It’s a Vacation. Not a Work Trip.

My first vacation in a donkey’s years started with a van ride to Denver International Airport, with the obligatory drop-off two hours early. We finally boarded and had a two-and-a-half-hour wait on the runway. All that parking meant we were hours late to Chicago. I ran and barely made the London flight, but only because it was also late. By the time we landed in London, I’d already missed my flight to Glasgow, but I was able to have a delightful cheese and pickle sandwich. Small blessings.

After 38 hours of waiting, being strapped in seat belts, knees pressed into the seat in front of me, or sprinting through terminals while pondering what might be going on with my right leg, I was finally in Glasgow. I just had one more transfer. It was a bus to my hotel. Knowing my limits, I took a taxi. The other word for that is Towanda!

After two naps and a shower, I made it downstairs for dinner in the hotel bar. I’ll get to the horse part soon because there’s always a horse part.

People here are friendly and eager to talk. They speak a language I don’t understand, although it’s my birth tongue.

After dinner, I was on the elevator back up with two women roughly my age. One said something to me that I couldn’t sound out. I’ve always been hard of hearing and taught myself to replay the sounds in my head until I can make them into a sentence. No luck. Why don’t my hearing aids come with translation?

I apologized for not speaking English. For not the first time. She spoke slowly and told me she lived in North Carolina and had come to see where her parents grew up. Her accent is as strong as the locals. And of course, my grandparents were immigrants.

When they asked what I was doing I blurted out that my 70th birthday was coming up and I noticed I had a bit of an attitude about it. The elevator door opened at my floor and they both chimed in a merry unplanned cheer, “Here’s to having an attitude!” And now we’re all related.

I know some of you readers are past 70. Forgive me if I’m more interested in how I feel about it.

In the morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, determined to call this the first day of vacation. I ate like a bird, meaning only a fraction of the things in the full English breakfast. I’m not afraid of a rank stallion, but this breakfast is terrifying.

Then off on foot to the train station. GPS talked me there, just off George Square where there is a statue of Queen Victoria (above). I have to love Scotland. A place where women ride sidesaddle on what looks suspiciously like an Arabian horse. It’s a strong bit, but the reins are broken. Is that a neck ring I see? And just like that, I’m fine. Because I happen to be a queen of a vast kingdom (in my own mind.) I even had a side saddle because I thought it was fun to ride like a girl.

Once I have my bearings in the train station, I head to the basement for the bathroom because my bladder isn’t the woman she used to be. Pay turnstiles? So, I went back to the lost and found desk to ask for change, but the man wouldn’t break my bill. Instead, he lets me in for free, walking me over and telling me I’ll love the train to Mallaig. He can’t help but try to teach me how to pronounce it. I swear, Scottish (which I obviously refer to as another language) is the most musical yet unintelligible language ever. No silly I-before-E rules. No rules at all.

This would have been enough of a welcome, but a fewf hours later on the train, I got the bladder call again. The bathroom was at the front of the car. It’s like a little spaceship, round with a pocket door that slides shut with the push of a button. I had already pulled down my pants and sat down when I noticed the lighted sign telling me the door was not locked. A tough call, but it’s pretty hard to embarrass me. I finished as quickly as I could, washed my hands, and opened the door. A man was standing outside, who immediately explained how to lock the door, which he’d apparently been guarding for me.

The kindness of the Scottish people was almost disorienting after my recent cruel trip to Texas, but what kind of country has men who are so weirdly helpful with bathrooms? Surely it doesn’t say anything about me.

The West Highland Train runs between Glasgow and Mallaig. The route is 146 miles and takes just under five and a half hours, which is not nearly long enough. I don’t even want to read. I’m besotted. This legendary landscape looks just like you’d expect. No grouping of letters on paper will do it justice but if I squint my eyes, I think I see ancestors behind the rocks.

It’s full Scotch broom season, the yellow flowers at odds with the sky. The Highland cattle look right at home. A few draft horses stand in fields but the country belongs to its sheep. Sheep everywhere, the ewes all dowdy gray and the lambies brilliant white, ricocheting off rocks. I still remember the names of the breeds from our farm when I was little, in that way that worlds collide as the idea of time falls away.

