We're here we're here we're here.

We arrived in Aberdeen after the usual bearable, but only just, trains-Atlantic flight, and a long-ish layover in Charles de Gaulle airport. Somehow, seeing these faces makes pretty much everything else disappear. After dinner, we walked by the canal and the river in the rain. Picked raspberries from bushes along the car park. The fireweed, which is my favorite, bloomed everywhere. We intend to live it up while we're here. It's been a crazy summer. Living it up seems like the only rational response.

HOME.

This morning, I woke up and wondered, briefly, where I was. I thought I was staying someplace in between--not Scotland, but also not-home. Then I came to: I was in my own bed, in Utah. It was 7:45.

I made pancakes, thus further establishing the home credential. 

I got my laptop going again, which made it cranky and balky. My email was all, no room at the inn, bitches, so I had a merry time deleting, but also rereading, emails from the past. Totally a sentimental journey, except that I could not send any emails whatsoever until all that heartwarming business was entirely OUT. OF. THERE. Also, just for extra delight, a mandatory software backup. Good computer times!

But when things were humming along, computer-wise, and laundry was churning away in the machine, I went to the front door, just to get a bead on the front yard. There was a hummingbird. It was visiting a torch lily, aka a red hot poker, that we had planted midsummer. 

I opened the storm door just a little bit to get a closer look, and it rose, and redirected its whir at the door. It came closer and closer in little pulses. I drew the door a little more closed. It hovered in the air about eighteen inches away from me, its beak pointed directly at me. It felt like a greeting, a little. 

And then, it turned toward the columbine, and I went back inside. 

The laundry is done, and I have reengaged with work. Advance copies of my book have arrived. I'm making a list of places to send review copies. I'm tired and I have cried several times today. I miss the Scotlands. But I am home. 

A last garden.

Last Friday, everyone else went to Fyvie Castle while Amelia and I went into Aberdeen. The walled garden there was so lovely that the historian wanted me to see it. So today, when the beautiful sunny weather of yesterday had turned again to rain, we went to see it.

still green raspberries

purple cornflowers

'I have to say, I think this is a truly Scottish thing, to be visiting a garden in the rain,' said my daughter. It is a beautiful garden, entirely worth several visits. We opened the umbrellas and took it in.

inside the walled garden

 

still red blackberries

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scottish apples (James Grieve)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

true Scotland.

 

a lettuce so perfect it is a flower.

It was the children's first day back at school. We walked with them in the morning and met them in the afternoon.

chatting after school.

 

pretty excited to get there.

Then, it was the back to school feast, finishing reading ambitious novel to Miriam and Evie, watching our last few episodes of Still Game, and packing. Sleeping/not sleeping. And goodbyes.

 

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At the top of a mountain.

I can't--after all the times we've been here--get over the beauty of it. All of Scotland, really, or almost. You're in the most dire industrial park or retail assortment of big box stores, and within fifteen minutes you're away into someplace wild, or into the beautiful patchwork of farmland, there with a visible stone circle up a hill in the middle of the golden field, the Maiden Stone by the side of the road. You just have to open your eyes and there it is: dazzling, all of it rolling past in a tapestry that only ends at the hem of the sea.

Around these parts, Bennachie is the hill to climb, and it's always been on the list of things we wanted to do, but we'd never done it. This was the day to do it: the sun shone in over the trees this morning, and it stayed sunny and fair nearly all the day long, as we had read it would. It took a bit of prying to get everyone with shoes and socks on, snacks packed, a hoodie, water bottles--but we got out, drove to the trailhead, and began.

It's not a hard hike, first of all, but it's not nothing, either, especially with kids, two of whom had not hiked it before. My daughter often hikes it with friends, timing their departure so that they arrive at the top in time to watch the sun rise. We weren't up that early today, of course. But the air was cool as we went, starting where the trees and shade were thick, then ascending above the tree line. The last part is a little bit of a scramble up some stone, through the remains of a Pictish hill fort.

