From the UK

Greetings from Arcadia,

We’re running through a maze of corridors, down winding staircases, down an elevator, up an escalator, then more stairs and doors on the left, then the right. One of us trips on the escalator, blood, a cry of pain, then more running, more doors, and finally, we arrive sweating, breathless, and exhausted at Gate 36 of the Dublin Airport, just in time to be bussed out to a noisy prop plane on the last leg of our journey to the motherland, to Scotland.

No, not a bad dream, but it is an inauspicious beginning to a trip a long time in the making. When I first told my family about my plan to travel the world, I invited my sister, Erin, and brother, Ryan, along for a piece of the journey. I told them I’d go wherever they’d like to, and would be happy to have their company, no spouses allowed, just the three of us exploring someplace new, together. A bit to my surprise and delight, they seemed to warm to the idea right away, and faraway destinations like Monaco, Greece, and South Africa were tossed around before we decided on Scotland. A place I’d been to very briefly (just three days in 2015), but wanted very much to explore in more detail. We have Scottish heritage through the Frame side of our family, and it seemed appropriate somehow to go see one of the places we came from as a family unit. And besides, there are few things more beautiful than the Scottish Highlands.

This was my first foray into group travel, as I’ve been winging it solo for the last seven months. Though there have been several family road trips and vacations in our youth, we’ve never traveled together just as siblings. I hope it’s not the first and last time we ever travel like this, as I enjoy their company immensely and (perhaps because we’re all quite alike) we enjoy doing and seeing similar things. There wasn’t a day that went by without at least a few The Office or Parks and Rec references thrown around, and I had forgotten how nice it is to be able to have people to talk to, after long stretches of solitary traveling.

After a red eye flight from Toronto to Dublin, a mad dash through the airport, then a quick flight to Edinburgh, we landed in a rough state. Ryan and I were exhausted, jet lagged, and slightly queasy, but Erin was another matter altogether. She had become extremely nauseous en route, and spent the first eight hours in Scotland hovering above the toilet in our apartment (which had mercifully been opened early for us, since we arrived first thing in the morning). Ryan and I made our way into central Edinburgh, via Sergei the Nascar Uber driver, and got a walking tour of the wynds (alleyways with an outlet) and closes (alleyways without an outlet) of the famous Royal Mile of Edinburgh. We were too tired to wait for a real bedtime, having had exactly zero hours of sleep the previous night, so we fell into bed around 4:30 in the afternoon. As an indication of exactly how disorienting jet lag can be, I woke up four hours later, at 8:30 p.m., entirely convinced that I had slept through the night and it was now 8:30 a.m. I was collecting my clothes and ready to start the day when Erin looked over at me and we had a brief argument about the 12 hour clock before I consulted Google about the time and realized that I had a nice night of sleep ahead of me. I’ve found that traveling forward in time tends to be much more physically taxing than traveling back, and this trip was no different.

Ah, the restorative powers of sleep. There’s nothing that can’t be accomplished after a good eight hours. We struck out for our epic road trip around Scotland the next morning, heading north to our first destination, Pitlochry, at the edge of the Cairngorms National Park. I got the honor of being the first driver in The Golf, given my status as an elder statesman of the wrong-side-of-the-road-driving club. Erin and Ryan got their first glimpses of the Scottish countryside as we made our way out of hectic, tourist-mobbed Edinburgh and into the highlands. We stopped in Stirling to tour the massive Stirling Castle complex, and then took a self-guided tour of Doune Castle (or Castle Leoch to those in the know…for you Outlander fans reading this, Sam Heughan narrates part of the audio tour). We toasted our first real day in Scotland at the little hotel pub that night, Erin and Ryan with a local draft, and me, of course, with some Scotch whisky.

We explored the Cairngorms the next day, the highlight of which was climbing partway up Cairngorm Mountain, and a very fun sheepdog demonstration, and having seen one once before, it never fails to amaze me how incredibly smart and focused the working dogs can be. There was a batch of rascally puppies gamboling around and entertaining the visitors, but when they brought out the tiny, month-old puppies to pass around, the look on my sister’s face was absolutely priceless.

On our way to our overnight stop near Inverness, we stopped at the Clava Cairns, which are prehistoric burial chambers surrounded by standing stones. We saw three different stone circles during our time in Scotland, and despite the large amount of tourists around them, and the bright daylight, they always felt slightly spooky to me. Or maybe just the mystery of the stones themselves was what impressed me. Either way, it always left me with a sense of wonder, and when you are actually standing there in front of the stones you get a better understanding of why ancient people buried their dead here, in a place that felt sacred.

