S C O T L A N D ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

I could feel my stomach lurch before it even got to my lips. I took a deep sniff and my stomach actually screamed:

"Hey lady! What are you doing to me?! You were kind enough to actually give me breakfast today, and may I just say, that was a welcome change, but now you expect me to take this? It's 10:30 in the morning!"

I had a fleeting thought as I raised it to my lips and tipped the glass back. "I don't know how alcoholics do it." It went down and it burned every inch of the way. Thus began my first of three days touring distilleries on the island of Islay, Scotland.

The only reason I went was because it was in Scotland. I love Scotland. Almost as much as I love Italy and that feels like blasphemy to utter, but Scotland has the most amazing landscape I’ve encountered yet in my travels. Jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring, ‘I would be a sheep herder if I got to live here’ landscape. Plus that accent… I had no choice but to sign up, even if I had to taste whiskey, known as Scotch in the US, for a weekend. I can take one for the team if I’m actually the only member on the team. So when Nightmare American Roommate suggested we go, I thought only two things: 1- she’ll probably balk when it comes time to fork over the cash and 2- Scottish Husband. Ok, my friend actually suggested that last part, but it was well received on my part.

There is a liquor store here in Dublin that is owned by a Scot and he had been on this tour the year previous, courtesy of one of the distilleries. Industry perk, see? Recognizing an opportunity to make money (as any good business owner would) he set up the Celtic Whiskey Shop Distillery Tour 2006. We paid a ridiculously low amount of money and the only thing we had to pay for on the trip were our bar bills and souvenirs. I don’t know how he did it, I’m pretty sure child labour in Asia is involved somehow, but I really don’t care. Scotland, for 3 days, while someone else drove me around and showed me interesting stuff.

When the day arrived, we presented ourselves at the airport, boarded the plane, and 55 minutes later disembarked in Glasgow, Scotland. (and we all know how I feel about Glasgow) Into the vans we went and 30 minutes later we turned into our first distillery, Auchentoshan, phonetically: Awk-en-tosh-en, but in my mind Akhnaton, which is not the same thing at all. It was all of 10:30 in the morning and our first whiskey was only 20 minutes away. Our tour guide was Graeme, who was lovely, but I suspect it was mostly his accent, although Jason in the gift shop had a wonderful accent too. Sorry, distillery tour, not accent tour. Right.

Auchentoshan is owned by Bowmore distilleries, which is located in Port Ellen, Islay, pronounced Eye-Lah. They set up the tour for us and this was their sister company. I’ll not comment on the tours themselves in great detail, because they really are the same thing, over and over again and really, you mostly want to know how the whiskey was, did anyone fall into the still, did I find a husband, etc… Auchentoshan is a typical whiskey, light amber getting darker with age. Scottish Michael showed me how to add water to make it sweeter. Didn’t help. It tasted like whiskey and I’d like to say I was there for it but really, I’m a beer and wine girl. I know. What the hell am I doing on a trip like this? With that first dram, I was wondering the same thing. We tasted 4 drams there, which is the equivalent of one very full drink I’d say, and then piled back into the vans to make our way to the next stop, Loch Fyne for lunch.

It was glorious weather, particularly for October in Scotland. Blue skies, warm, bright sun. The drive to Loch Fyne was close to 90 minutes. Past Loch Lomond, which is still every bit as lovely as people say it is, around the water and down the other side to the village of Inverarey, where we finally stopped for lunch. Whiskey in the morning followed by a long car ride equals car sick, just so you know. Several of us actually. Lunch was a very welcome thing.

Great food, can’t tell you what I had, but I did pass on the haggis. I shouldn’t have. I’ve never seen it, have had no contact with it whatsoever, and this was really the perfect opportunity to try it. But seeing as I was already nauseous, I decided not to gamble lunch on it. Damn shame on my part. Those that had it, raved. I had lots of red wine, because NAR was sitting across from me, dominating the conversation and there wasn’t really a place to hide the body. Plus, each table was set with several bottles of wine, and only two of the six of our table were drinking red. It had to be done, if for no other reason that to keep Irish Simon in possession of his liver. After we finished lunch, Simon convinced the bar staff at the pub to cork the leftover wines, give him a couple of wine glasses and let him carry them to the van. We had wine rolling around the van pretty much the entire trip because Simon is very persuasive and every table we were seated at had wine on it.

