There Ain't No Devil, It's Just God When He's Drunk

One the most daunting experiences, I find, is the uncomfortable position you're in when you're at a restaurant in a foreign country. Not because you don't understand the menu and might inadvertently order fried chicken uterus ( fact: it's street food in Taiwan), but because of the questions that looms at the end of the meal- to tip or not to tip, and if so, how much?

As a foreigner in another country ( especially as an American), you don't want to NOT leave a tip and appear to be the 'bastard American prick who thinks they're too good to tip', nor do you want to leave a tip inappropriately and be ''that pretentious American who shows off their wealth by giving it to the 'little people'''.

I remember my first time visiting the UK back when I was a 19 year old adventurer, rebelliously refusing to spend Christmas and Christmas holiday with my emotionally unstable family. My best friend, some others, and I decided to venture forth for 2 rollicking weeks of hardcore...walking, picture taking, and cheap sandwich dinners alone in our hostels. Although we were of age, we were way too scared to enter those daunting and very imposing pubs, so we just walked past them talking about how we would totally go into one later that night, only to head back to our hostel at 7 to sit around until falling asleep. Bad ass.

Then one night our other accompanying friend Jenny decided that enough was enough, and since it was her birthday, she wanted to visit a pub, god damn it, and was determined to have a pint of something called 'cider'. We happened to be in a pinprick of a town called Stranraer at the time, and the only pubby places we could find was a 21 and over strip bar and another wee place that was completely empty. We went in the later and, and Jenny proceeded to order a birthday Steak Pie and pint on Strongbow, while the rest of us just sat there not knowing what to do- what to order, what to drink, and how we would cope if they ID'ed us. Which they didn't. In the end, I think our other traveling companion settled on some form of alcopop like VK while Melissy and I just sat there thinking how we were totally saving £5 by not eating or drinking anything and chomping down on our awesome cold pancakes and cheese when we got back to the hostel.

After Jenny had finished her hot meal, we were left with the uncomfortable unknown of 'do we tip or not?' A young couple had come in, ordered a pint, and then split, and we stared them down the entire time to see if they left any tip.
"Well, I don't see any tip"
"Yeah, but they just got drinks...what if you don't tip for drinks, but you have to for food?"
"What does the guide book say?"
"I left it at the hostel"
"Shit...so...do you want to ask the bartender?"
"God no! Let's just leave a pound and run away"

So we did. Jenny left a pound on the table and we ran out of there like we had stolen the Mona Lisa. It wasn't until I returned to the US and quizzed a Scottish exchange student that I learned that you don't tip at pubs, that students are not really expected to tip in general, and that the pound we left on the table was probably stolen by whatever NEDs wandered in after us. But we didn't know, so what were we to do?

However, I find that while Americans are more eager to tip, both at home and abroad, while those visiting the US are a bit more reserved. I remember when Scottie first came to America and we went out to dinner. He was comfortable leaving a 10% tip, but could not understand why anyone would ever leave more. I told him that 15% is standard in CA as a minimum tip. He claimed that such a custom was stupid, but accepted it as part of American life. In his view, a tip is only worth it if you get actual service. Being thrown in a booth at Dennys and served cold eggs was not worth 15%, but he wanted to fit in with Americans. On the other hand, my dad is an extensive tipper. After walking in on a Sex and the City marathon, he caught the scene where Samantha takes Lucy Lui out to lunch and impresses her with a 20% tip. From then on, he started tipping 20% as well.

I bring all this up because of what happened today with Grandma. Grandma took us out for lunch after a fun day at the eye doctors and 4 ginormous loads of laundry at the laundromat (yay for being in a drought and NOT having water). Our meal came to $27something. Grandma took out $30 and made to leave. I told my mom that $30 was on the really low end, and that we should add at least a dollar or two. Grandma interrupts, saying "Oh wait, let me use my change," and then proceeds to take out a fist full of pennies. Now, I understand that money is money, but seriously! Leaving pennies as a tip, in my mind, is TOTALLY demeaning. If I were a waitress, I would rather not get a tip than a tip of pennies. "No, grandma, you can't leave 7 cents in pennies" "Oh, were those pennies? I though I had some nickles and dimes in there!" But no one but grandma had any cash, so we left the < $3 tip and ran out. Sorry, waitress!