We had a very early morning the next day, as we had to drive nearly three hours of far northern Scotland roads (read: not easy driving) to catch the 8:45 ferry from John O’Groats at the top of Scotland to the Orkney Islands. The unfortunate soul who had to sit in the backseat of The Golf invariably got carsick on the winding roads (and though we traded off, that lot usually fell to Erin – we owe you one). Once we made it over to the islands, we were popped onto a bus full of other day-tripping tourists and shuttled around to the major sites on the islands (where sheep outnumber the human inhabitants three to one, and the tourist to native Orcadian ratio is closer to five to one). This included a stop in Kirkwall, the only major town on the islands, where we saw a cathedral built in the 1100’s that is still standing, amazingly. We stopped for lunch in Stromness – where our visit happened to coincide with a local festival that included music and food trucks. Sitting on a bench in the town square, surrounded by centuries-old stone buildings, eating ice cream from Orkney dairy cows, we were treated to the bagpipes and drums of the Portsoy Pipe Band, and it felt like a quintessentially “highlands” experience.

We then visited Skara Brae, which is a Neolithic stone village that happens to sit at the edge of a beautiful crescent beach, where we enjoyed a moment of rare Scottish sunshine.

After stopping at the very impressive stone circles, Ring of Brogdar and the Standing Stones of Stenness, we were reaching the edge of our physical and mental ropes and ready to go back. We learned quickly that John O’ Groats doesn’t have much in the way of amenities, namely, a grocery store. But our sweet host, Wilma, supplied us with a bit of bacon and cheese, and with the eggs and bread we’d brought, we ended the day eating the best tasting omelettes in the world (food always tastes so amazing when you’re really, really hungry).

The next day was largely spent in the car, sightseeing the west coast of northern Scotland, though we did make a stop (at my insistence) at Glenmorangie Distillery for a tour. We cracked on, despite more than a bit of road weariness by this point, and drove around the Isle of Skye, before Erin put her foot down and insisted we spend a little time outside the car. We hiked to a lookout point, and enjoyed seeing a little more of the misty Isle from above.

We had another very early morning drive to Arisaig, where we were to meet up with a group to try our hands at sea kayaking, which was new to all three of us. After being decked out with waterproof jackets and some sort of elastic skirt that keeps the water from splashing into the kayak, we were deemed suitable for paddling around Loch nan Ceall, which is a bay off the Atlantic, situated on the far west coast of Scotland. We were greeted immediately by curious seals, who watched us from a respectful distance, popping up around the kayaks and keeping an eye on our progress during the five hours we were out on the water. Our guide caught a non-stinging jellyfish, and let us hold the gooey, translucent mass before releasing it back in the water.

The water around the coast in this area is a beautiful, deep emerald color, which set against the backdrop of the black rocks and deep gray skies made it seem like we were paddling through a watercolor painting. As we paddled farther out, the wind kicked up and made going forward in a straight line a very tough job. With aching shoulders and backs, we finally paddled back into the bay and departed for our next stop, in a little village called Spean Bridge, near Fort William. We stopped along the way to pick up some food, and made two of the worst frozen pizzas in history before turning in for an early bedtime.

The following day we finally had a chance to sleep in and start our day more slowly, which was our first time in a week not getting up early and immediately packing to move on. We spent the afternoon exploring Glen Nevis, and hiking up along a river to Steall Fall, which is in a beautiful valley surrounded by misty hills. We stopped for a picnic lunch on the banks of the shallow river running through the valley, and instead of crossing the busy rope bridge, Ryan led us across the river, hopping from rock to rock to get up close to the waterfall. On our trip back across the river, yours truly missed a step and got my boots nicely soaked, so I squish-squashed my way back along the trail, and we went back a bit early to the airbnb, which was equipped with a Finnish-style barbecue hut. We had picked up some thin, tough steaks from the local grocery (which was really bore more of a resemblance to a gas station convenience store) to grill over the fire, and treated ourselves to the luxury of an ice cream bar after another successful day exploring in Scotland.

We were on a mission to find a great hiking spot the following day, as we passed through Glencoe Valley on our way to Glasgow. This was apparently also the mission of the other thousands of tourists in and around Glencoe, which is, to be fair, the most beautiful place in an already beautiful country.

I’ll let Erin take it from here, since I asked her to weigh in our her favorite part of our journey:

“I find it really hard to put into words all the scenery and time spent with my sister and brother. It was easy to agree on the places we visited because we’re all Frames and attracted to a beautiful quiet view. We mostly stuck to the small towns and remote natural areas of the Highlands. The Highlands are a magical place, mesmerizing in their beauty. I kept saying that it reminds me of Jurassic Park (silly comparison, I know) how the roll of misty clouds hang on the lush green and sometimes purple mountains. Sarah asked me to write about my favorite moment (as if there is just one!) of the trip. I can’t really choose a standout moment, because it was all amazing, so I chose the landscape that I can’t stop daydreaming about… On our last day in the Highlands we hiked the Lost Valley (Coire Gabhail) trail in Glencoe.