From the top, you can see the farms and the hills around for miles. In the distance, you can see the village and other small towns. We stayed up at the top, though it was windy and cool, because it was also brilliant and spectacular in the etymological sense of the word.

Tomorrow the kids go back to school. Then, the day after, we get on a series of planes to return to our lives and home, and the work awaiting us there. And Bruiser, and the ones we love who live there. As always, it's time to leave, or nearly, and it will be good to be home. But it's the nature of these things: I don't want to leave even so.

the beginning of the hike

 

up a stone section of the trail.

 

 

 

 

 

hikers all!

 

we're alive, dammit! (at the summit)

down a dry stone wall.

fireweed still a-blooming.

later in the day, we went to Findhorn, and the nature reserve there.

the tide was out.

 

it was Findhorn Bay, but you could see the way out to sea.

 

at the end of the day.

 

 

 

 

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sweet, sour, salty, bitter

We went to the shore of the North Sea, to Stonehaven. My daughter has been telling me about the open air seawater pool there for awhile, which seemed to me to be a fulfillment of a dream that I didn't know I even had. I remember learning to swim when I was a child. I learned in the pools at the Officers Club of the Air Force Bases we lived on, at Edwards AFB and then in Japan, at Yokota. I had a yellow patch sewn onto my swimming suit that indicated I was bona fide for deep end action and the diving board.

The thing I love the most about being in the water? The way my legs float up when I lean back into the water. The way I feel buoyant.

For a few years I swam laps at a pool in Kearns. The thing I loved most about swimming laps? The way I put my head in the water, goggles affixed, and swam and swam without speaking to anyone, focused only on my stroke and the specific number of the lap I was currently doing, and where it fit into the overall scheme of a mile. It felt pure.

Going to a pool--especially going to a pool with a lot of people, some of whom are children--is a logistical feat. Everyone has to have all their gear. My daughter was the commander of our operation, and a fine one she was. We got to the pool, put our clothes in her bag, put that bag into a locker, took our towels out, and got into the pool. The North Sea, in case you are unaware, is cold. As in: COLD. But this pool is heated. It's heated seawater. Salty. It felt extra buoyant to me. I felt a surge of elation--'elation' is not too strong a word.

I swam a few laps, not too strenuous, and played with the kids, and swam a little more. The air outside the pool was brisk. It was sunny, and warm-ish, but not warm, precisely. The pool was full of families, everyone having a fine time. One dad had his probably five month old baby, wearing an armament of a floatie suit. The baby looked serious. The dad was full of joy. We all beamed at each other. I swam a couple more laps.

When we were done, there was the business of getting out into that air, bustling back to the locker room and showering off some of the salt, then getting into our clothes. It's this bit that can make going swimming feel like an ordeal in real life. You have to have a system. But on vacation, where ordeals can rather magically turn into fun, it was great. Was I hurrying anywhere? No. Did I have a meeting to attend? Not at all. Did I, therefore, need to think about how I would present myself? Nope. All I had to do was have clothes on so we could go buy ice cream.

We all got cones with all the toppings, which were: chocolate flake; little flat biscuit; little tubular biscuit; chocolate buttons with nonpareils on them; a heart shaped jelly. This, it turns out, is too many toppings, in my opinion, because they interfere with the actual ice cream eating. However, the toppings make an ice cream cone into a whole party. I parceled out all of my toppings, except the cookies, to the children, who were glad to have them. We ate the ice cream in the sun, with the ocean in view, and sea gulls crying overhead.

When we got home, we launched rather immediately into preparations for dinner. I mashed up a Jamie Oliver recipe for pho with this vegetarian one, with smashing results. I made perhaps my best tofu ever by first pressing the tofu to get rid of some of the water, then slicing it really, really thin, then filming a very hot pan with alittle sesame oil, placing the tofu in the pan in a single layer, putting a little brined garlic on top, and soy sauce, then cooking till any residual liquid was gone, or nearly; I turned each piece carefully, so that both sides got toasted so that it would all have that toasted, chewy, slightly crunchy texture. It was perfect. My favorite thing about preparing this soup? The charring of a halved onion and bit of ginger, and the dry roasting of star anise, clove, and cinnamon stick. The slicing of the red chilis, green onion, mushroom. The heaping of the mint and cilantro.

