Day X -- Scotland Potpourri

Here are some scenes that did not make the blog posts, but do tell their own story.

In case you've ever wondered what Iceland looks like, or if you have only seen shots of magnificent glaciers, etc. Here's a plain-Jane shot of the tundra surrounding the airport, taken, of course, from our plane. Stark, but has its own loveliness.

A sweet family scene, at The Helix, the park that contains The Kelpies (from my Day 1) and the famed Falkirk Wheel (which we did not visit, but I had seen on an earlier visit). The examples of excellent engineering and craftsmanship so common throughout Scotland were what made the awkwardness of the airport so glaring to me.

So speaking of The Kelpies, I had to insert another shot of those magnificent sculpted horses.

Construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction all over the island -- this in Balmaha, on the shore of Loch Lomond.

Loch Lomond ducks going about their business,
despite the tourists.

So I'm smitten with rowboats, especially rowboats for hire.
Loch Lomond marina.

This is what I meant by an inaccessible waterfront. One follows signs down twisting paths and drives, only to find the Keep Out Unless You Pay sign. 
Loch Lomond.

 

O-l-d tree, old sheds, old tractor, new sports car. Balmaha, Loch Lomond.
Found on my quest to find the waterfront.

Flowers at a tea room and inn, Balmaha, Loch Lomond.

 

Another view of the amazing Central Train Station in Glasgow, right in the heart of old Glasgow.

 

Day 7 -- Homeward bound

We luxuriated in a limo ride from Prince's Garden to Euston Station. The driver was to pick us up at 6, but by 6 we were almost at the station, giving us an hour and a half to enjoy cappuccino, butter croissants (but trying to leave room for the first class breakfast on the train), read the morning paper, and crowd-watch. 

It had been pitch dark when we entered the bowels of Euston, but the train smoothly drew us forth into a bright blue-and-gold day. We had reserved seats, but there would have been room to choose our own, in first class. Roy had a bacon sandwich for breakfast and I a sausage roll.

This part of the route had been already dark when we rode down from Glasgow Tuesday evening, so the scenery was new. Scooting along at high speed by a canal. Field of Belted Galloways. Locks and canal bridges. Fields and fields of sheep. A week in England and I had not yet seen a castle, nor even a stately country home. Made do with several Romanesque village churches. More canals. Plenty of wind turbines, even wind farms. Several large nuclear power plants. 

Climbing into the hill country, a dramatic change of scenery.  Now we see farms where the house and barn are polar ends of the same stone hut. Field of moor ponies. Black fern on a hillside. Still some blue skies, but wuthering gray sheets of rain approach and engulf the train. Neat stone walls replace the hedges of the lowland farms. These walls divide the crops and pastures from the wild moors. Passed a logging operation. 

Back down in civilization, I see my first and only castle. It's small and part of a modern farm, but THERE IT IS. We see a diminutive old stone bridge, left in place over a swift, little river, with the longer, new steel bridge built alongside.

Now we are barreling through the Scottish Borders. The farms are neater, the patches of forest more sustained. The village homes have more elbow room, and, there are breaks in the clouds.

Noted in my journal:  "If there are any other castles and stately homes left, someone has thrown a cloak of invisibility over them for the week." 

Glasgow Airport, in its present stages of reconstruction and expansion, is somewhat counter intuitive. It is a VERY LONG WAY to the gates. Our Sage-level tickets helped swish us quickly through check in and security, but we still had to make our way through acres of shops, then long, blank corridors where the moving walkways were not functioning. 

Then, there was a scavenger hunt to find out how to turn in the VAT tax refund papers on Roy's camera. Then a candy shop. I was getting more and more concerned at the nearness of  the departure hour and the still unknown distance to Gate 28. Obviously, we made it, back into our friendly, first class cocoon.


Icelandic food was just as good on the return flight, but Reykjavik Airport was a crowded disaster for tired travelers. We in particular were held up from boarding our final flight to Boston while workmen were power-drilling the underside of our jet-way.

 And here are the obligatory last looks at Scotland.
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Customs in Boston was long, but moved quickly. We experienced our first bio-metric machines. The wait for the Concord bus to Maine was long, too, but we had our same reliable driver, Eric, who got us back to Portland fast. Roy drove the rest of the trip to Harrison, dear Roy.

