Day 19 - The Incredible Zany Ineffable Opentop Bus Tour

Yes, I said in London "why do a tour?", especially one of those open top bus tours. I studied history at university and literature - a large part of this was of the English variety hence I was well equipped to explore London on my own initiative. Dublin is a different story. I know James Joyce hung out here for awhile before heading to the continent. Yeats is Dublin's darling poet. Guinness, Kilkenny. But what else do I know about Dublin, let alone Ireland? I therefore submit to an open top bus tour.

As opposed to most of these tours  I am given commentary by the actual driver, and not a cheap pair of plastic ear buds that keep falling out and a pre-recorded voice that is out of sync with where you are. The tour is acceptable. I must go to the Guiness Factory, Trinity College, the Jameson Distillery ... The Writer's Museum. For most of the circuit I'm the only one aboard. In Sydney you see a lot folks cruising through Pyrmont atop these red double deckers. This could be frustrating: I worked in Pyrmont and seeing these people cruise past as if there wasn't anything else to do in the world made me, well, want to hop on.

The driver points out a statue of Oscar Wilde, reclining in gaudy clothes and grinning at the house where he lived before he left Ireland to become part of the English establishment.

I hop off at O'Connell St, the main thoroughfare north of the Liffey and have a beer and meal at the pub chain Madigans. A typical Irishman of the last generation recounts tales of the town. I can't understand a word he says. Yes he's got a thick Irish accent, but he's drunk more than camel at a refuelling stop on route to Mecca through the Sahara carrying seven bags of trinkets while draped in five Persian carpets for sale at the bazaar. One thing I do understand. His round blue eyes sparkle when he says, "Better get a taxi if you're heading to Lower Gardiner - that place is a bit rough. Rather be safe." He sways. "Wouldn't want to see you" - he rocks back and forth - "knifed would I?" This statement is accompanied with an upward stabbing action. "This city has drug problem."

I take my leave during a pause in his ramblings and eat a hearty Irish stew. Later I forget his advice, luckily without consequence.

Day 19 - My abode for a week

Lower Gardiner St is my destination after hopping off the airport bus. Aren't these airport buses and trains convenient. London's is of course the best, costing less than three pounds. Sydney's? Daylight robbery at $15.

As I make my way to Lower Gardiner St the road side becomes increasingly strewn with rubbish, the pavements covered in fresh spittle; the gait of the pedestrians is tough. They're all walking with homey purpose, wearing trackies or hoodies like apprentice gangsters. This doesn't look promising. I can't find my guesthouse either. In fact, there is no sign of a guesthouse at the number I'm seeking. Next door there is. I try there and am greeted by a friendly middle aged man who proclaims he owns both guesthouses, the once nextdoor being without signage. However as there are problems with the shower in the room I was to originally stay, I am given a small upgrade.

South of the Liffy it's a bit cleaner

 I have a few difficulties piercing his Irish accent and at one point show him my hearing aids and ask him to speak up. He admits he's also got a hearing loss and needs aids - he says his loss is about 75% but he must be exaggerating a little. Either that or he's an expert lip reader.
"Are you lip reading?" I ask him.
He leans forward. "What?"

The furnishings inside are markedly different from the scrappy street below my window. Opposite is a church, classical style with five pillars, Mary atop the pediment. Every second person who passes the church crosses themselves.

Day 19 - Rub a dub Dublin

I get to Edingburgh airport without a hitch and am glad I upgraded my accomodation from dorm to single room. Yes, I'm getting old. Nothing worse than rising in the morning and having to pack your things in the dark so you don't wake any groggy Australian tourists.

But at the airport I'm unaware of EU regulations. I chuck out by Bic disposal razor when I don't need to. You see, these orange Bic disposable razors are the best you can get and beat any quintuple blade Gillete by a far shave. Those stupid multi-blade razors always get facial hair stuck in them and are designed to cut you after three shaves to make you replace the blade. But those cheap-as-chips Bics? Smooth and comfortable. But this is a travel blog not a men's grooming site. Suffice to say I lost my last precious Bic.

Little did I know that no liquids over 100ml are allowed on EU flights and any under this amount must be sealed in plastic sachets. Those fucking terrorists have made life so hard. I almost throw away the whiskey I've bought for a friend, but the security attendant informs me that I can check the whiskey in and expedite my way through security the second time.

