Tag Archives: Scotland
June 25, 2013

One Turned Right — A Sheep Stampede

It was faint at first, and indistinguishable.  I’d already heard the pheasants making racket earlier, so perhaps it was them again. But this was different, guttural, and a lot of it, and it was getting closer. It takes a lot to get me out from under the plush covers of my castle bed, but this other-worldly noise did just that.

My upstairs bedroom window overlooks the entry gate, the main road just past the gate, and across the road, a lane up towards pastures and rolling hills and all that.   There’s never anyone, or anything, out there.  Just the occasional cars on the road and the mail truck every morning. It’s quiet and remote and perfectly Scotland-lovely.  Except today.

Scotland

The Scene of the Stampede

Across the road and on the lane that leads to all things rolling and lovely were hundreds — and I mean hundreds — of sheep stampeding and ba’ahing and doing whatever sheep do when they make a wrong turn.  They over-flowed the lane, trampling the grasses on either side, and stretched back up the lane as far as I could see. And they were stampeding towards the main road and the world beyond as though their lives depended on it.

I grabbed clothes and ran downstairs, out the gate and into the road. It was only then that I realized a few critical facts:  (1) I was the only human in sight and hundreds of thundering sheep were running towards me;  (2) I’d left the front door open, so in just a few moments, those hundreds of thundering sheep could be in my adopted castle; and  (3) thundering sheep aren’t cute and cuddly; they are terrifying.  I leaned against the wall surrounding the property and hoped for the best.

Perhaps the sheep found me equally terrifying, because when they had to choose between my castle and me or the main road, they thundered onto the main road and took off for parts unknown.  Sheep really do run in a wall-to-wall herd, filling every inch of space with their bodies and their hooves and their snorts and ba-ahs. It was a moving carpet of sheep, coming down the lane, onto the main road and off on a wild and woolly adventure.

The occasional cars appeared, and stopped. Sheep herds in the roads aren’t uncommon here, so they probably weren’t as shocked as I was. But they did seem to understand that no responsible human was anywhere in sight, so they chose to stay in the safety of their vehicles, rather than join me standing in the middle of the road, watching this thundering herd trample anything in its way.

The responsible humans could be heard trailing the sheep, screaming commands at them. The sheep weren’t listening. It was clear even to me, the American, that things weren’t going as planned. For these two men, who seemed to have been having a perfectly normal morning until something went askew, things were not going well. Even through their thick Scottish brogue, I knew those words weren’t meant for polite company, or even polite sheep.

But these were human men and a couple hundred wild sheep. The humans would eventually prevail. One skirted around the fields and got in front of the herd, effectively cutting it off at the pass,  while the second guy barked at the three sheepdogs who obediently corralled the sheep into submission.  Or at least stopped the stampede. There they stood, several hundred sheep in the middle of the main road, having just come thundering down the hill, past my castle and me.

They looked cute and cuddly again.  Until the men started yelling at them again and the dogs started barking and snapping and the thundering herd turned to go back from whence they came.  Straight towards me standing in the middle of the road. Once again, I took cover by the wall and hoped for the best.

Those three little dogs, 2 men and one truck worked like magic. Particularly the dogs. They barked and snapped and got the sheep to turn back up the lane at exactly the right moment, and when a few strayed, the dogs brought them back, yapping and lunging at them and forcing their compliance. The dogs seemed to love it. The sheep had gotten their joy ride, so they obeyed.

“Well you don’t see that everyday,” the man in the truck said to me as he finally got the last few strays to head back up the lane. “We were just moving them from one field to another, like we do all the time, when one of them decided to turn right. And before we knew it . . . ” He trailed off and shook his head.

Later in the day, I wandered up the lane, to see where they’d come from, and perhaps where they’d ended up.  Sure enough, on one side of the road was an open gate and empty field, sheep wool still clinging to the gate and brush along the sides.   Up the road to the left, another field, gate closed, with a few hundred sheep contentedly ba’ahing and grazing and napping.  Most were laying down. They were rather tired, I figured.

“One turned right,” the man had told me. I got it now. Rather than going left and to the safety of the next field, one obstinate buggah turned right, and the rest of the otherwise mild-mannered herd turned suddenly crazed and followed him.

It’s like the Tea-Party. One turned right and it became a thundering, frightening herd running towards something, but no one knew quite what. If only a few wily sheepdogs snapping at their heels could solve that problem too.

June 19, 2013

Castle Magic

Kailua, our little beach town in Hawaii, is the sweat pants of female fashion. Seriously, if you are living aloha there, you’re either sweaty, sandy or sopping wet most of the time anyway, and should you try to wear make-up, it slides off your face sometime before noon.

