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 Twenty Four Hours in Scotland
© 2007 Stu Jenks
[Images:"The Wallace Memorial" by C. Baxter "Near Lunan Bay" by Stu Jenks, "The Clava Cows" by Stu Jenks
— Click on the images for a larger, higher resolution view of the photographs.]
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 passed 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 drunk. 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 passed 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 am 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 through the clouds. I hiked Alpine valleys at noon at Glen Coe. Photographed cows at dusk near Comrie. Walkied 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 becomes 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 going to 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 folks 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'll talk with ya later," says 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 from 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 yeah. 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 down 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 heel 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 is 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 lit 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 protect 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 sons.
It's a crude thing, made from a single block of granite. Wallace (Mel) holds 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.
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 than 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. But on the weekend, quite a few local folk come to play football or sit by the sea. Just me and another car are 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."
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 to time it so I get the rising 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 tarry 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 brakes.
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 a 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 seconds, 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. I bought some antihistamine at a chemists. 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 Mountains 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 passed 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. It 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 fed 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 distance. 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 of 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 eats some grass. I click another shot.
Baby Cows. Standing Stones. The big Scottish sky.
It just doesn't get any better than this.
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