But as bad as grandma can be in the tip department, she can't even compare to her sister. I remember with Ol'Auntie took us out for lunch. She seriously did just leave change. I think she added a dollar, and then emptied out her change purse, leaving a total of like 68 cents. No quarters. When I cautiously remarked that leaving change was a bit odd, she remarked "Why? They're Asian! They need change for laundry!" We promptly ran out of there too before anyone else could hear any more racist remarks. And I just learned from my grandma that Ol' Auntie got recently scolded at by her 40 yr YOUNGER boyfriend for not leaving a large enough tip.

It's bad enough when you're in another country and don't know what to do after dinner, but it's even more embarrassing when you're in your own country and stuck with people who honestly can't see what is wrong with leaving a small pile of pennies.

No, I didn't get a job. Or have really looked for one, since Mom decided that I would be their next painter. BUT I am being interviews nonetheless from the fabulous Erin over at andherheardisinireland.

1. What birthday has been the best?
The ones where I've been in the UK. I never really did birthdays growing up because my birthday is in the summer and all my friends were off with their parents on family holidays. So most birthdays consisted of me going out to dinner with my family. But over is the UK, I have the bestest friends ever, and while we still just go out to dinner, there is also mucho drinks and banter involved.

2. If English was your second language what other language would you have has your first?
A few years ago I would have said French, since one of my life goals in to be fluent in another language, and 4 years of high school and one quarter of French in uni means that French would be my closest bet. But I'm not that that into it. Plus thinking about the question, what it's really saying is "if you weren't born in an English speaking country, where would you like to have been born, since English is not your first language." Born wise, it would have to be Norway. Ever since we had to study Norway's socialist economy in high school Econ, it always struck me as a great place to have been born. BUT, if I could be fluent in another language in addition to English, I would go for Quechua. Because then I totally would be able to go to Peru and fulfil my archaeology dreams, most likely with a fatty (or as big as they come for South American Archaeology) grant since I would actually be able to converse with the local indigenous tribes that remain. I suppose then I would also have to know Spanish so I could fit in with every else.

3. What is your favorite piece of artwork?
This is a tough one since I was an Art History major. I also was a History MSc. So I like art that really rubs history in your face. Enter Jacque Louis David, especially during the early rumblings and height of the French Revolution. I'm a big fan of Oath of the Horatti



and Death of Marat, not just for the Neo-Classical mastery, but for all the historical symbols imprinted into them. Looking at either piece is basically like reading a historical text book on the French Revolution, but much more ascetically pleasing.

4. Where has been the best class you took in college, why?
Another toss up. Def Early-Modern French art with Norman Bryson is up there. Not only is Bryson a genius, he also makes class every fun, very easy to understand concepts, and opens your eyes to the history ingrained in each piece. His classes were very much like History..only with Pictures, rather than Paintings...let's talk about how we feel about their styles and what the artist was feeling.. Blech. The other awesome class I took would be Intro to the Inca by Goldstien. This was my first archaeology class on Peru, and while I had taken others on the Maya, the ancient Peruvians really struck a chord for some reason which led to this fascination with Peruvian archaeology. Everyone else in the class seemed to struggle, but for some reason I totally go everything that Goldstien was saying, and even enjoyed the readings...very rare.

5. What has been the most beautiful place you've been to and why?
As much as I would like it to be Scotland or some romantic scenery of the Highlands, the most beautiful place I've seen would be Avenue of the Giants in Humboldt County.

It's not so much the road through the trees I like, but the forest itself. I grew up in a forest very similar, but with much smaller trees. I love the overwhelming feeling of growth, the beauty of sunlight trickling its way down through the canopy, the, and the history that resonates out of these giants, many of whom have been around since the Alexander conquered the Mediterranean.