The hike was the most difficult one we had done, but it was certainly the most rewarding. Sarah, Ryan and I bought lunch to pack and headed out on the trail early in the morning. The trailhead where we parked was packed, mostly with bus tour groups stopping to get their selfie time, so we were worried that the trail would be busy, but it wasn’t too bad heading in. The journey wasn’t so much a hike as a long string of bouldering around large granite slippery rocks. Situated between two of the “Three Sisters” mountains the Lost Valley was on and off misting that morning and the mossy trail was so vibrant green, a kind of green that shocks your eyes. About half way in, we stopped for lunch at the bottom of a waterfall. We sat on some boulders and listened to the water flow as we munched on some bread and cheese. We carried on for another 30 minutes before we came to a spot where we needed to cross a shallow river to continue on. Remembering our training of crossing the Red Cedar River up north, Sarah and I took off our shoes and dipped into the chilly water. We crossed the river carefully by feeling the stones. And Ryan forged the river like a boss with his shoes on. We went along a little further and stopped a secluded area off the trail with crystal clear water and a large mossy tree overhead. Ryan skipped some rocks and we enjoyed the quiet scenery for a little bit.

We pressed on for another 40 minutes the trail getting more challenging as we went. We finally got to the Lost Valley. We stood there admiring the chance to be nestled perfectly between two mountains with the mist rolling in around us. Sarah told us the secret history of this valley which is where Clan MacDonald supposedly hid the cattle that they had stolen from their neighbors. I stopped to imagine men forging this path with cattle. Crazy, but also crazy smart place to hide cattle! It was a fantastic view and a fun challenging hike. I think we all left Glencoe, believing that we could have spent a lot more time there exploring all of its beautiful views.”

I too was sorry to say goodbye to Glencoe so soon, but we hopped in the faithful ol’ Golf as the rain started pouring down, while we made our way onto our penultimate stop in Glasgow.

If we were wet, cold, and a little bedraggled coming into Glasgow, we didn’t realize yet our spirits were about to be lifted by quite a treat. Our Airbnb was the best yet, by a long shot, and our mouths were all slightly agape as we were shown around a beautiful 1850’s townhouse, with antique furniture, original ornate woodwork, huge bookshelves, and 18-foot ceilings. We were starving after our adventures (and the past week of makeshift meals with substandard groceries), so we went for a dinner we knew would be warm and filling at a nearby restaurant called Mother India. Ryan enjoyed his first ever Indian meal, and we enjoyed sharing bites of each other’s dishes, and trying to decipher what the surly waiter was whispering at us as he stooped over our table.

The next day was dedicated to a food tour in Glasgow, a city with the best and biggest variety of restaurants in Scotland. Our tour guide, an American expat, showed us around of different sections of the city to restaurants and food shops. We tasted everything from a modern version of haggis, to stovies (a delicious leftover-version of roasted and mashed root veggies), to Scottish cheese, and the iconic shortbread, to some truly awful fried pizza and fried Mars Bars (definitely not my cup of tea), the locally much-loved and ubiquitous Irn Bru soda, and even Cullen Skink, which is a weird name for a tasty dish that’s basically a creamy fish soup. We stopped at the University Cafe, which is a very old restaurant famous for its homemade ice cream. With impeccable timing, we arrived just after their ice cream machine had broken, but after some impressive wrangling with the owner, our guide managed to get us tastes from the secret stash in the back; creamy coconut, nougat, and gingerbread ice was our reward for showing up with someone who has the right connections.

Our last full day in Scotland together, and we were on the road again, this time back to Edinburgh. We made a detour to Lanark, a small town about 20 minutes south of Glasgow, which according to the family tree, is where the Frames hail from. We got a coffee and a doughnut from the local bakery, and set off to the cemetery, of all places. We found it at the edge of the town, a shady acre filled with headstones dating back to the 1700’s, and probably even before then (though the oldest ones were unreadable). We walked around and found numerous stones with the Frame name, and some with very sad stories etched in the stone.

Ryan took the wheel on our way from Lanark back to Edinburgh, driving through gruelling traffic to arrive at our last stop. Since Erin had missed most of the city on our first day, we took her back to the Royal Mile to retread our steps, show her the wynds and closes and ancient corners of beautiful Edinburgh, and try to remember the anecdotes our tour guide had shared with us. We toasted the end of our trip at a restaurant that evening and shared a couple slices of really good cheesecake in celebration.