I follow her directions and skip the security line-up. But I'm confronted with a burly shaven blonde boofhead standing after the scanning gates who gets his kicks feeling me up. I mean, a quick frisk is acceptable, but once he starts juggling my balls he's crossed the line. Yes, they are my gonads dickstrap, not sacks of cocaine.

The flight to Dublin is most pleasant. Seeing the Irish coastline edge its way into view is a treat. The disembarkation is smooth, and there is no one at customs asking me if I have anything to declare, to which I would have to reply, a-la Oscar Wilde, "only my genitals."

Day 18 - Come Aussies come Aussies come

Third day of the tour and we get up close and personal with Loch Ness, although no sign of the monster. Our guide is adamant there is something in the loch, and is equally adamant that it's not a monster.
"Aye, I'm sure there's something there, but it's not right to call it a monster. It's not a monster," he says with the Scottish downward inflection.
"Are you sure it's still there?" I query. "The legend of the Loch Ness Monster has been around for a while. The monster might have died of old age."
"It's not a monster."
"That may be the case," I think to myself, "but if it can't show its slimy neck to a bunch of hungover Aussie tourists then it's lost my sympathy." Then again, maybe it hasn't been paid by the warders of the loch, or quite reasonably it doesn't like Aussie tourists.

Our cries of "come Nessy come Nessy come," are not heeded. The chant our guide shows us has gestures that resemble a rugby haka - perhaps the Scottish rugby team could adopt it. I can see the Wallabies quivering in their boots as the Scotch cry, "Come Aussies come Aussies come!"

At the end of the tour we're invited to contribute to the visitor's book for the amusement of "the ladys in the office." I inscribed these lines of doggerel:

     In the Highlands wild and windy cold
     Goes Busabout with tourists bold
     Mostly Aussies, a Brit and a San Jose,
     In unison we all shout AYE!
     Yay Aye it is more whisky please
     In the Isle of Skye we did not freeze
     But kilted Joe did warm our hearts
     With lusty tales from these old parts.
     Aye aye we sang, "come Nessy come",
     And stood on the field of Culloden,
     We also saw the Wallace tower
     Cometh the man cometh the hour.
          Bye snowcap peaks
          Farewell ye lochs
          Adieu bog peats
          Hello warm socks.

Day 17 - Holy Coo

We get our first glimpse of Loch Ness, that 40km long tranquil loch with its gleaming waters. Nearby is a paddock with some Hairy Coos, shaggy things who are more than eager to have their photo taken by a bunch of equally dishevelled Aussie tourists.

But the highlight of the day (pun not intended) is sculling a few drams of whiskey near the cliffs of Skye. The fuzzy warm feeling in the chest dispels the wanton wind, and for those who do not want their dram, there's someone else to take it. We are now well prepared for a visit to Bell's distillery. All mobiles must be turned off, lest they interfere with the equipment that now produces this smokey Scottish liquor. I switch my mobile to "Distillery Mode."

One wee girl drank so much the night before she has spent the entire day in a stupor on the bus, and misses a chance to prolong her intoxication by inhaling the distillery fumes.

The evening is more sedate than the one that preceded it. A couple of pints of Tennent's Lager and a couple of flicks starring Jedi Master Ewan McGregor: Trainspotting, which also has a strong performance from Robert Carlyle; and the very watchable Shallow Grave.

Day 16 - Cosy trivia

We reach the cosy hostel in the dark of early evening - Morag's Lodge, Loch Ness. Dinner is a delicious chicken stuffed with haggis - if haggis wasn't so difficult to make this could be a surprising dinner party dish. Over a couple of pints I discover that some of my fellow Haggisers are not only Australian, but from Annandale, the suburb where I live. They're having a nice family trip - two sisters and the younger brother. I commend the brother for his courage in dressing up Scottish-style earlier that afternoon.
"I'm in my element," he states, "My sisters have been dressing me up since I could walk, even as a woman. I don't mind this,  I'm used to it. I don't care. Just before this tour I wore a sparkling dress and high heels and sung karaoke."
Not what you would expect from a six foot two lad wearing a Wallabies jersey.
"I don't care," he says again, seeking further vindication.