Ally, our scoutmaster for the trip (and manager of the CWS) gave us 15 minutes between lunch and van departure. I took the time to run down to the loch and photograph a bit before returning to our van, which was parked in front of a heritage site which warranted its own photograph, a historic jail. No clue why it was historic, but really, when was the last time you saw a jail as a heritage site, other than Alcatraz?

Learning my lesson from the back of the van and not wanting to be car sick before I boarded the ferry, I switched seats with Irish Michael, who informed me that riding shotgun carried with it the duties of occasional map reading and frequently feeding Ally chocolate. That I can do, although he needed no map reading. And when he did, he wouldn’t let me have the map; gave it to Scottish Michael, who was useless. I think they decided I was a girl (astute observation) and therefore incapable of reading a map. (less than astute observation) So I mostly rode in silence and fed Ally the occasional chocolate. He’s not a very easy man to talk with, but I did manage to get out of him the most important statement of the entire trip. I asked why we drove North to go, essentially, southwest. He said it was the scenic route, giving everyone a chance to see several of the lochs. I commented that I feel like a poseur saying loch instead of lake, and what was the difference anyway? “Lakes are British, Lochs are Scottish.”

Duly noted.


We drove for perhaps 45 minutes, my jaw open for virtually the entire trip, and arrived at Kennacraig, where we exited the vans and waited for the ferry to take us to Islay. It was awkward. We waited for about 30 minutes and it was the first opportunity to meet the entire group. At lunch the tables were all set for 4, save ours, which meant you only had to speak to a small portion of the group. Here though, everyone was sort of forced to mingle and made polite conversation while slyly sizing each other up. Being snap happy, I took photos and then posed in the water for my aunt. She has a ritual which I’ve somehow inherited: anytime she comes to a body of water on her travels, she wades in and has her photo taken. In I went. It was cold. But absolutely beautiful scenery. The water was an inlet from the ocean and surrounded on three sides by the beginnings of mountains. The trees were turning colours but hadn’t had that first good cold snap to turn them from muted to brilliant so the landscape was soft and gentle but still colourful. The water was deep blue and rocks were shiny black. So was the ferry. In fact, when the bow went up it reminded me of Darth Vadar for some reason. I may have had too much wine at lunch.

Once on the ship, the Irish contingent sought out the bar and waited for it to open. We made friends with the barman, John, which is something the Irish just do naturally but it becomes quite important later in the story. As we sailed out to the island, I slipped out to see the sunset and take a few photographs. While there, I met one of my fellow tourists and we chatted until it became a matter of walking away and missing the sunset or throwing him overboard. Every group has one blowhard and this was he. His axe to grind was of course his opinion of US foreign policy, Bush, and the war. Which would be fine except that most people who open with “Your man Bush there…” don’t ever want an intelligent discourse on politics. They merely want to beat you up for their own enjoyment and fighting back is considered unfair and rude. I have neither time, nor patience for these people. So I walked off in mid-sentence (his, not mine) and went back to the bar in time to be delighted that someone discovered Islay has a micro-brewery. I’m all for dark beer that isn’t Guinness at this point and one must support the local craftsmen, no? No. 4 different brews of beer, not one of them good. Perhaps if I were an ale fan… then again, no one ordered a second round of Islay Ales. Bad batch perhaps?