The fifth flavor, according to taste science, is umami--sometimes translated as 'pleasant savory taste.' It's separate from salt, sour, bitter, and sweet, but works in harmony with all of them. I'm thinking of the salt still on my skin. The memory of swimming in the afternoon, but also earlier, from my past. The pleasure of doing and seeing so many new things. The melting cream, the wheeling birds, the surge of water. The bite of chilis, the sting of mint. At night, after everything, going out to watch stars falling and falling from the sky.

 

we all scream for ice cream!

 

this pho was beyond.

 

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The Bestiary of Aberdeen.

Facts from today:
1. The University of Aberdeen uses the idea of 'The NORTH' (they may or may not use all caps, although I really think they should) to organize a program ('programme') of interdisciplinary research. The focuses of this research include climate change, the rise of early medieval kingdoms, northern temperaments, and northern colonialism. We saw an exhibit today in the university's library on the Far North, Arctic exploration, and art, anthropology, and science about the far north. Soul stirring. Obviously, any person of sound mind will want to organize a program of study along these lines. I know I do.
2. The library itself is rather superb. I did not know that a really famous illuminated manuscript--the Aberdeen Bestiary--is housed in its Special Collections. Check it out here and here--we saw a great digital exhibit at the library itself.
3. The Cairngorms, and Cairngorms National Park, are actually rather close to Aberdeen. The highest mountains in the UK are within the Cairngorms. Also, Cairngorms National Park is synonymous with The Highlands.
'Would you say that we're in The Highlands?' I asked, as we passed into Cairngorms National Park.
'Yep,' my daughter said.
'We just passed a sign that said, You are in The Highlands,' pointed out the historian.
Ahhhhhhhh. HIGHLANDS. So satisfying.
4. We went to Muir of Dinnet, which is a National Nature Reserve within the Cairngorms, the one closest to the cities in the east part of Scotland. Red deer and red squirrels, as well as the Scottish Wildcat, are at home there, though the wildlife we actually saw was more along the lines of songbirds. It's also where Burn O'Vat is, a beautiful hollow made when ice from a glacier just hung around, carving out a narrow gorge, still wet and green, a waterfall splashing into its base. There are also two lochs, Davan and Kinord, and a big peat bog that's being restored. We took a couple of sweet, not too taxing hikes (that's how I like 'em) on a perfect day.

Miriam

Evie

Amelia, Eli, the historian

the three

the waterfall

scrambling into the Vat

looking across the bog

maybe a foxglove?

grass & sun

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We see Jupiter Artland and it is everything I hoped for.

The Davies children are art troupers. They like seeing art and making art and they are fine tramping around among, let's face it, art that is not necessarily just on walls. This is splendid, since we also love seeing art and making art and are fine tramping around all sorts of art.

Awhile ago--I can't remember where, why, or when, maybe in The Guardian?--I read about Jupiter Artland. It is a vast property, an estate, where much of the land is dedicated to a fairly permanent collection of sited, outdoor pieces, most of them created specifically for the location. I remember thinking: I want to go there. And periodically, we would figure out whether our Scotland plans might include a trip to this slightly out of the way place. It's near Edinburgh, but it's not on the way to anything--it's out of the way from everything. But this time, we made it a destination rather than a 'we'll see it if we can,' and it was quite wonderful.

One of the major pieces is a landforms piece called 'Life Mounds,' drawing on ancient landforms for hill forts and burial mounds. There are beautiful sculptural hills and pools of water. All sorts of people were in, around, and on the hills. There was not one vantage point that did not reveal something about the piece. You could spend hours.

We were there for several hours, including a tidy and delicious lunch at the cafe. (Oh how we love a museum cafe! And this one did not let us down, not remotely!) We were, in the end, tired, but full of things to talk about. Here are some of the pieces we lingered at and experienced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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