Kreme baseball cap with me from The States and left my wool boo boo hat at home. A big mistake.
    It’s been hours since I arrived, but it feels like only minutes. Things in slow motion and fast at the same time. Hard to explain. I’ve been here on a little while and forever. My arms are sore from swinging the metal hoop with the battery powered Christmas lights on it. A good sore, like lifting artistic weights. Something like that. I can’t think anymore. I only see and that not so well right now. I’m hungry but I don’t care. Get some Gorp in a minute. Another hoop dance, another smoke, now a walk back to the car eat for some food, to drink some IRN-BRU. I’m cold but I don’t want to leave. I can’t leave. I’m in my body but I'm not. I’ve felt like this in the past but nothing this strong. Usually I’m hot and sweaty not cold and damp. I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything right now. I think all my shots suck. I’m starting to feel depressed or something like that. I don’t know.
    After a bite of food in my car and a smoke, I walk back to close the shutter on Hoop Dance number seven. Angle number two. I’m sure it sucks.
    “It’s in the can,” the quiet voice says again. Number four for the voice and the can statement.
    “Really?” I say to the wind.
    “Really,” it says.
    I’m done and as soon as I say to myself ‘I’m done’, I feel a light in my bones, the depression lifts, the Full Moon is brighter. What’s this all about?
    Then I get it. For hours, I’ve been in my head, looking at angles, composing, taking images more out of fear of not getting the image, than in the hopeful joy of the moment, shooting at Callanish. Living in future time, as Ronn would say. And as soon as I decided I was done, I’m back in my body, my soul’s humming loudly in my ear and I’m seeing the stones as if for the first time.
    I walk up to a favorite stone of mine. I may have been out of my body but I ain’t blind. I’m quite familiar with this boy, but I haven't really made friends with him yet. I walk up to him and notice the worn spots in the grass at his base. I ain’t the first one. I put my back to the stone and lean against him. The roar of the wind is mostly gone, blocked by his mass. I close my eyes, and adjust my feet away from him so I can put more of my weight against his surface. I hear the wind, whistling off the other stones. I open my eyes and look toward the collapsed cairn to my right, the loch to my left, the village of Callanish right in front of me, its edge just a few hundred yards from the low fence that surrounds the stones, the fence that keeps the sheep out. A car motors down the lane, its headlights noticeable, not blinding, very far away. It turns into a driveway and even though I can’t hear it, I know, the driver has turned off the engine. He turns out the headlamps. He exits the right side of the car.
    He’s home.
    So am I.

______________________________________________________________________________

    I’m so tired. My eyes cross as I drive. Got to stop. I pull off onto the shoulder of the road just a few miles out of Stornoway and check the map. The road back to Callanish is just up ahead but I don’t remember many pulloffs on that road and no way I’ll make it back to Callanish to sleep in its parking lot. Im just too tired. The little village of Liurbost is just a mile or so ahead. Maybe there I can get some rest.
    The single track to Stornoway was fun. Lots of sheep blocking the road. Tall grass growing in the peat on either side of the narrow piece of asphalt. Slow going but a good slow. Drinking Diet IRN-BRU, eating peanuts, life is good.
    Stornoway was hopping. High school kids everywhere in the streets. The beginnings of the Celtic Singing Competition. Charles Murray was there somewhere but I didn’t stop and look for him. Already tired and I had no plans to get a room tonight. The plan from the start was to sleep in my car tonight. Saw some real live trees in Stornoway, trees mentioned in the tourist literature. They are proud of the trees they planted a hundred and fifty years ago. I made a big loop through town and got back on A859, heading south. Callanish still called and the broch near the village of Carloway, north of Callanish looked interesting too. The plan was to sleep near them. I ain’t going to make it.
    Heading through the dark night on A859. The waxing moon mostly hidden in the clouds. Some houselights up ahead. Must be Liurbost. A short row of houses appear on my right. Maybe a half dozen and a small store. Reminds me of little towns in the Northern Neck of Virginia. Off to the left is a wide paved turnoff next to a sheep ramp. Perfect. I put on the breaks and pull into it. I see street lamps across the way that may get in my eyes as I try to sleep. It’ll work though, I think. I get out and take a pee in the grass. Wind’s not bad, but it's still really cold. I shake and get back in the VW. Take off my shoes, lower the driver’s seat to almost level, crack a window, pull my North Face over my head and try and get some sleep. Within a minute, I’m gone

    I’m awakened by a car whizzing by. I check the clock in the car. 2:00 a.m. I’ve slept for 3 hours. I raise the seat and look around. Do I want to stay here? I don’t think so. Before I put on my shoes, I get out of the car, walk over to the sheep ramp and take another piss in the grass. Back inside, I put on my shoes and take a long draw of the Diet IRN-BRU stuck in the console. God, that is good stuff. I start the car and put it in gear and get back on the deserted road. Friday night in Liurbost. Everyone’s asleep except for a tourist from Tucson.
    Within seconds, I see the road to Callanish and take a right. I’m pretty awake but not all together. At least I’m not driving cross-eyed. Minutes pass. BBC Scotland plays on the car’s radio. My constant companion for a few days now, not just playing Celtic reels and pipe marches (which they do) but great folk music from Aberdeen and Glasgow and from as far away as Austin, Texas. Right now, it’s sad slow songs in Gaelic.
    The turnoff for the Standing Stones is up ahead but I don’t take it. I stay on A858, and the road to Carloway. My map says the broch there is just ten miles away. I’ll make for that and sleep there, I think. I’m getting tired again. Hope I can make it. The Moon is out again, its light reflecting off the lochs that surround me. Literally, small and large bodies of water are everywhere.
    The road unexpectedly turns to dirt. New road construction. This’ll keep me awake. Soon, I see a sign saying ‘Dun Carloway’ that way. I take it. Up a hill and I see another sign, and a small parking lot. I pull in. Built into the hill like a hobbit hole is the visitors’ center for the Broch at Dun Carloway. Just a wee place. Must only hold a person or two. I scan the parking lot. Just me, but I don’t feel comfortable about sleeping here. Don’t know why. Don’t question it. I just back up and get back on the rough paved road. Looks like it goes down toward a small loch over there, after some houses. I put it in first and head down the hill.
    I pass a couple three houses and continue down near the shore of this good size lake. A bit of land is off to the west and then I see the large Loch Roag, then more land, miles away. Just then I see a pull off near what looks like a dinghy tied up near shore. I park the car and get out. Need to take another pee. I walk just off the road and do my business. As I walk back to the car, I stop at the boat. The Moon’s back out again and I can see it’s just a small two man rowboat loosely tied to a thin stick stuck on the bank. The wind rocks the boat slightly. A piece of hardware gently clangs inside the hull somewhere. The lake water laps against its side. I first wonder if this quiet cacophony will keep me awake and then smile, and realize it’ll probably put me to sleep.
    I get back in the car, light a smoke, and crack the window. The hardware, the water, the wind, it’s all good, as the kids say. Off come my shoes, back goes the seat, and eventually I put out the butt and hit it.
    In an instant, I’m out.
______________________________________________________________________________