We washed ashore after dark and van-ed up again only to find the ferry sailed to a different port that we had planned. Disturbing enough, but we had dinner reservations and no one knew how to get from there to Port Ellen, our home for the next 3 days. Plus it was pitch black; that inky black you can all but feel on your skin because you’re miles from the nearest lights yet the stars seem a mere ceiling away. Love that! Out came the maps, off went the caravan and 30 minutes later we arrived in Port Ellen, population 850 (roughly) two main streets, one round church, one pier, one school and one massive distillery. But a distillery with cottages, cottages in which we were staying. We checked in and 15 minutes later were crossing the street to the Harbour Inn for dinner. We were late, but they were gracious with us. Our table was situated next to a table of 12 men on a stag weeken. My kind of odds. I think I remarked as such as we sat down and set about ordering, stag weekend all but forgotten in the promise of food. I had the haggis. Well, in truth, I had the sirloin but it was served on a bed of haggis, if such a term could be accepted in the culinary world. The thing about haggis is, it’s not what you’re expecting when you hear what it actually is. (I don’t understand how anyone decided to make a vegetarian haggis but there you go, some traditions die hard) I lifted my steak to have a look first thing. It looks like the inside of a fig, sort of purple-ish black with white seeds in it, only in loaf form. Like fig pate, but made of slightly less vegetarian ingredients. It had almost the same consistency as pate but was a bit meatier. And it tasted like… hmmm… it tasted like… You know what coffee tastes like when they describe it as “having chocolate essence”? Haggis tastes like essence of beef. Only more intense and a lot richer. And no, I wasn’t drunk. I deliberately went light on the wine in order to remember what the haggis tasted like because I knew you’d want to know, cowardly and snoopy creatures that you are. Haggis tastes like very rich and dense beef fruitcake. Which would make it beefcake, no?

We had dinner, we had much wine, I got the wrong steak but they very politely replaced it and I got to thoroughly enjoy my dinner while being chatted to by Scottish Jaime, who it turns out, is from Inverness, which is my idea of having a summer house in heaven. He works for Bowmore, and takes people on this trip once a month. What a job to have.

Boss: I want you to take this group of people to this really great place and party with them all weekend. The company will pay for everything; make sure they buy lots in our gift shop.

30 year old male: Um… ok.

So Scottish Jaime knows this very small town very well. After dinner he took us to his favourite pub, saying, in that very lovely accent of his, that the owner and his wife (owners wife, just to be clear here) were wonderful people that he all but thought of as family. We walked in the pub and started ordering drinks. I ended up using the only Swedish phrase I know: Jag tellar inte Svenska. Lest you worry, I met a group of Swedes who were taking the same tour as we were. And that phrase, which I say with a flawless accent by the way, translates to “I speak no Swedish”. It’s enough to guarantee you a few rounds of drinks. Provided of course, the owner doesn’t throw you out of the bar before said rounds of drinks materialize, which is what happened. Not me personally, the whole group. Some local men started singing traditional songs for us, rather loudly and the owner took exception to the fact that the bar had a guest house directly above it and he was worried that the songs would wake the guests. Fair point, considering 26 Irish had just joined the party and well, we’re loud in the pub. (I can say ‘we’, I was on the tour.) So the owner told us he was closing, come back tomorrow night, and shoved a couple of cases of beer into the arms of my cottage-mates. We happily took them and everyone still standing strolled back to our house, which is when I realized I was now living in the party cottage; fine by me as long as I don’t have to clean up after everyone. Irish men are surprisingly tidy. Someone, I believe Scottish Jamie, roused the group for a quick trip to the pier, a mere 2 minute walk away. I can’t tell you how many of us went; I was sitting on the sea wall staring at the Lazy W, thinking how low it was in the sky and wishing I’d grabbed my shoes and a coat. Jamie was sitting with me when we spotted several dark figures scurrying toward a boat. It normally wouldn’t have worried me, but he’d only just related a tale at dinner of a former group who decided to release a boat in the harbour, only to watch it drift out on a tide with one of their compatriots aboard. Said compatriot had no idea how to sail a boat and had to wait until the tide brought him back into the harbour. The next morning at 9am. Grand Theft Nautical. Intersesting charge on a rap sheet. Luckily no one freed a boat, manned or not, and we all stumbled home, a few of us deciding to play Texas Hold ‘Em for spaghetti strands. We drank and played poker until 5 in the morning when the last of the revellers finally went home. I locked up and hit my bed marvelling that this is what college is like for most people.

