Scotland, Day 7

Monumental decisions were reached today. Bacon OR eggs? Well, I’ve never been a strong supporter of the Egg Movement, so I cast my ballot for bacon. It was a delicious decision.
After rifling through the hard details of the day, we had to decide what we were going to do with ourselves. The logical thing would have been: stay home, watch TV, eat potato chips (called “crisps” over here). However, the Dickasons have never been accused of being excessively logical, so we decided to hike up the tallest mountain in Scotland.
Ben Nevis (the tallest mountain) is barely taller than a foothill in Oregon. It is 1300 metres (yeah, they spell stuff funny over here), which is roughly 4,000 ft. Mt. Hood laughs at Ben Nevis. However, it is much easier to get up this mountain than it is to get up Mt. Hood. Why? Because we took a trolley up to the top.
We drove the 20 miles (not kilometers. Great Britain does not like kilometers) south to the Ben Nevis park (or something like that). In reality, it’s just a bunch of parking spaces and a trolley system that goes up the mountain. We debated for a while: should we pay the 18 pounds ($36) to ride the trolley? Once again, our better sense was overridden by our desire to do something that was really cool.
We purchased 3 tickets and went to the trolley-car-area. So that they can have a continuous stream of people going up the mountain, the cars are constantly in motion, so you have to get into a moving trolley car. Kinda unnerving. We rode up (Mom occasionally being so rude as to talk while Dad and I were enjoying the quiet scenery. Shame on her) and dismounted at the top. Now…I kinda lied when I said that we went to the top of the mountain. In reality, we only went halfway up, because that’s as far as they allow tourists to come during the non-snowing season (it’s usually a ski resort). There were two trails, however, to two separate cliffs. Both trails were absolutely riddled with sheep crap.
You see, the Scots like their sheep so much that they let them wander everywhere and over everything, including mountainous paths that tourists would be walking on. Therefore, you couldn’t walk 10 feet (3 metres) without almost stepping in little pellets o’ poo that strongly resemble (but don’t smell like) chocolate-covered peanuts. I’m getting hungry right now just thinking about it (the peanuts, not the poo)!
The view from the first (and slightly less arduous) trail was beautiful. We almost got to push some other tourists down the cliff, but they turned around before I could sneak up on them. We ate lunch while looking out over the valley and opposing mountains.
We then retraced our steps so that we could hike on the second cliff. As we approached the fork in the road that led to the two cliffs, a class full of German high schoolers (secondary school) stepped out of the lodge. I was filled with dread at the prospect of having to share OUR path with a bunch of loud people that didn’t even speak my language! Fortunately, the chose the trail that we had just come from.
The second trail was less of a path and more of a climb as you had to walk on very rocky, uneven terrain to get near the top of the second cliff. Dad and I were fine, but…we kinda had to drag Mom along. Eventually, we left her for the figurative vultures and went off on our own (she came up later). The top held one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. We have pictures of it (which I’ll be posting some time after we get back), so I won’t elaborate.
The trip back was easier, if more boring.
So ended Ben Nevis (By the way, in Gaelic, “Ben” means “mountain.”) and so (more or less) ended our day. Dinner was spaghetti with a healthy viewing of the Simpsons (Apoo cheated on his wife with the Squishy Lady!!!)
Our hostess invited us to coffee and tea at 8 PM. I took my tape recorder and was able to record the entire conversation. Most of the conversation was one-sided as Buddy’s friend (Buddy was our hostess) dominated the evening with her views on…everything, but especially why she hated Margaret Thatcher and why she thought private ownership of property was a bad idea. Father delivered a brilliant reply by saying “Actually, the ability to own property was one of the reasons we Americans rebelled against you Brits.” She wound down after that.
Around 10 PM, I started yawning. Remember that I am still not used to this place’s time system, so it was easy to get tired. We finally left (though I had a lovely time with the ladies and recorded 2.25 hours of wonderful dialogue), but I left with the impression that I had wished that Buddy’s friend, Sarah, had let Buddy talk more. By the way, I have no idea why our hostess goes by the name “Buddy.” She doesn’t SEEM crazy…