    I’m awake and a bit cold. What time is it, I think? The car clock reads 6:15 a.m.. God, I slept good. I don't sleep this well at home, waking up briefly a couple times a night in my own bed in Tucson. Feeling groggy most mornings. Not this morning. I feel wonderful. I've slept three more hours but it feels like a dozen.
    I hear the boat clanking off to my right through my slightly cracked car window. Smiling to myself, I think maybe I need a tape of the sounds of this rocking boat playing in my bedroom at home to help me sleep.
    I find a Diet IRN-BRU, ice cold, behind my seat and crack the top. A loud hiss comes from the tall plastic bottle, exhaling the fragrance of Quinine. I remove the cap and take a very long draw.
    “Ahh!” I say,
    “Sweet Jesus, I love this stuff!”
    I take another draw off the soda and light a Camel. No coffee or tea this morning. Sun’ll be up soon. I look out of my driver’s side window. No moon. All cloud. Or at least it’ll be light, I think. I start the car and turn the heat on high. I shiver a bit. Inhale smoke deep in my lungs and exhale. I can see my breath. We ain’t in Tucson anymore. I sit in the idling car for a good while, both of us warming up. The broch at Dun Carloway is just a mile up the hill. I want to be nice and toasty before I get out on this frosty morning.
    Ten minutes later, I’m cruising up the hill, leaving the little loch and the wee boat behind. Dark homes are on my left. A dog barks. The sky might be getting lighter to the east. Might not. Soon, I’m parking in the gravel lot for Dun Carloway. The hobbit house visitors’ center is still dark. Feeling better, warmer now. I grab my Pentax 35mm with the 28 mm lens, pocket my smokes, exit and lock the car. Coat, scarf and baseball cap. My uniform in the Hebrides. Sure miss my boo boo hat though.
    I stop at a plaque near the hobbit hole and read about Dun Carloway. Seems that a broch is a large Iron Age stone house, this one having been built around 2000 years ago probably by the Picts, though no one knows for sure.
    (I love the Picts, the truly indigenous people of Scotland. The Celts sailed from Ireland to Scotland in the 5th Century AD it’s said. Some legends have it that the Celts didn’t conquer the Picts, just merged with them. Others say it was bloody mess. I like to dream that it was a peaceful coming-together. More on the lines of each group falling in love with ‘The Other’, not killing the Stranger. A red headed Celtic woman seeing a muscular man with blue paint on his face and finds him more attractive than the freckled faced guy next to her. And visa versa for the guys. Then again, I am a hopeful sot at times.)
    The original use of the broch is speculated as being a refuge or defensive structure to protect people and livestock during attack. Attack from whom it doesn’t say. By the time of the Middle Ages, the rich of the area were using this broch as a show place, a sign of their wealth, a fancy house, to rub in their poorer neighbor’s faces I suppose. Dun Carloway is at least three stories, says the sign, with the first floor for the animals originally. Wow, that’s big. I look up the trail but I can’t see the broch but I do see the trail. I check the eastern horizon. A bit more gray over there. Dawn is coming, yet slowly. Total overcast. No moon, no stars. I shoulder my Pentax and head up the trail, with my mini Maglite in my hand. I don’t really need the flashlight but it’ll help me not stub my toe and fall on my ass. That’s a good thing.
    I reach a gate in no time. I pass through the gate and look up ahead. Is that it? Can’t tell. Still dark. I slowly walk up the trail and then I notice a hill to my left and then suddenly I realize it isn’t a hill. It’s a house. My mouth drops open. Though its in partial ruin, the broch rises at least 30 feet over my head. I scan the structure with my flashlight, seeing tight stone masonry work.
    “Wow,” is all I say, over and over again.
    I find the front door or what’s left of it and climb to a grassy landing ten feet above the ground. Behind me, the large remaining wall of the broch looms, sheltering me from the wind, that seems to be increasing with force as the dawn approaches. The eastern horizon sky grows lighter, from black gray to mid gray, but not light. My guess no sun today. I sit on the edge of the northern wall and dangle my feet over the side. I place my camera in the short grass behind me. I light a Camel Filter.
    Directly in front of me is The Sea. Not a loch. The Sea. The Atlantic Ocean.
    I feel like I’m in a movie.
    I drag hard on my smoke. I lay back on the grass behind me, my legs still hanging from the wall, and I daydream about The Picts.
______________________________________________________________________________