The next morning, well, a few hours after I went to bed, I waltzed downstairs and greeted my cottage-mates. 5 of the 6 of them were seated having breakfast; the breakfast promised and delivered by Scottish Michael, who trundled off to bed around 4am. They all looked rather stunned to see me and made room for me at the table. Only Irish Simon was missing. He managed to make it to the van by the time we left, poor dear. Remember all that wine rolling around the van? Yeah... he should have cut back a lot earlier than he did, which was 4am. Still though, he was up and ready to leave on time, which is more than I can say for others who went home at a reasonable hour.

The group met daily at the corner nearest our cottage and waited for direction from Ally. It was the public space of the town. I’d call it a square except it was really just an undeveloped corner lot that the tourism board decided to pave and add a couple of playground pieces. So we gathered and waited while people ran across to the grocery to stock up on supplies. Mostly lottery tickets, since it was a rather large jackpot and when converted from Sterling to Euro was even larger. And tax free. Lotteries in EU countries are tax free. If you win 35 million, you keep 35 million, not 17 million. I should play the lotto more. Then I could afford a 6 bedroom ‘cottage’ on an austere Scottish island.


We loaded up and drove round the water (lots of inlets in this part of the world. W e were always driving around water) to our first distillery of the day: Bruichladdich, pronounced Brook-Laddy. A brief history of the island and the distilleries first.

Islay was, as one point, home to 30 working distilleries. As they disappeared, many of them bought by corporate conglomerates, the distillers and residents made the smartest decision they possibly could: united we stand, divided we fall. There are now 7 working distilleries on the island and one former distillery that supplies the malt for them. Better to be in the malting business than no business. It’s a decision any farming community would make. Back to Bruichladdich though. It was closed in 1995 (?) and sat vacant until 2000 or so when a group of Islay men got together and purchased it. They now run the only privately owned, and by that I mean the employees own the business, on the Island. At least that’s the way I remember the story. There might be a family owned distillery, but I believe they’ve all be TimeWarner-ed.

We divided into two groups and set off for the tour. I was the group led by THE man in whiskey, master distiller Jim McEwan. I have never met a person so passionate about their craft, job, art… whatever you want to call it. The man simply personifies whiskey in all the good ways. And, for some strange reason, he reminded me of my father. I think it was the eyes and the obvious compulsion to explain things to others. (that’s a good compulsion in my book) Anyway, he gave us the tour of the very ancient distillery, calling particular attention to their complex computer systems. (chalk, lead weights on strings, very high tech in a 19th century sort of way) and then led us into the warehouse. Now, supposedly, it is against the law to give cask tastes to the public in Scotland. I guess you have to be a staff member in order to get drunk at work. Being illegal, Jim took particular delight in offering us several. A cask taste is exactly that; he opened up a cask of maturing whiskey and poured a few glasses for us to pass among ourselves. In fact, we tasted close to 6 of them in the warehouse. He’s been experimenting, see, and wanted to see what we thought of his handy work.

The first thing he gave us was called 4X. Somewhere they found a recipe for a triple distilled whiskey, and being, well, boys really, had to up the ante. So they made the world’s first Quadruple distilled whiskey. Technically, it’s pure enough by the third go to have been used as an incendiary device, so going that fourth time was really pushing his luck. Nothing exploded and he handed us each a plastic communion cup of utterly clear liquid. It didn’t really have a smell but it did teach me a valuable lesson. When tasting whiskey, experimental whiskey especially, you don’t just toss it down the hatch. Putting a little on your lips and tip of your tongue is quite sufficient. However… I took a moderate sip. It burned. It burned a lot. And then I started coughing. While Jim laughed. It was a precious moment. He turned away and I finally got to double over. My stomach has never been so firey. Hell, habanera infused tequila shots aren’t anything compared to this stuff. Several deep breaths later, Jim moved on to the next cask and I prayed his regular stuff was better. It was. Very much better, I may add.