Some of the things we learned:
We just do not sleep on planes, or trains that do not allow for tilting seats.
Do NOT use the Euston station cab rack -- very awkward.
Charge the Oyster cards with at least 50 pounds for a week. Don't use the Oyster card to get on or off a railroad. 
The clothes dryers are very hot, very fast.
But bring a hair dryer. Bring conditioner to avoid another week of frizz. 
Sit up front at the evensong service, so as to not be distracted. 
No need to reserve a car ahead. Check the tires on a rental car. But it is wise to have the pre-purchased rail tickets. Don't buy phones ahead. Or, order better ones, or buy overseas -- or bring your own.  
Get rooms on the quieter, back side of a hotel. Bring laundry soap (I did, but gave the rest away to those who didn't). 
Make sure we really know the way to where we want to go, despite GPS.

Day 6 -- Family day in Bedford

This day turned out to be the highlight of our trip. I had not met any of Roy's relatives except his four children. With his parents long gone, this was a rare opportunity to meet some cousins, Jean Conroy and her husband, Arthur, and Doreen Hart.

The day started, however, with our last breakfast in Shangri-La, the Imperial College cafeteria where there is no food shortage. Ever. Here, Roy is (he says) not bowing to Queen Victoria, patroness of the university, but reading the inscription on the plinth. Right.

Look up as you begin to descend into South Kensington Underground Station, and you will see the medieval means used to keep pigeons and other birds from roosting on the rafters and dropping their calling cards on commuters.

A calm, morning view of the Lebanese restaurant of last night's adventure of being alternately wet by pouring rain and dried by heat lamp, while dining al fresco under these awnings.

I was shy about taking photos of the fascinating array of commuters on the undergrounds and trains, but this little guy was irresistible.

Roy found news of the famous "Hitler House" -- note the resemblance of its facade to the Fuehrer's face.

Going down into the underground in London can mean going WAY down. Roy, seen here again, explained everything London Transport.

St. Pancras Station, the original section, would appear to be everything capable and high Victorian.  But.



But wait, here is another view of the loveliness of the original part of St. Pancras.  Inside, as I showed in an earlier blog, all is "mod-con" and commercial, with train information hard to find and the trains even more obscured. We did, of course, finally make it onto what we were assured was the train to Bedford  . . . .

Only, it proved to be NOT the train to Bedford. We had been misled by contradictory signage in St. Pancras and variously  misinformed staff, each in succession kicking the can down the road. Here, a kindly trainman at a suburban stop is helping us switch to the correct train. 

 A sample view of the train compartment.

Arthur met us at the Bedford station, and the day took a dramatically upward turn. We received the warmest possible welcome from Roy's relatives. It was obvious he was much beloved by "the Bedford clan." Pictured here is Cousin Doreen with Roy in the Conroys' lovely cream-and-rose sitting room.

I should have taken this shot when we first arrived, when the table was set with pink floral graciousness for what proved to be a huge lunch of ham, new potatoes, a great salad (in a stemware bowl, with Fortnum & Mason dressing), vegetables galore, French bread, pickles, and trifle for dessert. What a loving reception.
The Conroys' garden is a series of pleasant vignettes, culminating in this retreat house, equipped with comfortable furniture, even a TV.

 Another view of the sitting room.

 And here are Jean and Arthur, cleaning up after lunch. 

The rest of the day, our Sunday, was spent checking on the morning train to Glasgow, eating the lemon cake Jean had packed for us, then packing our bags to leave the Imperial College residence hall at a very early hour, and so to bed.

I did not take photos on our final day, so Day 7 will be narrative.  A final travel blog will display an assortment of shots I can't resist sharing.

 

 



 

Day 4 -- Bluebell Day

This was to be a railway day in the country. The historic Bluebell Railway runs southwest of London. If you have seen BBC period dramas, you have undoubtedly seen the antique Bluebell and its preserved stations.

Here is the ramp entrance, not to the train, but to an antique railroad car that has been converted into an atmospheric tea room.

We decided it must be tea time. Notice the flowers, so typical of Britain.

This was our English Tea for the week, plain scones with fixings and tea in a flowered pot. Simple and delicious.

One of several informal money-makers for the Bluebell enterprise.

Waiting for the Bluebell, Roy meanwhile recorded some of the old-fashioned fittings.