Everything is so green, there's hardly anyone else around, and you feel so at peace. There are loads of places to pull over and hike, and there are wonderful hiking trails that take you through the heart of the trees and along the river.

Thanks again to Erin and her questions. If anyone wants me to shoot a few questions their way, lemme know and I'll be happy to think up something.

Back to my mini-holiday last week- it was FANDABIDOZI! I love reconnecting with an old friend, and it really made me feel so relaxed and happy how easily we slipped back into each others' lives. Even though I am rubbish about keeping in contact with people while I am in the UK (me and phone don't happen too often), my friends matter, and I figure that a good friendship is one that you can just pick up right where you left off, no matter how long it's been since you've last spoken. Missy and are are like that. After barely speaking for a year, we jumped in the car, drove up, and had the best time ever. Always had something to talk about, were thinking the same things, and never at any point felt awkward.

Anyway, our trip began to a late start thanks to being New Years Day, aka hungover. Well, not so much me, but Missy. So I drove up to Eureka since I was full of pep while Missy tried to keep her stomach through the twisting dark roads. We arrived, found a Motel 8, and crashed. The next day we went into Old Town Eureka. It just so happens that at the time we were talking about...knitting. Apparently Missy knits too...and had brought her knitting...just like I had brought my crochet project. As we turned a corner looking for parking, I mentioned how we should look for a knit shop so I could get some double pointed needles for her to show me how to use, when BAM, we literally almost ran into a knit shop! Que spending 4 hours at the knit shop, spending too much on our non-existant budgets, and not moving apart from knitting and purling. But seriously, what else is there to do in Eureka?

Not wanting to waste all our time feeing our crack habit, we up and left at lunch time and shot our way North to Arcata, which, we were told, was 'A college town like Berkeley'. Ha. If Berkeley were the size of one city block. However, we did get FANTASTIC views going to Patrick's Point:



The next day marked our desecent back to the living via Avenue of the Giants and the horribly tacky throwbacks of 1950's tourist trap delights.

Avenue of the Giants is probably my favourite place in CA apart from the redwoods of Sonoma county. The trees are massive, ancient, and there is something so magical about the intense, verdant ocean of life that surrounds you.

A local giant Totally reminds me of Twilight...not that I am obsessed with that or anything...

We also made sure we caught the delights of the Loleta Cheese factor, with it's 39 different cheese, all of which we could sample at our pleasure. Heck yes!

We opted to take the senic Hwy 1 down the coast of Mendocino to Jenner before cutting back into the redwoods for home. And managing to catch some lovely sunsent along the way.


Our trip included Confusion Hill, Ledgend of Bigfoot, Chimney Tree, and the Living Tree House, all of which were ridiciously over the top and harkened back to when road trips were the 'thing' to do.

It was two night and three days of absolute fun, relaxation, and the exact escape I needed from live on the ranch...aka life with grandma again.

New Years Eve was sad and depressing rather than than celebratory- it was the gut wrenching day when I had to take Scottie to the airport, alone, and not know when I would see him again...ON OUR 4 YEAR ANNIVERSARY! I know, I know, drama queen, but it was very sad having to leave him at the airport to wander off to his fate (can I add that we had to leave the house at 5:00 AM), a fate which turned out to be hellish.

There wasn't enough room on the plane for him, so Scottie was forced to pay $200 for a last minute flight to LAX. Where he stayed for at least 6 hours before boarding. Once off the ground, the plane needed to make an emergency landing in Chicago. After finally taking off once more, he made it to England, only to find that he had missed his flight to Edinburgh and had to fork out £200 to buy a new ticket.

This was all unknown to me.