In the US, when a wooden barrel is used to age liquid (wine primarily) the barrel cannot be used again. It’s a one shot deal apparently, which delights the Europeans to no end, since no such regulation exists here. Therefore, an entire market of second-hand casks is available for use for the price of shipping. What, you may ask, would a whiskey distiller do with wine casks? Age whiskey. The rest of our cask tastes were Bruichladdich whiskey aging in wine, sherry, and whiskey casks. A row of McAllen barrels were near the front, followed by Tempranillio barrels (my personal favourite), Opus One, Chateau Lafite, which I cannot spell and finally, Chateau d’Yquem. Chateau d’Yquem is a French dessert wine that is quite possibly the most expensive wine in the world and certainly the highest quality of its type anywhere. Many years ago while working at the Pyramid Room in the Fairmont Hotel, I was given glass after glass of wines ‘to educate’ my palate and the sommelier would try to sneak d’Yquem by me. I referred to it as ‘rotten pear wine’, because that what it tasted like at the time, but mostly because it annoyed the hell out of him and guaranteed more expensive drinks for me. (I should have never quit that job) So we tried several whiskies in casks of varying types of wine and watched as Jim did a full body wobble with each taste. (he stopped just short of a happy dance) And I could tell the difference between them. Sherry makes whiskey quite a bit sweeter but still sharp. The tempranillo turned the whiskey sort of cranberry red. But the d’Yquem… that made the whiskey brilliant yellow, almost like apple juice, and mellowed the whiskey with the most amazing sweetness. That was one of the two whiskies I purchased on the trip. In the gift shop after our tour, Jim signed our bottles with a special pen and posed for photographs standing next to the cask that was crafted for Queen Elizabeth’s 80th birthday. He couldn’t resist giving us a taste. And then he told us the story behind the bottles labelled Yellow Submarine.

Evidently, the Royal Navy lost a submarine in Port Ellen, which was found and plucked from the sea by a local fisherman. He installed it in his back yard and then Royal Navy, after denying that it was missing, had to admit it was, accused the fisherman of stealing it, and then had to politely ask for their spy equipment back. It’s a great story, which you can read about HERE, and was worthy of christening a whiskey. Who says the British have the driest sense of humor?

All this, before lunch.

We had a lovely lunch and I photographed the bowling green across the street. An actual bowling green, used for 10 Pins, which you may remember is the pre-cursor to bowling. This tiny island had, that we passed, 4 of them. I have no idea who is doing all that bowling, but I’m betting not many. The lawns were immaculate. Give a man a couple strong drams of whiskey and I’m pretty sure divits happen.

After lunch it was time for Bowmore, our host distillery. It was easily the largest of the lot we saw, but size is really no reflection on quality here. Again, divided in two groups, we got personalized tours, amended for the fact that we’d seen the basics already. Here, we spent a lot of time on the drying floor. Bowmore is one of the few distilleries that persists in germinating their barley by hand. They soak the malt in water for several days until it just starts to sprout, then spread it out on the floor and turn it, by hand, every 4 hours for several days until it is dry. It’s labourious and painstaking but they produce a quality product, so I’m not going to argue with them about methods. The rest of the tour was uneventful, not bad by any means but we were all to the point of wanting to get to the tasting and then head home for naps. The only free time we were allowed followed this tour, and frankly, I planned to nap. I haven’t missed this much sleep since grad school. And it wasn’t because I was out partying, dammit.

After my nap, I showered and changed for dinner and felt like a whole new woman. It’s amazing what a power nap can do. We drove around the water to Port Charlotte for dinner and it was amazing. The group voted to skip the other places next time and only eat at this restaurant. I had duck to start followed by lobster. When on an island, eat seafood. I didn’t even share a bite with people it was so good. A much different texture than I was expecting but the flavour was intense. Luckily, sitting across from me was a man who has had quite a life. He was on the trip with 3 of his lifelong mates, average age of the group 74, and he was telling us about his life. He’s had quite the time. He was a professional race car driver until he wrecked and lost his heel. Yep, read that again. The heel of his foot. I stopped him sort of describing it since we were all eating and I’m queasy that way. Then he told us about his trip to New Zealand, where he drove a motor home around for 6 months and learned how to bungee jump. That was a couple of years ago. And this year he decided to come on this trip because it was the anniversary of his wife’s death and he figured he needed to be with people instead of home alone. At this point, I mis-heard him and raised my glass in a toast to his wedding anniversary. I’m a muppet. I should not be let out in public. He looked at me rather strangely and after I figured out what he really said, I apologized to him, which he graciously accepted. I need a babysitter some nights. While the group finished their after dinner drinks in the adjacent bar, I stepped outside for some fresh air and absolute darkness. It was a full moon and the stars were vivid in the night sky. The added bonus of the evening was a strong wind coming off the Atlantic, cold, very cold, but allowing me to stare at the moon without my hair in my face. I can’t tell you how long I stayed out there, it felt so wonderful to be standing in the fresh air. As we were leaving the restaurant, I took the Grumpy Old Men to the water for the same experience, which I figured they’d either love or use as proof of my utter insanity. Luckily for me, they loved.