    “Annie, it’s me,” I say into the phone.
    “Where are you?” she says.
    “I’m in one of those little red phone booths in the middle of nowhere just down the road from Callanish. How are you?” I say.
    “I’m OK. I sent an Emil to your hotel in Skye. Did you get it?”
    Shit. I did but I didn’t call her when I got it. It was regarding my mother’s upcoming colon surgery. That Mom is fine but in quite a bit of pain and going under the knife tomorrow.
    “Yes, I did. Damn, Annie, I’m sorry. I should have called you but the time difference is weird and then I just forgot. What time is it there now?”
    “1 a.m.”
    Yikes. That means it’s 9 a.m. here. Man, it still isn’t very light yet.
    “Did I wake you?
    “No, I was up.”
    “Annie, I know you were envious that you weren’t with me here, and that you were angry I didn’t ask you to come along.”
    “I’m over that,” she says. From the sound of her voice, she ain’t completely over it.
    “Yea I know,” I say, “But I’m calling just to tell you that some how, some way, I going to bring you back to Scotland someday. I’m having the best time. And I wish you were here. Callanish was absolutely amazing last night.”
    “How’d it go, the shooting?”
    “OK, I guess. Hell, I don’t know. My little inner voice is telling me it’s fine so I’m just trying to trust that. But I don’t know. I’m telling you though, I really want to bring you here to Lewis and Harris and Callanish. You would just love it, Annie.” She would.
    “We’ll see,” she says. Annie stopped being my lover six months ago. Probably as good an answer as I’m going to get out of her. I don’t blame her for not being enthusiastic about a future trip. She’s the one that came to Skye a few years back. She’s the one that helped me get off my ass and finally go to the homeland. Can’t really expect her to like it when I decide to go on an artist’s sojourn, without her. Then again, I don’t feel that guilty about it either.
    “I even pay your way, “ I laugh. She laughs too. She know I don’t have a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of.
    “Well, I gotta go, Annie. This call is costing a fortune and I gotta do some things before I get back on the ferry to Skye.”
    “Well, be careful.” Through it all, we still care a great deal for each other and she really means it when she says be careful.
    “I will, honey and thanks so much for letting me know how Mary is doing,” I say.
    “No problem. I miss you,” she says.
    “I miss you too.”

______________________________________________________________________________

   
    This time I don’t park in the visitors’ center’s parking lot. I kinda know my way around here now. This time I’m parked at the edge of the fence that encircles Callanish I. (There are at least two other smaller sites of standing stones. Callanish II and III). I put out my smoke, grab just the Pentax and get out of the VW. May not even take a shot. Just had to come back is all.
    It’s completely overcast. Looks like rain. Winds have picked up since sunrise. Back to about 30 mile an hour I bet. Cold but good. I pull my baseball cap down low on my head and make my way to a tiny gate in the fence. A hinge is bent a little but I get the gate open eventually and enter the large area of stones.
    I stroll around slowly, in a wide circle and look for a shot I may have missed. I see one. I take it. I complete the circle and put down my camera bag. I walk up to the stone fella I leaned up against last night.
    “Hey guy, how’s it going?” I say softly to the megalith.
    I turn around, plant my feet, and fall back against his flat tall surface.
    Feels like old times.

    Ferry leaves at 1:30. 11:00 now. Need to be in line by 1:00. An hour’s drive to Tarbert. Gives me a hour to play around on the Isle of Harris just south of the ferry port.
    As I drive up a hill, I see Callanish III a few hundred yards over there. I smile and decide I’ll save that for next time. When I bring Annie. That way, there’ll be something that both of us can experience for the first time.
    The clouds have lowered, misting a bit. Not rain, just mist. Good Scottish weather.
    “Aye,” I say out loud to the interior of my car.
    I turn on the windshield wipers to ‘intermittent’ and head down the damp two land blacktop.
    A half hour out of Talbert, I need to pee. Drinking a lot of IRN-BRU today. Even drinking some of that spicy Ginger Beer I bought in Inverness. Found a few cans of that rolling around under the passenger seat. Man, I got a pee. I find a pulloff and take it. No traffic, anytime today really. I can piss anywhere I want.
    I get out and the wind about blows me over.
    “Damn,” I say into the howling wind.
    I walk up a bank and down the other side, so I have a little bit of privacy. Off to my right, a wide valley falls away. Way over there is a smooth thousand foot high treeless ridge. Look like a man lying down. A lot of space between me and that ridge. A light mist is in the air, not enough to pepper my glasses but enough to chill the air.
    And the air is flat out moving here. Guessing around 40 miles an hour or more. Steady too. Not just gusts.
    I put my back to the wind and unzip. Momma didn’t raise no fool. I know better than to piss into the wind. I begin to do my business when I suddenly I feel moisture on my face. I look skyward. Is it starting to rain, I think? I shrug and look down at my pee. With my legs slightly apart, the wind’s now hitting my urine with full force, redirecting it so that now my piss is traveling parallel to the earth. Since my body is creating a bit of vortex, my piss makes a big looping circle, and is now hitting me squarely in the face.
    I laugh out loud. I stop peeing and the rain stops. I start peeing again and the rain begins. I stop pissing and I wipe my face.
    “Fuck a duck!” I say. I’m still laughing.
    With my dick still in my hand, I walk over to the high bank I just crossed, place my penis a few inches away from the earth and finish urinating.
    No rain’s flying in my face now.
    Thing is I just can’t stop laughing.

http://www.stujenks.com/gallery/megaliths/callanishandcroft.html

http://www.stujenks.com/gallery/megaliths/dawnatcallanish.html

http://www.stujenks.com/gallery/megaliths/callanishandbrownie.html

http://www.stujenks.com/gallery/megaliths/hoopdanceatcallanish.html

http://www.stujenks.com/gallery/megaliths/fourstones.html

"The Clava Cairns" (c) 2005, 2007

   

“The Clava Cairns” (c) 2005, 2007 Stu Jenks

    [Image: "My First Scottish Photograph, The Clava Cairns, Scotland"]

    The orange EasyJet banks hard to the right in its approach to Inverness Airport. I have my usual preferred window seat. The early afternoon is bright and sunny. Not very Scottish weather. I’m a little disappointed. I really wanted more mist. Soon enough I suppose.

    Then below me, up and down the hills and throughout the fields, I see tiny white specks. What are they, I think to myself? Then it hits me.
    “Well, I’ll be,” I say quietly to myself.
    “Those are sheep!”
    Looking like pieces of popcorn scattered across a green rug, dozens of sheep are grazing below me. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. No camera for this shot. Just the lens of my eyes and the film in back of my head.