Old fashioned posters, too.

And here's the Bluebell steam locomotive. I was enchanted. 

Not the best of photos, but I wanted to remember that even the workmen on the train played the historic part, including old-fashioned oil cans, thermoses, and lanterns.

The slow-moving panorama revealed through the train's window was rural, agricultural England.

We passed many farms. Some, like this one, displayed an up-to-date panache. Others were like a scene from Cold Comfort Farm.

More rolling, verdant countryside. The crop had been picked, but the sheep in the distance go right on cropping and picking.

Sheep, sheep everywhere, and power transmission, too.

We passed what appeared to be train graveyards, but were really waystations for old rolling stock waiting to be renovated and brought back into use, a volunteer activity.

 Antique signalman's hut.

 And a signal tower.

Proud keeper of railway peace.

Yes, this is surreptitious, a set the camera on the tabletop photo. The Bluebell's cars were mostly reserved for a seniors' outing, but our car carried a number of young families. This was a sweet grouping, but some others rivaled Willie Wonka's obnoxious families.

A station on the Bluebell. If you have seen even one BBC period drama, you probably have seen a Bluebell train and station, this one or similar.

Everyone left the train at this final stop. The crowd is heading toward a tea room.

Another view of the terminal and two Bluebell trains.

Polite prohibitions are the order of the day in Britain.  

So, if you cannot walk down here to watch the engine being switched, you . . . 

. . . climb to the viewing bridge, stationed midway along the train.

Ready to return toward London, the engineers head for the locomotive. I caught them in mid-stride, mid-arm-swing; you'll have to take my word for it that the man on the right carried an old-fashioned lunch bucket.

Back in London, the Bluebell reality fades into a dream. What a juxtaposition of architectural styles!

Above, is the urban garden, featuring palm trees, where we ate our rural repast --- Cornish pasties (really good), sold from a London storefront. That pilloried jacket in the middle photo is a sculpture.

We rode a bus along the Embankment, eventually passing You Know What landmark.  Roy had climbed to the upper deck, but I was too pooped at the moment to do more than grab the first open seat. In less than a minute, however, I was back snapping photos out the window. Soon, someone passed a note up to me. What is going on here? On reading, it was a message from a Mexican woman asking if I would email her copies of my "pretty pictures".  Her letterhead said "UK Presidency of the EU 2005" (how ironic, post-Brexit), so the message seemed legit. I turned and gave her a thumbs up and we smiled. Later, when Roy came down, I told him about the woman; I turned to look for her but she must have departed out the side or rear door.  I have emailed her -- twice.  No response, as yet.

Revived by the bus ride, we are back on foot headed toward Covent Garden. I don't want to ride a motorcycle, but I've always enjoyed photographing them. These London toffs are wearing raincoats.

There was not as much spectacular fashion as I had hoped, outside the ethnic communities, but I did enjoy following this walking flower garden.

Covent Garden, outside the Museum of Transport shop (we arrived too late in the day to go into the museum).  I was intrigued by these empty strollers.  Where were the children?  There was a loudly singing busker, but no children in sight.

We walked to Trafalgar Square, which would be totally unrecognizable due to scaffolding, were it not for The statue and monument, rising ou of a sea of canvas (not shown).

I will leave you with two lovely stories, which have no photos. 

On returning to Charing Cross Station after our Bluebell adventure, I wanted to use a restroom. It proved to be quite a convoluted hike into the basement, and I arrived only to find entry required 50 p. I showed what few English coins I had in my pocket to a young man who was just about to drop his coin in the slot. He gallantly handed me his 50 p. and smiling back at me he vaulted over the turnstile, disappearing into the men's room. Thank you, kind stranger. As I wrote in my journal that evening, Though hard to find, at least the washroom was clean and fresh.

Earlier that day, I had taken a seat by a well-dressed woman staffing a charity stall in the middle of a busy train station lobby. We struck up a conversation while Roy was buying tickets, and I bought a little stuffed bear in a bag to support those British veterans. Her partner, in uniform, was collecting cash donations a few yards away. Roy had a talk with her too, as he is a British vet, and bought a pen (which had enough ink to write about three words, no more). Later in the day, when we came dragging back through that same lobby, she was there still, perky as in the morning, still selling what was left of her wares.