We said a sad, and sleepy goodbye early the next morning as I dropped them off at the Edinburgh Airport, and I made my way back to the Airbnb for some relaxation time, after nearly two weeks of non-stop action. It was a short-lived rest, since the next day I packed up and left for England. I took the backroads route from Edinburgh, down through the Borderlands region of Scotland and into northern England. My apartment was located in a very quaint village with a very English-sounding name – Kirkby Stephen. Though it was quaint, it was bustling day and night (i.e. there was nowhere to park, ever), since this is high tourism season, and Kirkby Stephen lies at a crossroads between the very popular Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales National Park, and the designated North Pennines Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

The following day, I undertook a first time riding adventure, at the Cumbrian Heavy Horses stables, in the Lake District. I had never ridden a draft horse, and since they were once a very important part of the local economy and agricultural scene in northern England, it felt very fitting to have my first time on a draft horse in this place. I’ve been a lifelong fan of James Herriot’s stories, and having re-read many of them recently (I can’t ever concentrate on an airplane, and his short stories are the perfect length to distract me while I fly), I remembered what first drew me to be interested in draft horses. His stories about treating these gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) giants, are both funny, witty, and show a real slice of life in rural Yorkshire in the early 20th century.

I started with a very wet drive to the western edge of the Lake District, and arrived just as the rain slowed (thankfully) and the wind kicked up (not so thankfully) over the nearby heather-covered fells. Since we were going to be riding up amongst the hills, and horses are not generally fond of high winds, my anxiety level ticked up a notch or two as I looked out over the fields of truly gigantic horses waiting to be saddled for our ride. As it turned out, somebody was watching out for me that day, or perhaps luck was just on my side this time, because another experienced rider, Alex, and I were given our choice between two large, gentle-looking mares. Alex, standing on the left side, took the horse closest to her. And I took the one on the right, standing closest to me. Her mount, Belinda, started off reasonably calm, and got progressively more anxious as our ride went along, culminating in a terrifying but impressive (for such a massive horse) series of rears and bolting with Alex on board, who kept her seat well until the end, when she fell off. Alex was alright, but Belinda had to be walked back to the barn, since she was not in any state to be ridden.

I, on the other hand, was on Kroov (that’s how the Gaelic name sounds, the spelling of it is impenetrable and vowel-heavy), a mare on loan from her home in Scotland, who was an absolute saint from start to finish. She kept her cool as Belinda lost it, and was solid as a rock despite winds that were howling so hard at the top of the hills that our guide Natalie was having to shout at us to be heard. We did a few gallops across the sheep pastures, and the feeling of sheer massive horsepower under me as we thundered across the meadows was both thrilling and terrifying.

When I ride, I’m almost always reminded that the reins are really just an illusion of control. Horses have minds of their own, and two feet of thin leather is not going to save you if they decide to go their own way. I was never more aware of how fragile this control is than when I was aboard a two thousand pound dinosaur of a horse (who thankfully happened to be happy to go along with my plans). I was riding with double reins for the first time, and thankful for Kroov’s easygoing outlook on a deteriorating situation, since my freezing hands lost most sensation about three hours into the ride, and we had to descend to a lower level to get out of the howling winds. I ended the ride thankful to get off, but even more thankful for a wonderful, gentle mount. I hope to get more chances to ride some of these amazing horses in the future, but for that day, I didn’t mind ending the ride a little early.

I spent the next day binge-watching The Great British Bake-Off and sipping a terrific Highland Park 12 Year that I brought from Scotland (cannot tell a lie, plus, it was raining all day). After kicking my feet up for a day, I was anxious to get back out there, and perhaps I was overly ambitious as I attempted to hike to a landscape feature in the Pennines called High Cup Nick. It started off well through about an hour of steady uphill walking, but according to my internet sources, you have to take a right turn off the trail and cross the trackless moor to get to the cliffs. This is where it went wrong for me, unfortunately. The moor looks flat and relatively easy on paper, but in reality, the heather and moss are three feet thick, and I was up to my knees in soft, spongy, uneven (and invisible) ground. After trying desperately to not sprain an ankle for what seemed like forever, scaring the random sheep I came across (who, without variation, always immediately peed when I surprised them), and walking amongst this featureless plain, I gave up. It was late in the day, and I could see clouds rolling in. Of course, this meant that I had to backtrack across the same difficult ground I had just covered, but I was justified in my decision to turn around, as it started raining softly on the way back. I was thankful not to be on the top of a large fell, alone, when it began pouring rain about 10 minutes after I returned to my car. So, not a hugely successful hike, but I still saw some of the Pennines landscape along the way.

The following day, stomach rumbling with a bit of anxiety, I made my way out of England, back into cloudy Scotland, and returned to the Edinburgh Airport for my next intrepid journey, to Georgia (the country). I’m writing this from a hotel room in Tbilisi, on the verge of another riding adventure, which will begin tomorrow. I’ll be spending almost three weeks traveling around the country, and I’m already certain there will be lots to say about this place when it’s done.

Wish me luck,

Sarah