Having dropped off my sweetie before the sun arose, I turned around to drive my sorry self home and mope. Having failed at going back to sleep, I decided I might as well head out of my leg of a journey. Since my family's version of New Years Eve is having friends over, eating pizza, and heading off to bed at 9:00 PM, I decided to hightail it back to the glorious Sonoma country to see my best friend from elementary school.

And proceeded to have 6 or 7 margaritias and two or three lemon drops. All in all, it was a fantabulously drunk night of party revelery, and I magically managed to NOT be ill OR have a hangover. Giggidy.

The next day one of my best friends from university drove up, and together we escaped reality and ran away to Humboldt county to get our fill of redwoods, rain, hippies, and hicks. And we got plenty of all of those. Stay tuned for the adventures of Shady and Missy on holiday.

Travelling always leaves me shattered. I think I mentally think about how travel tires me out, and voila, I bring it on myself.

Yep, I am back from a WONDERFUL mini-holiday. On Wednesday, I took the train south of 4.5 hours and arrived in the bustling city of London where I met up with a pal from my post-grad course. After a delicious (and big and $14) banana and nutella crepe and a cup of tea, I headed even farther south to the beach side towns of Brighton and Hove (mainly Hove) where my super wonderful friend Kiki (as she is nicknamed) and her husband live for a fabulous Thanksgiving long weekend.

I've had Thanksgivings in the UK before, but nothing has been as delicious or authentic as what we had. 4 years ago, when I was in Edinburgh studying for the year, the abroad office put on a little shindig Scottish style, complete with turkey (the stuffing was ham and stuffed inside the slice of turkey breast like an embedded medallion of meat), kilted sausages (tiny sausages wrapped in bacon), and brussle sprouts.

Then, of course, there was the ceilidh and everyone ended up getting even more pissed at the pub down the street.

Also that year, my fellow American flatmate decieded to share Thanksgiving with the Brits of our flat. Unfortunatley, unable to find the turkey, Virginia (so I label people from where they're from...so what) bought a ham that ended up being too big for our small University issued oven and ended up being a half cooked half burnt to death lump of pig flesh. Also, the sweet potatoes and marshmallows were too bizzare for the Brits to comprehend and remained mostly uneaten, as did the collared greens. But she got an A for effort!

This Thanksgiving was great. We had turkey, corn bread (made with Polenta meal as it is known here), green beans, cranberry sauce, stuffing, and mince pies for pudding. And delicious Scrumpy, a cloudy apple cider that is apparently pretty prevelant in the south of England. Also, good banter, good music, and good company...it couldn't get better. I think the British guests found it to be nothing more than a large version of a Sunday Roast, but I for one, in the Thanksgiving tradition, was extreamely thankful for my friend for hosting such a great meal and for putting me up for 4 days and 3 nights.

It's the holidays and traditions away from home that remind you the most that you're not home, and being able to share Thanksgiving with another ex-pat helped to re-create that bit of home that was missing from those past Novembers, no matter how fun, strange, or memorable they were.

Back from holiday!! Yes, on Monday, Scottie and I departed his parents house in Fife for the wild, stormy North. Which now means that I have to spill all my travels on here.

We started out heading up along the coast road, stopping at Arbroath for lunch. Then we continued up towards Aberdeen because I just had to stop at Dunnotar Castle. This castle is AWESOME! It's surrounded by the bay, overlooks the North Sea, and kept me entertained running around it's massive grounds, searching rooms, and wandering up staircases.
It was magic.

The next stop was at our B&B. But first we had to get through Aberdeen. Now, Scottie passed his license a year ago, but never drove after passing it. So a week before he went on a lot of practice runs with his brother and dad, so he was a bit more confident at the wheel...and absolutely fine driving on the country roads...but we had to go and follow the advice of his brother's satellite navigation thing, and the bastard took us RIGHT THROUGH CENTRAL ABERDEEN DURING RUSH HOUR!!! Now I've done my fair share of driving though cities- San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego- but even though I have 8 years of driving under my belt, I still do my best to avoid driving through the city centres when I can....and even though I wasn't driving, going through Aberdeen with Scottie almost set me off in an anxiety attack. There were invisible bus lanes, pedestrians running out on suicide missions, taxi drivers of death, and impatient tailgaters who liked to ignore roundabout courtesy and just gun it. Somehow, Scottie kept his cool and we made it out alive, in one piece, and with no additional dents, dings, or scrapes. Whoo!