Hours pass. The last leg of the trip had the most beautiful scenery, and I was busy videoing out the window like any self-respecting tourist when a man sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Ian and immediately told me I was on the side of the train with the best view. We were backing out of the station so I asked, “Backward the whole way?” He nods yes.

He had flaming ginger hair with a formidable matching beard with sunstroke-fair skin, clear as the sky if only it hadn’t been so foggy and rainy. I could tell he was used to talking to strangers on the train because he modulated his voice volume to the rattle of the rails. Meaning, I could hear him even if I didn’t understand him.

I had pages of notes in front of me and he asked if I was a writer. Yes, I said. Pleasure or profit, he asked. Both I answered. He wanted to trade writing tips for history lessons. Deal. How you can tell I’m on vacation is that I agreed.

As we crossed the Glenfinian Viaduct, famous for its twenty-one arches, Ian told me about its history. There’s an ancient monument to the Battle of the Shirts, a clan battle that took place in 1544 when the Clan McDonald fought an epic battle the Clan Frazier. It feels like it happened yesterday.

The viaduct was built in the late 1800s, by Robert McAlpine, nicknamed “Concrete Bob” for his innovative use of mass concrete. There was a story horse who fell inside of a pylon dragging the cart with him. The decision was made to just fill it all in with cement.

Ironically, this is a place mostly known for a movie that I haven’t seen about a magician.

To visit Scotland is to understand that history is always present, so we talked about how horses helped us build the world and civilize our culture, but now there is little need for them. Some are still used hard, sometimes abused, with no traditional jobs to do. They are underappreciated, almost unnecessary. It’s the good news and the bad.

I told him my first trip to Scotland for work was on the solstice and we had vegetarian haggis. Just when I thought I’d never meet someone else who’d had it, he agreed it was the best thing ever. He claimed that some Scots had evolved past eating entrails.

He asked me about writing, apologizing that millennials like him were hooked to technology as if my paper tablet was sacred. As if writing had never evolved since cave paintings. Just to show off, I told him that soon I’d read these pages of notes to a dictation app and then email them to myself where it would be easier to edit them (I have apps) into submission.

Ian plays shinty, an ancient animal-skin ball game where the players are armed with sticks, and he has a damaged knee to prove it. A bit of a local hero, (that movie was shot here, too) but he had to move away and come back again. Don’t we always return home, or a place that feels that way?

Once I was settled into my hotel room, I took a walk in the rain. Maybe it was just fog, it’s hard to tell. Mallaig is a fishing village of 660 souls. At the end of a dock when I met a seagull the size of a capon. Huge and loud and healthy, probably from begging tourists for snacks. Leading from behind is an exercise I do with horses but I have a habit of finding birds to practice with when I travel. Leading from behind is easy. You just say yes and stop being a predator. Let the bird take you for a walk.

Then dinner. Jolene was playing, as I ordered fish and chips which come with peas. Most meals here do, and pickled cauliflower. The fish was so flaky it fell apart before getting to my mouth. Ambrosia fish but no food photos. I’ve never been a fan of delayed gratification. The sun eventually sets on day one.

And so, intrepid readers, this isn’t my usual blog, and it’s not just that I’m in the Scottish Highlands.

Since being hacked and then deleted by Facebook, the number of blog reads has dropped by 96%. Think about it. There was a time I would have killed for that many reads but it feels depressing now. I can see it in my income, trickle-down economics working as well as it ever has. I thought I’d never retire but it seems I don’t have to make that decision. Facebook did it for me and now I’m looking for the high side. It’s like I’ve lost half my body weight and I don’t miss the bickering.

I’m very grateful to you die-hards for sticking with me. I’ll keep writing as long as I continue to think because writing has become how I think. But readers beware, there’s no telling what I’ll stomach for breakfast or what trains I’ll catch. I do promise horses will be part of it because horses are life.

I’ll lob this essay over the ocean now, not that I know what day it is. If you were hoping for training information, go to my blog page where over 1400 essays waiting. Did I mention, I’m on vacation?

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Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

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