A short trip back to Port Ellen and we marched into the pub of the previous evening and started ordering drinks. I’m not sure what happened, but in the aftermath of everything, it seems that the bar owner took exception to the fact that we arrived later than he’d been expecting us and started yelling at Jamie for it. Then he yelled at Ally and another person and then kicked us all out. Evidently, he subscribes to the Phil Ramano school of economics: it’s not enough to make money if you don’t make enough money. No money is better than less money than you wanted. 26 Irish walk into your bar 2 hours before closing and you kick them out because they didn’t arrive 4 hours before closing. It still baffles me. And pissed Jamie off enough to swear that he’d never bring another group to this man’s bar again. Not a smart business move but what do I know, I’m an architect.

So off we went, back to the cottage for drink, scary stories (it was the Halloween season) and more poker, which we decided would have a 5 pound buy-in, winner take all. Around 4:30 it was down to 4 of us and Simon decided he wanted to learn how to play, so I gave him my hand and taught him. In the end, he and I won and split the kitty which was 60 pounds. (that’s about $120) Not a bad way to end the evening. The last person left, and I left Simon sitting at the table trying to puncture a beer cap with a pen. I prayed we wouldn’t have to take him to the hospital in the morning and went to bed.

The following morning we had an appointment for the first of our last two distilleries at 9:30am. I was ready, packed and downstairs for breakfast and a helping of déjà vu. I said good morning and they all looked at me with utter amazement. Ally even remarked that he assumed I wouldn’t make it that morning. I have no idea why, what they were expecting, but for some reason, I’m a lot more resilient than any of them expected. Either that, or it was a bungled attempt at Murder on the Orient Express.

We got into the vans and headed to our first port of call, Lagavulin. This is what I came to see.

When I made my maiden voyage to Scotland with Tax Boy, we found ourselves in the Whiskey Shop in Inverness, tasting whiskies to send to my brother. Each whiskey had a description card attached to it, much like you’d see in wine shops. We were just laughing about one particular card that described it as “peaty and smoky with a strong seaweed and salt character” when the salesgirl materialized out of nowhere and said in a very serious voice: that’s one of the best whiskies made. I recognize a gauntlet when I see one land in front of me. I had a taste.

You know when you put something new in your mouth for the first time and it produces an immediate reaction? Mine was this: Now THAT I could drink a whole glass of! And that was Lagavulin.

The Islay whiskies are noted for their peaty, smoky, salty characteristics. You either love it or you hate it. There is no lukewarm in this scale. I, happily, love it. NAR hated it. Then again, she hates whiskey and was along because she’d never been to Scotland and figured this was a good excuse. She skipped the tour in favour of sleeping in. Big mistake. Not only is it one of the most amazing sites for a distillery, its just amazing whiskey. They were closed so our private tour was really a private tour. Again, the tour was uneventful and we spent quite a bit of time out doors because it’s just spectacularly located on the water. Our guide did make light of the fact that we’d been on several tours and probably hit our limit for information, so it was quick and sweet and then into the tasting room, which was like stepping into someone’s living room. A cozy fire, overstuffed sofas and leather arm chairs; she handed me a drink and I told them to come pick me up from there on the way home. It was difficult to leave, and not just because she left us alone in the room with 4 open bottles of whiskey. We spent more time in this tasting room than any of the others. And we only got one taste, as opposed to 3 or 4 at the others. But it was so warm and fuzzy and outside it was windy and Scottish. But leave we must and leave we did. It was worth the entire trip for that one tour.

On to Ardbeg we went for our last tour and for lunch. Unbeknownst to me however was the fact that lunch was after the tour. It’s hard to drink whiskey at 10 in the morning. For me anyway.