We got to our B&B and crashed on the bed. Then we headed back into town for dinner- in a town no bigger than a thumbnail, but which contained a disproportionate amount of NEDs, all driving around in circles in their souped up rice rockets, seeing who could have the loudest exhaust. Ugh. The next day we headed out early again for the next leg of our journey. This part followed the coast route before breaking off through Fyvie, then back up along to coast to meet Inverness. We stopped at Fyvie castle en route for a look at the amazing interior. Fyvie started out as a royal hunting lodge in the 13th century, then was bought and sold 5 different times. In the 18th century, it was remodelled more along the line of a stately home, and much of the crystal, paintings, furniture, and decorations are from that period. Then it was bought in the turn of the 20th century by a Scotsman who married a Louisiana shipping heiress, and he fitted it out with electricity, indoor water, and Tiffany lamps. Then after our tour of the castle, we were off to B&B number two.

Our B&B was a great place out near the Culloden battle field. Again, we set out in the early morning to make our way up to John O'Groats. Along the way we went through the little town of Cullen, known for its Cullen Skink, a.k.a. delicious fish chowder. And lovely California-esque beaches. This part of the drive was super lovely, and we had the good fortune of having sunny skies all the way through. John O'G is suuuper remote. But it is the northern most town in mainland Britain, which is why we went. One exciting thing they had was a large crafts centre of different shops that sold candles, pottery, and knitwear. Now my mom has been whining for me to buy her 'real Scottish sweaters from the Highlands' for ages, and I always just go to the charity shop and get a second hand jumper from Marks and Spencers...I think she is catching on. So I was excited to see a shop devoted to woolly hats, fair isle jumpers, and scarves, all made by little old Scottish women around the peat fire in the literal middle of nowhere. Except that it was closed for a week-including the day we were there. Pants. So it looks like mom is getting another £3 thing from Cancer Research.

Since the only thing to do in JoG is go to the crafts centre and Stacks, we made sure to do both. The Stacks of Duncansby are large rock formations that jet out of the North Sea about 2 miles from JoG. And trust me, there are pictures of them EVERYWHERE. Our B&B had 8 different picts of them framed up all around the room, on place mats, on coasters, and as post cards. So naturally, we had to head to see them too. So at 9 in the morning, we trekked out to visit the Stacks, while 30mph gusts of constant wind threaten to blows us away to oblivion. Then we headed to Dunnet Head, the farthest point North in Britain you can reach. And then we were off again, this time along the top of Scotland to the small town of Tongue for lunch. Then off again through the mountains back to Inverness. We left Inverness bright and early to head to Kingussie, our last stop before home. We got there with plenty of time for hiking, and went on a very picturesque trek up a hill that over looked the town. Let me say, the 250m ascent reminded me of how out of shape I am, and fatty over here needed to take copious breaks to pant. But at least it gave some lovely views. We also stopped over to see the remains of Ruthven Barraks, a fort taken by the Jacobites just after Culloden. Then after a restful night in the wonderful little B&B, it was time to head for home, but not after a stop to Doune Castle. Doune Castle is famous, not for being one of the most intact 13th century castles, but because of it's star role in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Yes, it is the castle that Arthur gets taunted from by the French who farts in his general direction and then launches a cow off the castle roof at poor Arthur and his comrade. But aside from Monty Python stardom, it's an all around awesome castle. You actually can climb up the twisting, tiny stairs to the roof, check out the rooms, the various halls, the bedrooms, it was just all around awesome.
Thus ended our fun and fantastic trip up and around Scotland. You would think that after seeing so much of this small country, I would done with it, but being able to drive around it only made me want to see even more. There were countless other castles that we didn't see, stately homes, new mountains to climb, the entire West coast to explore, and more... it's hard to believe that such a small country can still have so much more to offer!

