Scotland Stories, Part II: Marooned in Mallaig
April 17, 2009
I'm going to go ahead and fast-forward from Day One in Scotland to Day Seven, because by the time I flew home I had begun to recuperate from The Plague and thus I already have my account of our momentous last day of Waiting Interminably all written up.
Saturday afternoon Paul and I arrived on the Isle of Skye. Finding our hostel of choice closed until 4pm, we drifted around Portree in search of entertainment and eventually alighted on the Tourist Information Office. While I was perusing postcards and contemplating the unending agony that comes of lugging around an overloaded duffel bag, Paul asked about directions to the Talisker distillery (one of the main reasons we had come to Skye). In the course of a few minutes our itinerary for the next two days smashed into tiny, nasty bits, because 1) the buses on Skye don't run on Sundays and, b) the Talisker distillery is closed on Sundays. The woman at the TI was more than willing to direct us to Talisker on Monday, but since we had to be back in Edinburgh on Monday night---and traveling there would eat up the better part of a day (though we had yet to realize JUST HOW MUCH)--the distillery visit was scrapped. Damn. I have no particular love for whisky and Paul had been to Talisker before, and we came up with the alternate plan of going to The Old Man of Storr pretty much instantly, but still. It was a bit disappointing. The woman very helpfully produced a slew of brochures and time-tables to coordinate our journey back to Edinburgh on Monday (bus to ferry to train), and that was the best we could do. At least we would see the Glen Finnan viaduct on the way back, and perhaps arrive in Edinburgh early enough to climb Arthur's Seat, right?
Oh, if only.
The weekend we were in Scotland occupied an uneasy position in the fine world of UK travel, as it happens. On Saturday night/Sunday morning, the UK "sprang forward," and then most of the bus and train schedules, business' operating hours, and seasonal prices underwent a weekend transformation, since April marks the beginning of the tourist season (apparently). So when Paul and I presented ourselves at the Portree bus stop at 8:15 on Monday morning, we were slightly mystified when no bus arrived. While we were waiting we had plenty of leisure to examine the rather confusing bus schedule posted in the shelter, and we found that the timetable had changed that very morning. Until March 26, on weekday mornings there was a bus to Armadale (the ferry landing) at 8:15AM. Beginning March 27, there were buses at 7:30AM and 9:15AM. So we waiting another hour--and neither of us are good at waiting, but what can you do?--and caught the 9:15 bus. In Armadale we found that the next ferry would leave at 11:35, which gave us yet another hour to kill. This, I have to admit, was not a tragedy, because right next to the terminal we stumbled across this privately-produced "nature walk" that was half organic herb garden, half installation art, and I fell totally in love with it. I can't even describe it, but I took pictures. It was magical.
We caught the ferry in due course and arrived in Mallaig, on the Scottish mainland, just before noon. Stepping into the train station, Paul and I are summarily informed by the ticket agent that the rails are undergoing construction through May (THIS must have been why my beautiful Jacobite steam train wasn't running), and the next bus that can take us to Fort William, where we will be able to catch a southbound train to Glasgow and thence to Edinburgh, is at 4:05PM. We will not be seeing Glen Finnan; we will not be getting back to the city until 10:30PM; and we have four hours to kill in the emptiest little fishing village you ever set eyes on.
Did I mention that neither of us are good at waiting?
We drank a pot of tea in one of the restaurants. We visited the microscopic public library so that Paul could use the internet to make plans for Italy. We ate lunch in the other restaurant. (I had Cullen Skink simply because it I wanted to eat something that looks like it says Cullen Stink, but actually it is quite a good fish and leek chowder.) Nearly all of the shops in town were closed for winter (and for good reason), but we visited all of the businesses that were open. Twice. We danced to Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb" in The Spar. I blew my nose a few hundred times. We poked through The Fishermen's Mission, where they were holding a secondhand book charity sale, so that I could pick up some reading material for the trip home. To say that we passed a very dull four hours would be a serious understatement, and all the while I kept thinking of the things I had planned to do on our last day in Scotland that were now out of the question. I was eventually reduced to standing in the middle of the (deserted) street, bellowing, "I JUST WANT TO GET OUT OF MALLAIG!"
(Then I blew my nose again.)
In retrospect, hitchhiking as far as Fort William might have been a fine adventure, but it was a drizzly sort of day, my duffel bag wasn't getting any lighter, and there was no guarantee that there were in fact trains running out of Fort William before 5:00 anyhow. Mostly we just kept kicking ourselves--and the woman at Tourist Information--for looking at the wrong bus schedule, because had we taken the 7:30AM bus out of Portree, we would have connected with an earlier ferry and consequently with an earlier bus out of Mallaig. Not that it would have made things magically all better because we'd still have missed out on the viaduct--which I eventually glimpsed for a split-second out of the bus window--but we might have spent a more enjoyable afternoon in Glasgow or Edinburgh. Oh well.
It was probably the longest day of travel in history, and Paul and I were both in acute "PLEASE JUST KILL ME NOW" mode, convulsing on the floor of the train and foaming at the mouth, long before we were halfway to our destination. Especially given the prospect of prolonged plane travel the following day.
Lesson learned: travel with Paul is most enjoyable ON FOOT, e.g. backpacking, and I invite him on my hypothetical trek of the AMT, but in future I will take cultural trips involving lots of art by myself, or possibly with Kim.
