Scotland, Day 10

A much better day than yesterday. We left the Coach House, the apartment that we had been staying in. Our hostess, Mrs. MacDougall had been the “perfect” hostess and we’ll miss her. Right before we left, she brought out her husband’s kilt and other paraphernalia and insisted I try it on for a picture.
It was awesome. The man was about a 30” waist, whereas I am a 34” waist, so…it was a bit snug, but I figured out how to “kilt myself” without any help. The picture looks cool. She declared it “lordly” and said, as she had the entire trip, that I looked so Scottish. This is an ironic phrase, since I haven’t seen a single Scot that looks anything like me. In the places we had been thus far, I can count on two hands the number of red heads I’ve seen. I suppose they all left for America.
We left the house and travelled south-west to a place called Oban. We had heard that there was some sort of faux-Coliseum, called “McCaig’s Folly.” The folly laid in trying to go to see it. The streets of Oban are more confusing than the streets of New Orleans (pre or post-Katrina. Take your pick). We finally found a parking place, got out, and were immediately drenched by a pervading mist that passed for “rain.”
We put on our slickers, but the damage was done. We were waterlogged the entire two-mile hike to the tourist center to get directions and then up to the tower, which was ironically on the top of this ginormous hill. Of course, we had to climb up the @&$! thing, all 200 steps of it. We all hated life by the time we got to the top. Mom’s back, Dad’s knee, my flat feet. All were aching.
The coliseum thingy looked cool. It was built of sandstone (I figure) but had been leaking some sort of rock-juice (yeah…don’t ask) so that all of the walls were covered in this sickly white…ooze. I call it “coliseum thingy” because it was only sort of like the coliseum. There were no places to sit and barely anything to see. Waste.
We then traveled another 50 miles (I fell asleep) to the place that Dad was stationed 30 years ago, when he was with the Navy. The town – called Dunoon – is a lovely little bay-side city with buildings that have not changed since they were built in the turn of the century (the 20th, not the 21st).
Our new apartment is gigantic as it was made to accommodate 10 different people, but it was all that was available. It’s nice to have some leg room, but it is weird to have a miniature bathroom in my bedroom.
We walked all up and down Dunoon (by this point in the trip, my calf muscles are larger than my thighs were at the beginning of the trip and my thighs are as big as my waist, which has shrunk a bit), seeing the various sites that Dad remembered, seeing the places he lived, but we couldn’t see where he had worked because the Navy had left the area and taken their toys (buildings) with them.
On the way back, we stopped at a fish & chips shop for dinner (none of us wanted to cook). It turns out that this was the same shop that Dad had often visited when he was stationed here. The food wasn’t bad. Mom and I got chicken & chips because, well, I’m “allergic” to fish and Mom just doesn’t like it. Dad, however, went the fully traditional route and ordered fish & chips. I suppose I should explain to the more ignorant of my readers that “chips” is British slang for “fries.” They are like miniature steak fries. It’s like they heard of “French fries,” scoffed at the idea, and made something better.
We took the food back to our apartment and watched the last Lord of the Rings movie. Well, part of it. We got tired and went to bed right after the first big battle.
We had to get to bed early because tomorrow we are going to Edinburgh. I’m so excited!!!