    Within an hour, I’m gingerly driving my rental VW Polo away from the airport. Shifting with my left hand is fine, but I can’t figure out, for the life of me, where the left hand side of my car is. Shit. I’m off the road and on the shoulder again. Mailboxes ain’t safe from me today. The goal today is to get to the fishing village of Portree on the Isle of Skye. A room at The Royal Hotel awaits me there, but first I have a stop to make just a few miles away.
    My ex-girlfriend Annie told me about this place. The Clava Cairns. Annie, when she takes photographs of things, usually takes a couple of exposures and leaves it at that. At the Clava Cairns, when she was there a few years ago, she shot apparently a whole roll of black and white film. Quite significant. And the primary purpose for this, my first trip ever to Scotland, is to go to The Standing Stones of Callanish on the Isle of Lewis, and to shoot and touch them, and to see and touch as many Stone Age megaliths as I can, along the way. And what better way to say hello to Scotland for the first time than to visit the Clava Cairns, a site of ancient stones and tombs, which is literally only ten miles from the airport.
    “Shit” I say again.
    I’m off the road again. I’m a good driver and this is getting embarrassing. I really thought I’d get the hang of driving on the left hand side sooner than this. I guess not.
    I get back on the road, downshift, then up shift, then reach for a smoke. Then, off to my left, I suddenly see castle walls, a parapet or two, and from the highest point on the castle, I see the blue and white flag of Scotland waving in the light afternoon breeze.
    And a few seconds later, already with tears in my eyes, I see a sign that gives the name of this castle.
    ‘Stuart Castle’
    I completely break down with tears of joy.
    Barely able to speak, I say:
    “I’m in Scotland, I’m finally in Scotland.”
    I wipe the tears from my eyes and focus on the narrow road ahead. I continue under an old brick bridge, then around a tight bend, then off the road again, on the shoulder, running in the grass.
    This time I don’t swear. I just laugh outloud instead.

    Fifteen minutes have past and I think I’m on the right road. Yep. There’s the battlefield of Culloden.
    I pull into the parking lot, but I don’t stop. I don’t really want to waste time walking around a battlefield where perhaps some of my ancestors got their asses kicked. Maybe my ancestors weren’t even Jacobites. Since they were from around here, maybe they were just farmers trying to get the hell out of the way. No matter. I don’t feel the vibe to stop here, and I have no love for Bonnie Prince Charlie either, that selfish nobleman, more French than Scot, the son of The Old Pretender, who led the Jacobites to this place of their final defeat. After the Battle of Culloden in 1746, Charlie fled to France and died a drunk, the clan system was virtually neutered, and worst of all, the hundred years of The Highland Clearances began, seeing Highland men, women and children kicked off their land to be replaced by the sheep of the rich. And we can’t blame the English entirely for it either. Most of the rich were Scottish Lowland land owners and some Highland clan chiefs as well. Rich Scots burning poor Scots out of their houses, giving their tenants only a moment’s notice to vacate their land, sometimes igniting the homes with people still inside. No, we Scots did this to our own. Sure, the English helped for a while, I’m sure, but in the mid 1800’s, while Queen Victoria was in Balmoral Castle, celebrating the ancient heritage of the Highland Clans and starting her own British renewal in Scottish pride, the henchmen of some Scottish Royalty were, just to the west, burning old women up in their homes.
    Just 10 or 20 years after Culloden, William Patton, my great great great great grandfather left Inverness for the colony of Virginia. Maybe he was a victim of the Clearances, forced off his croft to live in a dirty city. I don’t know. Soon, after William arrived in the New World though, he was fighting in the all-Scottish brigade of the American Revolutionary Army. I can hear him now.
    Recruiter for the Revolution: “Son, would you like to kill English?
    William: “Where do I sign up?”
    I press on the accelerator, and head toward the exit of the parking lot. I turn right onto the narrow two lane country road and head toward the Clava Cairns, driving off the road and onto the shoulder for the umpteenth time today. Good lord almighty.
    I keep my eyes peeled for a sign to the Cairns. There. I turn right in the long arch, actually staying on the road this time. The paved road narrows even more. I past through a crossroads of a half dozen ancient white washed cottages, and then I enter my first Scottish single track: a one-lane paved road with what are affectionately called ‘passing places’ every now and again. I slow a bit as I descend into a long wide valley. I cross a creek. Off to the south is a huge tall railroad trestle made with brick and arches, reminiscent of the Roman aqueducts. More fields. More pastures. And then another sign saying turn right to the Clava Cairns.
    Past another pasture, this one with a Standing Stone at its center.
    “Oh my god,” I say aloud. My first megalith.
    And then I see a small parking lot, a car park for no more than a dozen cars, then I see a fence, a gate, the Cairns, the Stones just over there.
    I grab my 35mm Pentax, my Brownie, lock the car and head toward the gate. I’m so excited I'm having difficulty open the latch. Then I’m in, and I slowly walk toward the Cairns and through the Stones. I stop at a tall megalith and place my hand on it and cry.
    “I’m in Scotland,” I say to the stone
    “I’m finally here.”
    I take out my Pentax and take my first Scottish photograph, wiping the tears away so I can focus the camera.

http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/clava_cairn_christmas.html

24 Hours in Scotland (c) 2007

SCOTLAND:

“Twenty Four Hours in Scotland” (c) 2006
[Images:"The Wallace Memorial"
"Near Lunan Bay", "The Clava Cows"]

http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/wallacebycbaxter.html

http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/lunanbaywarm.html

http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/clavacows3sepia.html

Around 5:00 p.m.

       This may have been a mistake.
       This morning in Portree, I thought, 'Sure, drive through Glen Coe, go south, hit Edinburgh after dark and go see the castle.' Sounds like a plan.
       The drive through Glen Coe was majestic. The hiking, part way up one of its peaks, took my breath away. The shooting was good. Just being there was better. The drive in the lowlands beside Loch Earn and through little villages like Crieff and Comrie was smooth and relaxing. A loch on my right, Highland Cows on my left. But things started to get a bit hairy, when I couldn't figure out how to pump gas at a mega-service station in Perth. I ended up going to a gas station that was less complex to get my petrol.
       Then I got on the M90, my first Interstate Highway in Scotland. The four-lane road that goes up to my apartment in the Foothills of the Catalina Mountains in Tucson is wider than this road. Semis skirt by my VW and blow me toward the left shoulder. A thin medium of grass separates me from oncoming traffic when I dare to pass someone.
       I love to drive, loved it all day, until now.

       This may have been a mistake.

Around 10:00 p.m.

