More Days in Scotland - The Bits and the Bobs

Walking - Pretty much. It's no elliptical machine. The only difference between walking 150 km through Scotland and walking to the cafe down the street is that it takes a lot longer and you've got your own dead bodyweight attached to your back with ergonomic little straps that squeeze the flesh on your hips into thick, red nubbins that run around your waist and eventually you start asking yourself questions like, "Is this the technical definition of 'agony'?" But it's all walking, except for the shuffling and the staggering.

Thinking - When I was a teenager I had to walk half an hour from the bus stop to my house. Once in grade eight I invented a world of flying horseman who lived underground and I can still remember my surprise when my house suddenly reared up in front of me. That was my first experience of a walking trance. Since then my mind has become considerably less supple. Now I mostly just repeat single words over and over to myself, like the names of small towns. 'Crianlarich'. 'Kinlochleven'. I overheard an American woman pronounce 'Rowardennan' as though she were calling forth the sword of destiny, and it was over for about two hours. Apart from that I meticulously planned the rest of my life, plunged into various oceans of regret and longing, and defeated hordes of interlocuters with cunning arguments on subjects serious and inane.

Fashion - I'm really not that into hiker style. I do like it when the red socks bunch up on top of the boots, and everybody loves flannel, but that's about it. I don't like this whole 'nature-immunity' angle. People don't look rugged anymore, they look like space explorers. So I have a confession, which is that I bought my footwear more for style than for practicality. Doc Martens, I figured the price tag would somehow translate into comfort. Turns out they weren't really hiking boots at all, they were more like prehistoric stone monuments to the hiking boot, or as one American guy joked, 'mall-cruising boots'. Yeah, fuck you. I learned that each extra pound you carry on your feet is the equivalent of five pounds on your back, which means that I carried somewhere between eighty and five thousand pounds from Glasgow to Fort William. I think that makes me awesome.

Scotland - Let's see. First, they drive on the wrong side of the road, which has nearly spelled d-o-o-m for me on several occasions. I'm already bad at crossing the street, it doesn't help to always look the wrong way. Also, they drink a lot of beer. This accords well with my own disposition. I was greatly cheered to find absolutely every single person drinking a pint on lunch breaks. They like to eat about three different things, all of them dead animals. Breakfast is a triumph. And yes, everyone wears kilts, all the time.

Braveheart - Starring Mel Gibson and Gandalf the Grey, this VHS cassette afforded me the happiest hours of my young-adulthood. Now that I find myself in the ancestral homelands of William Wallace, and when I think about how it was based on a true story, I feel that I have fallen in love with Gibson's sad face all over again. Truly, of all the peoples of the earth, the British are the most thoroughly evil.

Chocolate bars - are delicious.

The Highlands - The reason the highlands look so bare is because they cut down all the trees. If you can imagine, all these hills and mountains used to be covered with deciduous trees, but when they cut them down erosion made it impossible for them to grow back. The last three or four days of the walk were entirely in the big empty highlands, and what I noticed most strongly is the quietness. Nothing for the wind to push around. Except for the weird honking wail of the sheep, there is no sound.

Burns - This is what Scottish people call streams. It's like calling bonfires 'soaks'.

Socializing - When Scottish people talk to each other they make quips, which are like jokes. They razz each other. Unfortunately I don't know how to make quips, so I don't feel as popular as I'd hoped to be in Scotland. I really wanted to be loved and celebrated, but I fear the Scots are ambivalent toward me at best. For now I'm trying to get by with repeating what people say back to them.

Second Day in Scotland - The Flora and the Fauna

I spent most of day two taking unflattering pictures of Greg: scowling at a map, hoisting on his pack, trying to pass other hikers. I believe at the end I will have a complete album of 'Greg's Backpack at Thirty Feet'. As a photographer, I feel somewhat affronted by the exquisite natural beauty of this country. Where's the irony? The counterpoint? The lurking note of moral decay? These majestic vistas are far too consumating. Greg's ass it is.

Of course, I'm writing this on the fifth day, but let's just go with the narrative. Day two in Scotland was, for me, the first day of walking the West Highland Way. I am making this incredible journey of self-discovery in the unlikely company of a rambunctious Beagle pup and a wise old rooster, who are more or less working together to catch a diamond thief, save the family farm, and cross a treachorous range of mountains to rescue their adolescent friend William, a mute, who was mistakenly adopted by a mean, alcoholic farmer. And of course my brother Greg. It's a real adventure.

Already I'm learning lots about Scotland. There are three kinds of animals in Scotland: sheep, household pets, and the delightful cow. By far the most abundant are sheep, who litter every available space with their strange, puffy bodies. I have yet to become accustomed to their nightmarish wailing, like feral children left to wander around in the rain, endlessly calling to each other. You have to be careful of the water, because the sheep throw their corpses into the streams. Of course, some of them are babies, and they are very, very cute.

One happens across cows less often, but they are nonetheless populous. At one point I formulated an intention to 'go fuck with' some cows that were lying about, but I quickly became too frightened when they stood up, much as you might feel if you disturbed the Ancient Mothers from their quiet rest on each others' bellies. Many of the cows have bowl cuts with long bangs that hang down in their eyes, reminding me of those big sad teenagers whose loneliness gets mistaken for thuggery. They also have horns, for goring.

Since walking, I have recovered my childhood habit of eating grass. Nothing could be more jaunty. It requires a special tug, not so strong as the yank the grass from the dirt, just enough to unsheathe the juicy white bit from the tough, green cylinder. I constantly fantasize about living entirely off of grass, and having a cool scar on my face. Apart from grass there are thistles, an adequate symbol for things that are sort of nice but mostly prickly and unpleasant, like walking until your feet feel like they were put in a blender.

First Day in Scotland

I write quickly, in a condition of hallucinatory fatigue that transcends wakefulness or sleepiness. Greg and I met on the Bloor train westbound, smiling so much it was confusing. We were separated on the plane, me to the front and him to the back. I arrived in my seat and was immediately confronted by my seatmate: "How did you get this seat?" "They gave it to me." "No, but how did you get it?" And so went a series of questioning both mystifying and banal, which finally resulted in an exchange of pleasantries and six hours of intense conversation. She was a stained glass artist from north of Edinburgh with children my age, an admittedly excellent life, and a wakeful type personality. We exchanged iPods for a few hours, sharing lectures, and she explained why the monetary system needs to go. (That's right.) I plan to spend a day with her next week, to learn a cool technique that will simplify the process for people who would struggle to make windows in the traditional way. After that Greg and I reunited at baggage claim and continued to smile disconcertingly. We explored a two hundred year old cemetary situated directly beside a giant silver turbine factory. Then we went to church at the cathedral, where the ushers wore spectular suits with tails and we both transitioned into full hypnosis. Drinking, staggering, blurring, showering... now.