Also, there are good reasons that northern Europeans traditionally head to Mallorca, Portugal, and Tunisia about this time of year. Best to respect that tradition.
Saturday afternoon Paul and I arrived on the Isle of Skye. Finding our hostel of choice closed until 4pm, we drifted around Portree in search of entertainment and eventually alighted on the Tourist Information Office. While I was perusing postcards and contemplating the unending agony that comes of lugging around an overloaded duffel bag, Paul asked about directions to the Talisker distillery (one of the main reasons we had come to Skye). In the course of a few minutes our itinerary for the next two days smashed into tiny, nasty bits, because 1) the buses on Skye don't run on Sundays and, b) the Talisker distillery is closed on Sundays. The woman at the TI was more than willing to direct us to Talisker on Monday, but since we had to be back in Edinburgh on Monday night---and traveling there would eat up the better part of a day (though we had yet to realize JUST HOW MUCH)--the distillery visit was scrapped. Damn. I have no particular love for whisky and Paul had been to Talisker before, and we came up with the alternate plan of going to The Old Man of Storr pretty much instantly, but still. It was a bit disappointing. The woman very helpfully produced a slew of brochures and time-tables to coordinate our journey back to Edinburgh on Monday (bus to ferry to train), and that was the best we could do. At least we would see the Glen Finnan viaduct on the way back, and perhaps arrive in Edinburgh early enough to climb Arthur's Seat, right?
Oh, if only.
The weekend we were in Scotland occupied an uneasy position in the fine world of UK travel, as it happens. On Saturday night/Sunday morning, the UK "sprang forward," and then most of the bus and train schedules, business' operating hours, and seasonal prices underwent a weekend transformation, since April marks the beginning of the tourist season (apparently). So when Paul and I presented ourselves at the Portree bus stop at 8:15 on Monday morning, we were slightly mystified when no bus arrived. While we were waiting we had plenty of leisure to examine the rather confusing bus schedule posted in the shelter, and we found that the timetable had changed that very morning. Until March 26, on weekday mornings there was a bus to Armadale (the ferry landing) at 8:15AM. Beginning March 27, there were buses at 7:30AM and 9:15AM. So we waiting another hour--and neither of us are good at waiting, but what can you do?--and caught the 9:15 bus. In Armadale we found that the next ferry would leave at 11:35, which gave us yet another hour to kill. This, I have to admit, was not a tragedy, because right next to the terminal we stumbled across this privately-produced "nature walk" that was half organic herb garden, half installation art, and I fell totally in love with it. I can't even describe it, but I took pictures. It was magical.
We caught the ferry in due course and arrived in Mallaig, on the Scottish mainland, just before noon. Stepping into the train station, Paul and I are summarily informed by the ticket agent that the rails are undergoing construction through May (THIS must have been why my beautiful Jacobite steam train wasn't running), and the next bus that can take us to Fort William, where we will be able to catch a southbound train to Glasgow and thence to Edinburgh, is at 4:05PM. We will not be seeing Glen Finnan; we will not be getting back to the city until 10:30PM; and we have four hours to kill in the emptiest little fishing village you ever set eyes on.
Did I mention that neither of us are good at waiting?
We drank a pot of tea in one of the restaurants. We visited the microscopic public library so that Paul could use the internet to make plans for Italy. We ate lunch in the other restaurant. (I had Cullen Skink simply because it I wanted to eat something that looks like it says Cullen Stink, but actually it is quite a good fish and leek chowder.) Nearly all of the shops in town were closed for winter (and for good reason), but we visited all of the businesses that were open. Twice. We danced to Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb" in The Spar. I blew my nose a few hundred times. We poked through The Fishermen's Mission, where they were holding a secondhand book charity sale, so that I could pick up some reading material for the trip home. To say that we passed a very dull four hours would be a serious understatement, and all the while I kept thinking of the things I had planned to do on our last day in Scotland that were now out of the question. I was eventually reduced to standing in the middle of the (deserted) street, bellowing, "I JUST WANT TO GET OUT OF MALLAIG!"
(Then I blew my nose again.)
In retrospect, hitchhiking as far as Fort William might have been a fine adventure, but it was a drizzly sort of day, my duffel bag wasn't getting any lighter, and there was no guarantee that there were in fact trains running out of Fort William before 5:00 anyhow. Mostly we just kept kicking ourselves--and the woman at Tourist Information--for looking at the wrong bus schedule, because had we taken the 7:30AM bus out of Portree, we would have connected with an earlier ferry and consequently with an earlier bus out of Mallaig. Not that it would have made things magically all better because we'd still have missed out on the viaduct--which I eventually glimpsed for a split-second out of the bus window--but we might have spent a more enjoyable afternoon in Glasgow or Edinburgh. Oh well.
It was probably the longest day of travel in history, and Paul and I were both in acute "PLEASE JUST KILL ME NOW" mode, convulsing on the floor of the train and foaming at the mouth, long before we were halfway to our destination. Especially given the prospect of prolonged plane travel the following day.
Lesson learned: travel with Paul is most enjoyable ON FOOT, e.g. backpacking, and I invite him on my hypothetical trek of the AMT, but in future I will take cultural trips involving lots of art by myself, or possibly with Kim.
Also, there are good reasons that northern Europeans traditionally head to Mallorca, Portugal, and Tunisia about this time of year. Best to respect that tradition.