       I'm lost, and I never get lost. But I haven't a clue where the Castle is now. And you know you're in a bad section of town when you walk by the local Salvation Army. I just past its darkened doors. The bass player walking fifty feet ahead of me makes me feel a bit safer but not much.
       Driving through the narrow, packed streets of Edinburgh wasn't that bad. Just don't hesitate, stay in your lane, and have good brakes. I parked the car and walked up the Royal Mile to the Castle an hour ago. Had a brief conversation with the night watchman. Friendly, talkative, a big man with thick white hair. I have no idea what he said, but we had a nice chat, nonetheless.
       Found a Starbucks open and bought the worst cup of coffee I've ever drank. Worse than airline coffee. Thought of going to see the modern Scottish Parliament building, decided against it, too tired and went wandering north to find a short cut back to my car.
       That's how I ended up in front of the closed Salvation Army.
       Craig, a friend from Brooklyn, says that you are safe in a big city as long as you are where people are. Just me and the bass player now, and with his long strides, he's leaving me behind. The narrow streets wind to the left and then right. There is a Full Moon tonight but it's in the clouds. The bass player goes straight. I take another left.
       After another minute or two of walking, I stop. Up ahead is a small store I've seen before, ten minutes before, when I walked pasted it.
       I'm walking in circles.
       Just behind me is a smoke shop that sells cigarettes and newspapers. I backtrack and enter it. A man of Indian descent is behind the counter. A black man to my right is reading a newspaper.
       "Could I have a pack of Camel Filters, please?" I say.
       I don't need cigarettes but I have too much pride to just walk in, like the lost tourist I am and simply ask for directions.
       "Be two Pounds ten," says the clerk.
       Jesus, that's over six bucks for a pack of smokes. I hand him a Ten-Pound note.
       "Excuse me," I say, as he's counting out my change, " Can you tell me which way the castle is?"
       He points 180 degrees from where I thought it was.
       He hands me my change and my smokes.
       "Thank you, sir," I say.
       He says nothing else, looking toward the guy behind me in line.

Just before Midnight:

       Usually I have to be in deep forestland or among the tobacco fields back home in The South, driving by an old country store to think about the phrase 'You can't get there from here.' Trying to navigate the one-lane streets of Downtown Edinburgh, and struggling to get to the Scottish Parliament building and I reminded of that old rural phrase.
       I pull over on a narrow side street and consult the map. I'm good with maps but this map doesn't tell which streets are one way and which aren't. I have a Scotland road map, not an Edinburgh road map, and the city map is about as big as a postcard. Not much detail.
       Then suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with fatigue. My eyes slightly cross. I've been up since dawn, walking the streets of Portree with a cup of Earl Gray in my hand, watching the sun break the clouds. I hiked Alpine valleys at Noon at Glen Coe. Photographed cows at dusk near Comrie. Walking the Royal Mile just a while ago. I need to get out of Edinburgh, find a rest area on the Interstate and get some zzzzs. But quick. My eyes cross again while I'm looking at the road map. Not a good sign.
       Let's see. I came in on Highway A90, just leave on A90 and that become the M90. Wait a minute. Right before the Forth Bridge, I can get on the M9 and that'll take me to Sterling about 50 kilometers away. In very small print on my map, just inside the city limits, it reads 'William Wallace Memorial', and about halfway between Edinburgh and Sterling is something even more important. The symbol for 'Rest Area'.
       I put the VW into first and head down this side street. Still traffic in Downtown but not too bad. Just up ahead I see an arrow sign that says "Perth. A90. M90"
       Thank you Jesus.

A little after 1:00 a.m.

       This isn't a rest area like they have on Interstate Highways in The States. Ours just have Men's and Women's rest rooms, and places for trucks and cars to park. You're lucky to find a soda machine at most of them.
       Not here.
       This is a truck stop/parking lot/petrol station/café unit, and it appears it's all owned by the same company. And unlike back home, where there are many exits off the Interstate, going to a wide variety of fast food joints and gas stations, this is the one of only a few exits between Edinburgh and Sterling.
       And the only rest stop.
       I find a faraway place to park. The wind has picked up. A partially hidden semi rumbles on the other side of a line of trees. Leaves from the trees cast frantic shadows on the pavement from the high arc lamps. It is bright as day but I'll find a way to sleep anyway.
       Then I see this sign. Says I can park for free for two hours but it's cost me two pounds to park for longer. Says go inside and buy a ticket. Warns of a high fine if I don't buy a ticket. Geez. I crawl out of the VW and sleepily make my way to the café. There is a cafeteria that is open but almost completely vacant of customers except for a middle aged couple in a booth. Back in Arizona, there's always folk eating food, at the truck stop cafés. 24 / 7 / 365. A small snack store is just off to the left of the entrance from the parking lot. A middle aged slightly heavyset woman with a choppy hairdo mans the register. A young rough pretty girl in her twenties stands beside her. You can tell they both work there.
       "Morning. How are you?" I say.
       "Very well, sir," says the older woman.
       "I talk with ya later," say the younger woman.
       "I look forward to it," say the older woman, then turns to me. "What can I do for you, sir."
       "I need to buy a parking lot permit so I can catch some sleep. Said come in here and buy one for you," I say.
       "Yes, yes," she says, "We have them right here, I believe."
       She begins to rummage through a drawer looking for something. She's not finding it easily.
       "Well, they're here somewhere…Here we are."
       She pulls out a small receipt book of sorts, then she looks puzzled.
       "Now how…I need to go find Jimmy…I'll be right back."
        The middle-aged woman with the bad hair leaves her station as a cashier and goes toward the dinner room just a few feet away. A young man, somewhere in between her age and the age of her female coworker is mopping the floor.
       "Hey, Jimmy," she yells, "I need you to come and fill out a parking permit."
       "A what?" he yells back.
       "One of the tickets we sell for parking."
       Now Jimmy looks puzzled. Then the light comes on in his face.
       "Oh yea. I'll be right there."
       And then I realized that I'm probably the first person to ask for a parking permit at this Rest Stop east of Sterling since Maggie Thatcher was Prime Minister.
       Jimmy comes and fills out my permit and I give him a couple of Pounds. I also buy a couple of Flapjacks while I'm there. (Flapjacks are a Scottish snack that is a cross between a Brownie and a Granola bar. Quite tasty. Comes in many flavors. I had about three of these so far today since I bought my first one this morning near Ft. Williams.) I buy a couple of Diet IRN-BRUs too. I have some IRN-BRU in the car, but these are ice cold.
       "Thank you all," I say to Jimmy and the woman with the funny hair.
       "You're welcome, sir," say Jimmy.
       "Have a good nap," says the woman.
       "Thanks," I smile. "I'll try."
       The wind is blowing hard now. A good thirty knots I bet. I get back in the VW, and grab my heavy jacket from the back. Not for warmth but to shield my eyes from the arc lamps. I start to lower my seat into a sleeping position and then stop.
       I grab one of the cold Diet IRN-BRU, and unscrew the top. It hisses with a fragrance of Orange and Steel. I take a long draft.
       "Ahhh," I say.
       "This is so good."
       Within five minutes, I'm fast asleep.