We gathered for our last tour as one group, since several stayed in bed, appearing only for lunch. She was easily the best tour guide we had. Jim was great and he gave a hell of a tour, but this woman was just fun to hang out with. She told us stories about living on Islay, growing up in a whiskey town, about the Halloween festival they have every year. It’s an open house event where each distillery puts on a tour. Not content to give just a tour, Ardbeg decided to make it a haunted distillery tour. She probably spoke more about that tour than the distillery. And she was funny. You have to love a tour guide that has a sense of humor and a strong streak of passion for what they do. She was fantastic. After the tour, we went out to the warehouse where she quickly realized she forgot to bring a glass for tasting. So she proceeded to fill a water glass someone had and pass it around the group. The largest taste ever.

We wandered back into the restaurant/gift shop and situated ourselves for sandwiches and soup not a moment too soon. The rest of the group joined us finally and I learned what a cheese and pickle sandwich is. It is not sliced cheese with hunks of dill pickle between bread. Rather, it is white bread buttered, shredded cheddar cheese and spiced pickle spread. Interesting; not at all what I’d been expecting and another thing to mark off the list of Foods I’ve Tried. I focused on the soup, potato and leek. It was divine. And it restored the colour to Scottish Michael’s skin, which was actually gray from the 2 day hangover. Poor guy looked like death for a bit there.

Back into the vans, we made our way to the ferry, the correct port this time and arrived with 30 minutes to spare. After establishing that people had their boarding cards, which were given to us on the way over, Ally said he’d let us out of the van as long as we stayed close to the van. Yeah… like that’s gonna work. Just round the corner was a pub. Where do you think people went? Yep, the world’s shortest pub. But it was cozy and out of the wind. I ordered a glass of beer, which is ½ of a pint, since we were short on time. I was handed a glass of nothing and a pint of beer. Evidently it’s a do-it-yourself type of place. She did offer to let me come behind the bar and pull a few pints. I declined. The idea of scooting behind the bar instead of sitting by the fire wasn’t strong enough.

As the ferry pulled up it was made apparent that several kids, I mean, people, lost their boarding passes. No, I meant kids. Honestly… they made a huge deal when they gave them to us, that we needed to keep track of them to get home. I had mine but the group was short 5. As we were walking on to the boat, one of the lads made the spot of the trip: John. As in Bartender John from our ferry trip to the Island. There was a reason we boarded the wrong ferry on the way over. We chatted with him a bit and explained that “a couple of people” lost their tickets and he said, no problem, let me speak with the captain. We gathered the Losers and when the captain arrived, he didn’t look happy. But Bartender John convinced him we were legitimate and aboard we went! It’s good to make friends; you never know when you’re going to need a little help.

When we landed on the mainland (hee…) we stopped for fish and chips which wouldn’t be worth mentioning except for one small detail. Deep fried Mars Bars. Evidently it’s a Scottish delicacy that none of the Scottish on our trip had ever eaten. Sort of like Rocky Mountain Oysters I’d imagine. You’ve got to have something for the tourists, is what this if filed under. Anyway, the South African guy was giving Scottish Michael a hard time about it the entire trip, to which SM responded that he’d never even seen one, let alone tasted one. As we were waiting for our 26 orders of fish and chips SM heard an employee ask who ordered the deep fried Mars Bar. He raised his hand and presented it to the South African. Yep, he stole a dessert, bold as brass and then we all had a bite of the contraband. It tastes like melted chocolate and not in a good way. I cannot believe I’m saying that. Again, another thing to mark off the food list. (Not that I’m trying the oysters when I go home next…)

We loaded up and drove in the dying sunlight back to Glasgow. Ally and I chatted while I forced chocolate upon him. He loosened up, Michael fell asleep while still holding his beer, I stared out the window trying to will the sun to stay out longer. It was dark when we checked in at the airport (still fresh flowers in the ladies rooms I might add) and then walked the long concourse to our gate. Along the way, I looked down and spotted a bit of cash on the floor. 15 euro. Just enough for cab fare home. Thanks Glasgow!