Trivia follows dinner, with historical questions testing our knowledge of the trip so far. A larger proportion points go, however, to the team who have the dancers most capable of standing on their chairs and shaking their booty as soon as a  TV theme song is played. Unfortunately I was picked as one of our team's chair dancers, and my first sortie in the limelight produces howls of "He's hopeless! That's dancing? Awful .." and the like. I redeem myself in a later set doing a twist, but only because I keep my eye on the judges and only start twisting when they're actually looking at me. I think they took pity on me after lashing out so strongly against my previous "dancing". I must admit, their reaction to my first effort was similar to the madness exhibted by the audience during the first performance of Stravinksy's The Rite of Spring.

Other games? Directing a blindfolded team mate to the bar to get the table drinks and then dancing with him/her whenever a Disney theme song is played. I can't tell the difference between Disney and television, and leap upon the chair during the Little Mermaid.

But the greatest number of points go to the team who can most ably dress a team mate in Scottish rags .. I mean highlander garb. We choose the younger brother as our model because he has a good kilt record. After 15 minutes the teams reconvene, disco lights flash and the schmodels schmooze down the catwalk. We win, perhaps unjustly, because our man is prepared to show the most flesh. He announces to the audience, flipping up his rags, "I have come au naturel". He just doesn't care.

Day 16 - Highlander

Our driver and guide arrives sharply at 8am to escort us into the Highlands, wearing jacket and kilt, his knees evidently immune to the cold. He has a thick Scottish accent that is perhaps more prevalent among regional areas, where every phrase ends with the downward inflection of resignation. The accents of a couple of younger blokes I talked to in a bar last night didn't have quite the same strength. Maybe you become more Scottish with age.

We're told to answer all of Joe's questions with an unequivocal "Aye".
"Everyone ready to go?"
"Aye!!"

As we depart Scotland's capital we're informed it possessed some of the world's first skyscrapers - the height of these buildings, some seven stories, is certainly impressive, although I wouldn't want to return to my dwelling, on the seventh floor, after 7 drams of whiskey before the age of elevators. Because of their age and structure, many yet can't accomodate elevators.

Not much time passes before we're into the burbs with their gingerbread houses and frosted footpaths - neighbourhoods frozen in time. We leave these too behind and are soon at the foot of the highlands for a stop at the William Wallace Monument, which has great views overlooking Stirling.

Higher we go. Snow regularly appears upon mountain peaks.  What better place to lunch than at a ski resort. We are given a lift pass (no skis unfortunately) and one hour to gorge on a lunch pack consisting of sandwiches and a can of the very Scottish drink, Dr Pepper.

The ski lift scoops us up as if we were debris for a tractor shovel. The journey to the top, about 200m further up the mountain, is a pleasant 15 minutes of swaying in the wind and adoring the Scottish alps, glimpsing mountain streams, getting cold noses.

My companion on the ski lift has reverted to being an ten year old. "This is awesome! The best thing to do on my birthday! Wow! Whoa."

As I'm undertakng a three day journey with Haggis Adventures I shall call my fellow participants Haggisers. After lunch some of us Haggisers explore beyond the ski hut, slipping on ice, breaking ice into shards, sliding down hills on phantom snowboards.

I take my descent alone to meditate upon the whiteness, letting my eyes freeze upon pine forests and listen to the murmurings of the mountain stream.

Although we did't stop at the first castle we drove past, which just happened to be the site where Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filmed, in the afternoon we spend half an hour stepping through crumbling Castle Inverlochy. Some Haggisers dare to climb atop the battlements where a slip on the loose stone would mean bakedbean soup. These medieval ruins would make a fine arena for paintball. 

Early evening we are treated to a reenactment of 12th century Scottish life. Cold wooden hut, thatched roof, 10 to a room, wash twice a year - standards have certainly changed. A couple of intrepid Haggisers volunteer as models for traditional highland attire. At first sight they look like they're being dressed in rugs or fancy flannel rags, but there is more to these garmets than meets the eye. They can be up to 10 metres in length and the varied methods of folding means they can be worn in winter or summer, with or without dagger, and, of course, au naturel, and still protect a highlander's most precious parts from unanticipated mountain zephyrs.