4:41 a.m.

       I wake up, feeling tired but wide awake.
       I put on my shoes and head to the rest area to tap a kidney.
       When I get back, I drink some more IRN-BRU, light a Camel and consult my Scottish roadmap. William Wallace is just done the road, say ten miles or so. Close. I look at the clock in the dash of the VW. 4:41 a.m. I've slept for three hours. Hopefully got a little REM in there somewhere. I check my gut. It's time to go. I start the car and head out of the parking lot and back on the M9.
       Little traffic. Just a semi or two. Still dark. Probably won't get light until after 8 a.m. Past the exit to Falkirk. Past the off ramp to Bannockburn. Sterling just a few miles up ahead.

       Falkirk, Bannockburn, Sterling, all names I remember from the movie "Braveheart". Places of battle with the English: Sterling, the bridge where Wallace won his greatest victory. Falkirk, where he lost and ran. Sure, the movie was filled with Hollywood inaccuracies. Wallace never had an affair with a French princess. The Battle of Sterling was at a bridge not at an open field. And William Wallace supposedly looked nothing like Mel Gibson. It's said he was short and stocky and not very good-looking.
       But he was a commoner who did rally the clans and the Scottish nobles for a while to fight the brutal English of their day. And he did run for years and was betrayed and did die a horrible torturous death, drawn, quartered and vivisected. And he did inspire Robert the Bruce to do the right thing after his death and Scotland did have independence, for a little while.
       And from what I've learned, most Scotsmen don't care if the film was wrong in spots. They love William. Always have. Always will.
       BBC Radio Scotland plays quiet folk songs with American accents. I take another pull off the IRN-BRU. The M9 descends off a hill and curves in a long arc around another hill. Then, off to my right I see something and recognize it immediately, not because I've seen pictures of it before. Just because it could be nothing else but.
       Lit by thousand candle flood lamps is a castle bigger than the castle in Edinburgh
       "Sterling Castle," I say to myself. The dark road gets a little blurry. I take off my glasses and wipe the tears from my eyes with the heal of my hand.
       I see a sign that says "Sterling, William Wallace Memorial, Next Exit"
       Don't have to tell me twice.
       Sterling is a small city it seems. Then again, you can hide a lot of homes in the hills. No one besides an occasional milk truck are on the streets. After stopping for a second in a parking lot to check the map, I'm off again. Numerous road signs direct me toward the Wallace Memorial. I put down my map after a few blocks and stop consulting it. I'll just follow the signs.
       Soon I see, a mile up ahead, a high hill with a brightly lite stone tower at its peak. Another Wallace sign points me that way. Gotta be. A couple minutes and I'm in the parking lot of the Memorial. No cars. Gift shop closed. Lot of places to park. I stop and begin to get my camera gear
together and then I have a strong intuition.
       "Don't stay long," it said, "It''ll take you out of the Pipe.”
       "Five by five," I say to myself.
       I know what getting out of the Pipe means. Means the rhythm of the coming day will be completely different. I'll meet different people, see different things, feel different feelings, all because I'm on the road a half hour too early or an hour too late.
       I lock the car and take my Rollei, the tripod but leave the hoops and such. I may not shoot at all.

       As I approach the forest trail that leads to the top where the Wallace Memorial stands, I notice a sculpture off to my left, with a big fence around it. Must protects it from vandals. Before I even get close, I can tell there is no shot with that eight foot fence surrounding the piece.
      Then I smile. I bet this is the Wallace sculpture I've heard about, the one that looks like Mel Gibson. Sure enough, as I approach the fence, I can see the word "Wallace" carved in its base. I chuckle a little. Then I read the sign that describes the artist and his piece.
       Seems that there was this Scottish stone mason who was ill, couldn't work and had "lost the will to live." Then he saw the movie Braveheart and it inspired him to get help and get well again. He did and in gratitude, he carved this sculpture of one of Scotland's favorite son.
       It's a crude thing, made for a single block of granite. Wallace (Mel) hold his shield in his left hand, his 5 foot claymore in his right. And his mouth is wide open as if he's screaming a battle cry prior to charging the British at Sterling Bridge. I feel a little ashamed now. I've been making fun of this sculpture for years, telling the story of the new sculpture at Sterling that looks like Mel Gibson instead of the real man. Now that I know the story of the sad mason who was lifted from his malaise by Mel and his movie, I feel guilty for poking fun. There's a black and white photograph there, of the mason, smiling, standing proudly before the sculpture he has made. Who am I to judge? And it is so primitive, his technique. Makes the piece even more beautiful, and endearing. If some slick academy artist had made it, it wouldn't have the soul that this has.
       I still smile. I don't laugh anymore.
       I find the forest path and make my way up. Steep but good. Cicadas chirp in the trees, some stopping when I get close, starting up again after I've passed by.
       "Elves could live here," I whisper to myself.
       In no time I'm at the top. I compose a shot but it's dull. The postcard I bought of this monument on the Uig Ferry is better than anything I could shoot right now. I grimace at the thought of not taking any pictures, but I keep hearing the still voice in my head saying 'It'll take you out of the Pipe." I place my hand on the monument, close my eyes, and head back down.
       The cicadas rise and fall as I pass again. A little island of dense forest in the middle of a modern city. An elf disappears behind a tree.
And then I'm back again at the stonemason's Wallace. The mason’s name is Ian. I smile again.
       "Well done, Ian,’ I say, “Well done."

6:30 a.m.