Things have been rather heavy on here lately, so I thought I'd try to turn the mood around. Today was my last day working for the NHS, and even though I will once again be thrown into the unemployment ring until more temp jobs arise, I woke up with a very happy heart. The sun was shining, the air was clear and crisp, and you could feel the changing seasons. It was a perfectly (and one of my favourite words) autumnal day. So nice that I decided to walk to work, even though it meant walking for 15 minutes in high heels.

Along the way, I got the chance to let my mind wander. Scottie is finally taking some vacation time from work, and he and I are going to head North for some Scottish exploring. This got me to thinking about travel and the way people view their experiences abroad. Some base it all on entertainment. I've met a fair handful of travellers in hostels who base their opinions on a city or even country based on how many clubs there are, how cheap the drinks are, and how many nights in a row they were completely inebriated. Then there are those there for the scenery. They take loads of photos, but when asked what the city or country was like, all they can talk about is the architecture and landscape.

Now I would consider myself fairly well travelled. I tried my best to visit all my friends studying in mainland Europe my year abroad in the UK, spent only hours sleeping in grungy, dirty hostels in order to catch early cross country trains, and know how to live out of only a school backpack for two weeks. For me, while night life and scenery add extra flavour to a new place, I find the real heart of a city lies in human interaction- how people respond to complete strangers, their willingness to help others, their social implements, and how their systems help or hinder people.

Which brings me to why I love Scotland so much. While it boasts fantastic scenery, great activities, and good night life, it's the kindness factor that constantly uplifts my spirits. I know this is biased because I haven't spent 2 years every city or country, but having lived for years in both Northern and Southern California, I still find Scotland to have the largest kindness factor I've encountered so far.

My first experience with this was two years ago. My boyfriend and I were trying to get to sleep, as most normal people would at 2:00 am, when we were harshly awoken by a loud voice outside. 'Yer all right, pal? Hey, hey, yer all right? Is this yer flat? Hey- do ye live 'ere? You got to get up, ken, if this is no yer flat, you got to get up.' It finally occurred to me that someone had passed out drunk on the stoop adjoining ours. But rather than let the guy freeze to death, this random stranger passing by woke him up, stayed up talking to him for a while, and then called him a cab to take him home once he got him conscious enough. I was in shock. I had never heard of anyone going out of their way to help a drunk person- heck, back in PB, drunk people were falling around all over the place and everyone just pretended they didn't exist. From then on, I kept noticing small but kind efforts being made throughout the city; people helping old ladies in wheelchairs navigate rough pavement, strangers giving up their spaces on a cramped train for a mother and child, locals stopping on their way to and from work to help tourists with maps without even being asked for help, and strangers having a chat at bus stops or grocery store queues for the sake of just being friendly and passing the time. And these small acts of kindness rub off. A few months ago, I was walking down to the city centre with a friend and noticed a man scrambling around in the middle of a busy street trying to pick up a mess of fallen papers. Shady of yester-year would have felt bad for the guy, but carried on her merry way. But seeing one person join in the scramble to help this guy prompted me to join in as well, and with in a minute, there were 4 random people helping this man rescue his stack of papers from the street. The look of gratitude on his face was priceless, and I had a glowing feeling inside for the rest of the day.

I know that these acts of kindness are happening all over, but until I moved here, I never really saw any of them taking place. So everyone keep your eyes out and do your best to make sure that your city is well up on its kindness factor- it really impresses the tourists!

And I'm back! After four days of being in a state of almost constant sleep deprivation, I finally back in Edinburgh with pictures aplenty. The day began for me at 5:40 am. After sleep-walking though my breakfast and getting ready, I kissed my boyfriend good bye and headed out the door to walk to the train station. Fortuitously for me, it was at that exact moment that a taxi pulled up and my travel companion opened the door, motioning me inside. I was well prepared for the walk in the morning to wake me up some more, but you don't turn down fate like that, so I jumped in- besides, she was paying.

