Despite popular belief, even for most Scots, the thistle is not the national flower of Scotland. It is, in fact, the tiny bluebell. The reason the thistle is so prominently featured in Scottish heraldry and symbols is from a story, I’m not sure how anecdotal it is, that during a period of Viking raids, Scottish soldiers were sleeping peacefully in their tents one night when roving, rabid Vikings decided to sneak upon them as they snoozed. To be extra sneaky, the Vikings took off their noisy boots and proceeded barefoot, only to stumble through a field full of thistle and fall apart screaming like “wee lasses.” This awoke the Scots, who had enough time to arm themselves and drive the Vikings away. Hooray, thistle!
I had been looking hard for fuzzy, purple thistle blooms on my tour, but didn’t see any, and the guide informed me that they aren’t flowering quite yet. The thistle is a sneaky plant however, and I just found out its defensive principles firsthand. I’ve checked into my cozy, 250 year-old cottage at the Carmichael Estate, and I decided to go out to snag some evening pictures of Tinto Hill in the distance. With bare shins I hopped over a little stone wall to walk a ways out into a field to get a clear shot, and after about ten feet, hit a nasty patch of either nettles or thistle. It felt like thirty little bees stinging each leg, and I yelped and limped back to the road towards my cottage. Luckily, my mom raised me to be resourceful, and I had a freshly used tea-bag cooling in the kitchen. I slapped it on the new pink welts rising on my skin like little ant hills, and thought that the story of the mighty Vikings squealing like girls was more plausible than I had previously considered.
Last night I was in Edinburgh, and met some girls I had befriended on my Orkney trip at the Black Bull, where I split an appetizer of delicious, homey nachos, and an order of haggis and neeps & tatties (mashed turnips and ‘taters). Haggis, in case you haven’t been grossed out by the idea of it before, is sheep offal mixed with lots of spices. Basically, when butchers chop up mutton, they take the leftovers and make sausage. Then they take the sausage leftovers and make haggis. Traditionally, haggis was cooked inside the stomach of the sheep, though I don’t believe that’s the case anymore. Sounds gross, but is so delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I had it on a hot, fresh roll with bacon this morning before I hit up the National Museum of Scotland, which was so huge I gave up about halfway through the Reformation.
Caught a bus from Edinburgh south, then another bus in Biggar to the Estate. It was blissfully easy, since when I got off the bus in Biggar, completely at a loss as to where to find the following connection, the 191 had rolled up just before. Whew. It let me off about a half mile past the visitor center, but right at the majestic Eagles Gates of Carmichael. Nifty! That meant I had to roll my little suitcase down the road a bit to check-in, but I passed right next to the field of deer that the Estate raises for meat. They gave me a funny welcome, and all turned to stare at me as I passed. The pamphlet says they’re “semi-tame.” After them was a sheep-field, and a ewe and her three triplets watched me until I passed. When sheep stare at you, you feel dumb, even though they’re adorable.
The two employees of the Estate that I met were really friendly. A little old Scotsman in a cap drove me to the cottage since I “haven’t got any transport, have you, then?” and a younger woman in the gift shop threw in lots of free veggies when I picked up groceries, including a pack of Carmichael Estate venison mince, which I put in my spaghetti for dinner. Tast-a-licious, as Dad is wont to say.
It’s 10 pm and there’s a full moon over Tinto Hill, but it’s still bright outside, looks like 7:30 or 8:00. In Orkney a few days ago, it wasn’t dark even at midnight. Just dark-er. I’d like to go out again to take photos, but it’s a bit windy and nippy, and I’m maybe 38 pictures away from completely filling up two 2-gig memory cards. Sheesh! I thought I had internet here in the cottage, via a modem, but I’m not able to connect, so I’ll be taking this post with me to Biggar or Lanark tomorrow to upload it when I find internet.
So far, I’m seriously pleased with my ancestral homeland. It’s lovely, has rolling hills, gentle roads, and lots of furry, four-legged creatures. Tomorrow, I go out to find the ruined manor house, the ancient kirk (church), founded 1058 (though that building is certainly long-gone), and hopefully will pet some tame deer at the Carmichael Visitor Center. Since the 15th is my 21st birthday, I think I’ll use that day to hike Tinto Hill, if the weather’s nice. On the photographs I’d seen, it didn’t look so big, but now that I’m closer, it looks pretty intimidating, and I can only think of how frequently the weather changes here from warm to chilly and wet.
I know this is ages long, but it’s a full update, and I don’t know when I’ll get another one! Be scanning my Facebook for photos and maybe even videos. Haste ye back!