       I miss the sea. Christ, I've only been away for a day. I could smell it in Edinburgh last night, but I didn't see it. I need to see it again. A9 to Perth , then catch the A90 to Dundee. Dundee. I like the way that town sounds, plus that city is right on the sea. Let's do it.

7:30 a.m.

       Light now. Overcast. A bit rainy just North of Dundee now. Hungry as hell. Got another cup of horrid coffee at a gas station back in Perth. I need some real food and a better cup of Joe's.
       Then I see the Golden Arches and laugh out loud. What better place to get an Egg McMuffin and a big cup of strong coffee that at the McDonald's just outside of Dundee.
       Twenty minutes later, I'm fat and happy in the Mickey D. parking lot, sipping the good strong American coffee, burping up some of my hash brown patty. On my Michelin map I notice the word 'Cliffs' just north of the little town of Arbroath. Bet I can see the sea from there.

8:00 a.m.

       Clouds low. A strong drizzle. Not mist, not rain, something in the middle. A soccer field behind me. The clock tower of Arbroath a few hundred yards to my right. A paved path moving up to higher ground. And right in front of me is the English Channel. White caps roll toward the shore.
       I take a very deep breath.
       Grab the Rollei, the tripod, me smokes and lock the Polo.
       The parking lot is quite large. Bet on the weekend, quite a few local folk come to play football or sit by the sea. Just me and another car is all that’s here this morning though.
       I walk across the lot and step onto the nice smooth asphalt path that appears to skirt the edge of the sea. Then I see a small sign, nicely carved on a plank of wood.
       “Beware of Dangerous Cliffs. Take Great Care.”
       I smile, thinking how eloquent, how English.
       A minute later, I realized they weren’t kidding. The path runs right along the edge. Sometimes, the edge leads to a gently descending hill that anyone could easily walk down but more often than not, the edge is a sheer cliff face, a drop straight down at least fifty feet to wet rocks below. No fence. Just a bench every so often to rest on. What a delight, I thought, to not be protected from my own stupidity, that if I fell to my death, it would be on me. And if I'm safe, it's on me too. And just as important, the view isn't obscured by a silly fence of some sort. Waves explode on the rocks, then shower down a curtain of mist. Beautiful.   

       A sign points toward The Devil's Needle. And then I see the Needle itself, a large arch of rock that reminds me of the Canyonlands of Utah. Except the Canyonlands don't have exploding ocean surf. I gingerly walk down the grassy slope toward the arch. Spiral in the sand and rock? No. Straight shot of the arch and the channel instead. Heavy mist coats me and my camera as I take a few exposures. I try and time it so I get the raising spray in the shot but never time it just right. Not a biggie. I click off a few more exposures, then pack up my gear, but terry a while, looking at the sea. The sea smells pretty much the same here, as it does at the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia or at Bahia Kino in Sonora, Mexico. Salt is salt. Maybe a bit more earth and peat to its fragrance but basically the same salt water smell. My glasses become foggy from the salty mist. I usually don’t care for that but today, I couldn’t care less.
       Then I slip on a wet rock near the edge, grab the ground and stop my fall. I slowly rise to my feet and take a few steps back from the edge. Take great care, Stu. Do as the sign says.

10:30 a.m.

      Leaving Arbroath but not on the A92. Seems I can easily wander though some farmland on rural roads, and near Lunan Bay, get back on the A92. Back on the single tracks, but this time, these are hedge roads. On Skye, on the single tracks, I could see a car coming for miles. Here, on the East Coast, I take it much slower, especially when I’m coming around a blind corner made by high hedges.
      Then I hit a crest of a little hill out of the hedgerows and large fields open up in front of me. A tractor is off to my left, tilling the October fields. Maybe planting. I really don’t know. Sea Gulls follow closely behind the tractor, settling ever so often to feed on what the blades have turned up. The overcast has deepened but the rain has almost completely stopped. Trees are here and there, mostly along the road. I’ve seen two cars and one tractor in the last 20 minutes.
       I then take a sharp left and almost slam on my breaks.
       There, in front of me, is one of my favorite sights on any road, anywhere in the world.
       A long straight line of pavement, with trees making a cathedral overhead. Not that many trees here really, but enough to make a bit of a Tree Church. A few ribs for an imaginary wooden vault.
I throw the Polo into reverse and park it near a gate to one of the fields. Wind gusts throw the few leaves left on the branches of these trees, down to the ground. I look behind me, ahead of me. No traffic. Only sound is the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, and the hum of that tractor plowing the earth to my left. The gulls are silent.
       I set up my Rollei and tripod right in the center of the lane. I’m a little nervous, knowing that I could get run over by car from behind, coming around the blind turn. I close my eyes and center myself, opening my senses to everything, as best I can. I’ll hopefully sense a car coming, if one does.
       I stare into the ground glass of the Rollei, centering the images, putting the horizon where I want it. I walk with the Rollei, up and down the road a few feet to get just the right shot. I find the composition. I look at it twice, then again. I focus 2/3s out, and then get the #25 red filter from my bag and attach it to the lens of the Rollei. I open the light meter and take a read. Long exposure. Greatest depth of field. F22 at a 1⁄2 second. I’ll bracket at a second, two second and a 1⁄4 second. Check the focus again. Look behind me. No cars. I push the shutter.

11:00 a.m.

       Still here at the Tree Church near Lunan Bay. Smoking a cig. Listening to the wind in the trees. Shootin’ done. Lots more listening to do.

2:00 p.m.

       Raining again. Here now, in the little village of Keith, a few hours west of Aberdeen. Saw the police arrest a young kid in front of the post office. Bought some antihistamine at a pharmacy. Ticked off a cashier when I made a disparaging remark about the English. Seems her dad was English. Oops. The Tartan Museum was closed for the season. Not a big deal. Nice little town.
       Crossroads. Left I go to the Queen’s Forest in the Cairngorm Mountains. Straight I hit the northern coast at Elgin. Both roads get me to Inverness by nightfall, where I fly out tomorrow morning. What to do?
       Someone a few days ago said that in the Cairngorn Mountain is the only place in Scotland you’ll see virgin forest anymore. I take the left and head to the Queen’s Forest.