Okay, of course there are exceptions to this – goddesses who look perfect every single day – and we worship those women. But mostly, after a while, most women just quit trying. Maybe it’s because we live by the beach, where natural beauty is extraordinary, so we are lulled into believing our natural beauty is all we need, and the thought of blow drying our hair in our equally natural non-air-conditioned homes, dripping sweat immediately after our shower, seems oddly masochistic. Or maybe we just get lazy.

For the longest time, my new year’s resolutions included one to dry my hair completely.  Like, til it was dry. Another girlfriend and I did it in solidarity.  We’d text each other every morning we succeeded in our quest.  The texting ended before Valentines.  We never spoke of it again.  Now, when I’m home, I mostly use my hair dryer to dry my t-shirt after spot-treating it for some stain, so I can wear it one more day.

Another girlfriend, already naturally beautiful anyway, came back from LA once and started wearing make-up, drying her hair, and looking simply stunning every day.  I asked her about it.  “Honey, we just gotta try harder,” she told me. “I saw it in LA. We’ve given up.”  She was right of course, and she looked particularly stunning in her renewed efforts.  Last time I saw her, her hair was pulled up on top of her head, partially wet, her skin glowed without make-up, and her old t-shirt and shorts looked terrific.  But like I said, she’s naturally beautiful anyway.

I’m thinking about this, you see, because we’ve been trekking thru Italy, where even little kids wear sweaters over their shoulders and everyone has designer something. And they actually glow. Beautifully. (I chose to leave my toe shoes safely packed the entire time we were in the country, saving my kids from the mortification of traveling with me.)  I still didn’t dry my hair or wear make-up of course, but I noticed the beauty of others, and felt a bit guilty about my au naturel  lifestyle.

Now we’re in Scotland. Living in a castle. A castle with a name, even.  Dollerbeg Lodge, it’s called. It says that right on the stone pillars you drive through to enter the grounds.  (Yeah, I know. Google that and you don’t really find images of it, but I don’t care. That’s the address to which mail is delivered, and I’m reveling in a castle with a name actually etched in stone, so I’m going with it.)

And here’s the best part.  The Lady’s Dressing Room is in the Turret of the castle.  The Turret!

Yes, the room is round and cushy and plush, with a little window looking out over the gated entrance, with a couple of watchful spiders weaving their webs in the windows.  There’s a dressing table, a comfy chair, a big, beautiful mirror, plugs for the dryer and flat iron, and room on the dressing table for my meager make-up supply.

Yes, I do travel with make-up; I just never actually use it.  Contacts too, but glasses seem so much easier. Until today.

It’s a dressing room in a Turret, for gods sake. In a Scottish castle, with a name. If ever a girl’s to feel like a girl and do the girly thing, that’s the place.  Right?

That’s what I thought too. And so I did.

I took a long, luscious hot shower, in the beautiful bathroom with the claw foot tub and the heated tile floor. (You knew it had a claw foot tub, didn’t you, because it’s part of the castle requirements – turret and claw foot tub mandatory; moat optional.) The bathroom scale looming in the corner momentarily challenged my fairy tale. I stepped on it, warily, but was relieved by the low battery warning, a clear sign my fairy godmother had readied the home before my arrival.  I thanked her quietly.

The various moisturizer samples I’ve been lugging around the world were retrieved from the bottom of my toiletries kit and lathered on. It felt heavenly. Bathed, weighed and moisturized, I gathered all my hair products and make up and brushes and retreated to the Turret.

And it was glorious.  I took my time, like a little girl with make up for the first time, which was a good thing since I’m not terribly skilled at actually applying the stuff. I dried my hair, actually using my brush and even a bit of oil that’s supposed to do something special to my hair. Or at least that’s what I think it’s for. I forget.  Then the flat iron, smoothing out those kinks and curls and waves til my hair looked, well, stunning.  (I’m typing this with one hand while the other hand keeps fingering my hair to be sure I didn’t make this up.)

Lastly, the make-up – foundation, eye shadow and liner, even lipstick.  And of course, the contacts.  I had to go through a few pair to find some that hadn’t expired, but I wasn’t to be deterred.

My teenagers simply stared when I descended the staircase, trying to act like I look like this every day. Perhaps it took them a moment to realize I was their mother, the one with toe shoes and stained t-shirts. Or maybe they were concerned she’d been snatched away, and this odd-looking blow-dried creature had been left in her place.  And perhaps that’s exactly what had happened.

Collarbeg Castle, ScotlandIn a castle with a turret, anything is possible.