We get down to the station and because of the quicker taxi ride, have half an hour to kill before our train arrives. However, I'm a bit wary, since our intended train would only give us a 9 minute layover at the station, and with British trains being what they are, I felt 9 minutes was cutting it close, so I convince my friend to get on the next train, giving us 20 mins. at Glasgow. We get to Glasgow, my friend goes off to buy her breakfast (Burger king chicken sandwich meal deal that filled the whole train car with the aroma when she tucks into it), and soon we are off.

The train ride from Glasgow to Oban is incredible. I always like taking trains because not only are they still a novelty to me, they are also more scenic, less cramped, and just all around more magical than the bus.This is what the day looked like as we made the 4 hour train journey to Oban. Along the way, we passed some lovely lochs, forested glens, and glistening green hills. We finally arrived in Oban at around 12:30. Everything relating Oban and the Isles is symbiotic, which makes everything work out very nicely when there are no delays. The train arrives in Oban 10 minutes before the Ferry leaves for Mull. The buses in Craignure, the ferry terminal 'village' wait for the ferry to arrive before leaving, and arrive at the ferry terminal 10 minutes before the ferry leaves.
The ferry ride over from Oban to Mull is just as lovely as the train ride, but much shorter (only 45 mins). However, the ferry snakes pasts many of the much smaller isles, and we were treated to beautiful images of lighthouses, fort ruins, and endless rising mountains shrouded in the clouds. Apparently the Sound of Mull is chockablock full of marine life, including 4 different kinds of porpoise, humpback whales, orcas, basking sharks, sea otters, and seals. They apparently were all on holiday because we never saw any.

We arrived in Craignure and immediately jumped on the bus to Tobermory, the so called 'Capital of Mull' because it has the largest population on the island (aprox.700). Tobermory is a very quaint little town that you can tell caters to the tourists. Either that or the people in Mull have a deep obsession with scented soap, because there were soap shops everywhere selling about 500 different kinds of soap, from lavender bars, to heather scented soap on a rope. They also had this amazing bakery that sold fresh bread for the same price as a store bought loaf, and had super delicious baked goods.The town is split between the main street, which is one long street of coloured buildings, and the residential area, which is up this massively steep hill and over looks the town. It is no wonder that even though everyone in the viliage seems to get their dinner from the Fish & Chip van and follow it up with a few pints at the pub, they still have amazingly tight butts and thighs- who needs a stairmaster when you have to haul yourself up 400 meters of a 45 degree hill? Besides burning calories, it also affords lovely views of the town below and the harbour.We stayed one night in Tobermory, then caught the 9:30 bus down to Craignure, where my friend had managed to find us accommodation. Which turned out to be tents. We were given a little tent with two cots in it, and had to pay £2 for bedding, which turned out to be a sheet, and 3 blankets...but more on this later. We were in a rush to catch the little train which went from Craignure to the 'castle' Torosay. I say 'castle' because it is really a stately home. Castles are built for defense, and this was definately built for beauty. The amazing thing about Torosay Castle is the freedom visitors are given to explore. You can open the books in the library, sit in all the chairs, and poke around in all the little nooks and crannies.
All of it was very stunning, and the gardens of the estate went on for acres and acres trying to mix in a variety of different styles. The major one, popular in the 18th century, was classicism, so Grecian columns and statues dominated grounds.

We were incredibly lucky and even though the forecast had predicted heavy rain for the entire week, it only really came down a few times. The day we visited Torosay was overcast, but nice, and we figured we would be adventurous and walk to the nearby Durart Castle. Durat castle is a 11th century castle built as one of the most defensive castles in the Isles. It is also still the currant residance of the Clan Chief of clan the MacLean, a nice old man who greeted visitors in the gallery.

Continue the fun in part two!