4-ish

       Son of a bitch. I’m in a tourist town.
       Seems like everyone else wants to see this forest that has survived so long, and frankly, I’m not that impressed. The old trees that I past on the gloriously winding A95, for the past two hours, are more majestic than these few trees. Plus those towns and villages were minus the thousands of people I’m dodging here, the throngs walking from high-end hotels to kitschy shops to pizza places.   

       And I can tell these ain’t Scots. Distinctively European with money.
       I’m in hell.
       I finally get out of town. (What town is this? Aviemore? That’s right. Could be Sedona, Arizona on a bad day.). Driving through the Queen’s Forest, I look less at the trees and more at the tourists on rented bicycles, trying not to hit them. Before too long, I’m above the tree line but this isn’t a pretty peaty treeless mountain, like the cliffs in Skye, or the hills on Harris and Lewis or the mountains of Glen Coe. This is a barren rocky hill devoid of any vegetation. The only life consists of human families in cars, in buses and on bikes.
       I don’t even stop to take a pic once I hit the summit. I just head back down.
       Within a half hour, I’m leaving Aviemore on the A9 heading toward Inverness, wishing I had stayed longer in Aberlour-on-Spey, an hour back, where the famous Walker’s Shortbread factory is. I did get some shortbread and oat cakes at the factory outlet store but I hardly walked the streets at all, didn’t wander about that much, in that tiny old town on the banks of the River Spey. I wish I had.
       I let out a sigh of regret and light a smoke. The pines are a little thinner and a lot younger as I leave the tourist valley and head up the hill to Inverness. Maybe I can save the afternoon yet.

4:30ish

       Don’t have a hotel reservation in Inverness. Shouldn’t be too hard to find a room on a Monday night.
       (Note from months later: It was a nightmare, driving blind for a hour or two, around Inverness, looking for a room, and for the first time, not finding helpful people in Scotland. Not a fun or interesting story. Just a bad dream of going in circles and missing exits in the roundabouts. I did eventually find a room in a new roadside hotel that still smelled of carpet glue.)
       Half-hour out of Inverness. I still have some sun, and I want to see the Clava Cairns, once more, before I go.
       I check my Scotland Michelin map. Great map. I see a back way to the Clava Cairns that bypasses Inverness altogether. Sweet.
       Sun going down. Maybe an hour left of light. And then the land suddenly becomes familiar. Culloden Battlefield Park on my right. The right turn I took a few days back, after I’d just arrived on the plane. The single track, my first one days ago, my umpteenth now. The little crossroads village with its white washed houses. The majestic brick train trestle that spans the creek and the wide Clava Valley. The pasture of cows and the lone Megalith in its center. The parking lot. The fence. The Clava Cairn. The Clava Stones.
       Standing again in the still space, my hand on the tallest megalith, thanking it one last time. Not crying this time, like I did days ago, but a bit misty nonetheless.
      “Thanks,” I say to the rock.
       I hear children playing outside a house nearby.
       I hear a cow moo.
       And then I have an idea.
       I look at the Clava Cairns and soak it all in one last time, and check if my gut is right.
       It is.
       I head back to the VW Polo and get my 2 1/4 Rollei and my tripod. I turn toward the Clava Cairns, place my hand over my heart and think ‘Thank you’ and smile. And then I turn away from them and head toward the cows.
       The gate to the pasture is just a few yards from the Clava Cairn parking lot. A lone six-foot megalith stands in the center of the field. A dozen or so Herefords wander around the ten-acre pasture. I pull back on the steel gate latch. I squeaks loudly, and every cow turns his or her head to see me. The gate creaks too, as I open and close it, entering the field. The cows stand stone still, staring at me. I begin to walk toward the single standing stone and then the cattle do an odd thing. Odd to me at least. All the cows from every spot in the pasture start to walk toward me. Guess they associate the squeaky gate with being feed or something, by their Master. I guess. Heck If I know.
       I find a spot close to the megalith and begin to compose a shot with cows in the distance and the stone in the foreground, but my bovine models keep moving in and out of the frame. I start moving the camera and tripod, here and there, to keep the cows and the stone in the square of the viewfinder but quickly I give it up. These cows are going to do what these cows are going to do. I eventually compose a shot with the megalith in the right part of the frame, the tree line to the left and the cattle in the distant. Then I notice the distant cows appear closer in the ground glass of the Rollei. They’re all still walking toward me, large boys and girls sashaying in my direction. I look up. Fifteen cows are coming my way.
       “Hey guys, how are you doing?” I say.
       They keep coming.
       “You all look great,” I say.
       I look down into the ground glass of my twin lens reflex, waiting for them to come.
       “Wow,” I say to myself, as I pan the camera on its axis. Cows on three sides. I swivel the camera back to the first composition I had. Stone on the right. Treeline left. I lock the tripod, always looking down into the viewfinder. Then from the left comes a large white bull into the frame.
       “Hey there, how are you?” I say to the bull, looking into the ground glass. He looks close. I raise my head from the viewfinder and look for the bull. To my surprise he is just seven feet in front of me.
       “Hey hey,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, when inside I’m a little spooked. The bull exhales but not in that aggressive sort of way. Just letting go of some air. At least I hope so.
       I look right and left and straight ahead, and I realize that most are the other cows are on a collision course for my position. Doe-de-oh-doeing their way to me.
       I throw back my head and laugh. It echoes off the trees.
       The cows keep coming. The bull continues to stand like a statue.
       And within a minute, I’m surrounded by cows
       I click an exposure, then another, and another, my cow models moving all around me. A young calf stays close to his Mom. A larger cow rubs her neck against the megalith, scratching an itch. The bull moves away a few steps then stops, looks at me again, appearing to wonder
       ‘...if you’re not The Master, who in the devil are you?’
       He exhales again. I laugh again. And I keep clicking away, one shot after another.
       Then, as if with a collective thought, they all begin to slowly move away from me, realizing I’m not going to feed them, that I’m not The Master.
       “Thank you guys. You all were great,” I say to their backsides. Then I notice a cow and her calf staying behind for a minute.
       “You’re so cute,” I say with a lilt in my voice. Mom swishes her tail and stares at me. Son bows his neck and eat some grass. I click another shot.
       Baby Cows. Standing Stones. The big Scottish sky.
       It just doesn’t get any better than this.

       Stu Jenks (c) 2007, except for the photograph by C. Baxter of the William Wallace Memorial