Woke up in Inverness, with our Bride of Frankenstein room mate throwing shade at our itinerary for the day. Apparently Culloden Battlefield and Glenfiddich Distillery aren't legitimate destinations, and we should be trekking off to climb a hill in search of a majestic tree like she was. Silly hippies.
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| Culloden - MacKintosh marker |
After checking out of our lovely hostel, we took off for Culloden (pronunciation "Cull-awe-den", not "Coll-o-den"). Quite literally, it is a field outside Inverness with a lonely cairn of stones and red and blue flags. It is here that Bonnie Prince Charlie (or The Young Pretender) and his Jacobite army fought the English, led by the Duke of Cumberland--this battle and its bloody end signaled the final end to the Stuart claim to the throne. Sad times for Charlie. And my MacKintosh clan, who were the first to charge the British troops. They broke through the first two flanks, then found themselves surrounded. Almost all of the warriors were killed. At the site, there are two stone markers for the MacKintosh clan--hopefully to recognize that they basically met the same tragic end as that scene in Braveheart where the first two flanks charge the British and are massacred. That was the MacKintoshes. Pretty sure the Highland Clearances that occurred directly after this are the reason we ended up in Canada.
Sidenote - this is the MacKintosh clan motto. I like it. The motto's meaning is "touch not the cat when it is without a glove." The glove of the wildcat is the soft, under part of his paw, and when assuming a war-like attitude, the paw is spread or ungloved revealing very dangerous claws. The motto is a warning to those who would be so imprudent as to engage in battle when the claw of the wildcat is ungloved. Don't mess with the MacKintoshes (My interpretation is slightly different. Seems to me that this motto is closer to "don't fondle the robot pussy thout a 'glove'". So, y'know, I guess it's all a matter of how you look at it. For example, my interpretation is correct, and C's is wrong. So if you look at it wrongly, you will draw C's conclusions. Amazing thing, logic).
Culloden is an amazing area, and the museum is one of the best curated I have ever visited. I totally loved it but feel bad for the dudes who had to fight there--it was cold as ice in late May, so I can't imagine how awful it would have been for them. That, and they were exhausted from a failed all-night attempt to trek to the English in a surprise attack. Poor war planning, Charlie.
After Culloden, we travelled to Dufftown for a Pioneer Glenfiddich Distillery tour. We stopped at a random restaurant and everyone had a bowl of delicious Cock-a-leekie soup. Amy had never experienced this soup and asked the chef what was in it. "Cock and leek", he replied. After an awkward 15 second pause, the server clarified "chicken, and leek." Ahhh. Light on. The little restaurant was great, and the chef also had some gem Camilla cracks for us ("Why would anyone trade anything in for her, ever?") After our delicious soup, we were off for Glenfiddich!
We had scheduled ourselves onto the exclusive Pioneer tour of the Glenfiddich Distillery--it costs 50 pounds, but you get a special guided tour and, importantly, you get to bottle your own wee bottle of whisky from one of four casks which will never be on public sale. Oooooh.We checked into our tour with a lovely Swede who had already done four or five other distilleries. One of them that morning. He was an old pro. Clearly, this could go south since only one of us really liked whisky and none of us knew a damn thing about it. We sat down in the coffee shop for our complimentary non-alcoholic beverage and biscuit (I am still kicking myself for missing that chocolate cupcake). We awaited our tour guide Brian who had been "called away". While we thought this a strange description of Brian's location, particularly when the lady stated she didn't know when he would be back and we should just wait...we accepted it. Because we had free foodstuffs.
Luckily, Brian appeared shortly thereafter. I was initially afraid that Brian had consumed a bit too much of the Kool-Aid, since he gushed about how awesome the CEO of the company is, but it soon became apparent that Bri-bri is as cool as they come. I confessed that I actually have a hate/hate relationship with straight whisky (or whiskey as us Canadians, incorrectly, spell it). Brian's brow raised and he appeared slightly dismayed, but he promised that he wouldn't try to make me like something I don't like. Sort of the anti-Hitler of whisky.
I won't bore you with the details of the tour (actually, it was really quite fascinating, but we learned so much that I am about 100x too lazy to type it all out...much like I was too lazy to type out '100 times'). Let me just say that I highly recommend the tour - well worth the money (and not just for the free booze!). It's actually genuinely fascinating and you get a really in-depth view of how whisky is made (oh yeah, and the free booze. You also get free booze). It's a multi-pronged process, with very little waste (although there is waste...I can't remember what the actual stuff is called, but Brian described its taste as "marmite-esque" and "unpleasant". I described it as "gross". Brian, of course, corrected me - real British gentlemen and ladies do not say "gross", they say "unpleasant". I, always the cunning linguist (*snerk*), informed Brian that, in Canada, we pronounce it "gross". He was amused by our colonial ways.) If I had to pick a favourite part, it was definitely when we got to go into one of the storehouses and look at this, like, airplane hangar filled with casks (NOT barrels, as Brian pointed out) of whisky. Super keen! This was also the venue for my personal favourite line of the day, from Brian: "Alright now, just put your nose in the bunghole and give it a sniff". The bunghole is the name of the little hole at the top of a cask of whisky, into which is put a piece of burlap that can be removed. Actually, the government hates when purveyors of whisky have removable plugs for their bungholes (bahahahahaha), as it makes it difficult to determine how much tax they pay, or something. C understood that part better than me, frankly. I was too busy laughing at "bunghole".
Once the actual tour part was over, we made our way to the whisky tasting portion of the evening. On the way there, C, always a smartass, made some pithy comment about something or other, to which Brian turned right, and informed her that she could "turn left". I added "and go straight to hell". It is my way, and it was accurate and I stand by it. This prompted our Swedish friend to recount a rather humourous (and thankfully short) story (literally, this story is like one line long). He once commented to his friend that they were marching straight into hell, to which his friend replied "no, we are skipping gaily forward". There's a real lesson there about outlook on life, but I'm giggling at the mental image of gaily skipping into hell. So, you know, draw your own conclusions or whatever.
Now, where was I? Ah yes, whisky tasting. Brian took us into this lovely suite in the upstairs offices of the distillery, where we each had six glasses of whisky waiting for us. The whole thing was delightfully posh (I am trying to think of a Spice Girls joke to go in here, but I've really got nothing. Perhaps you can all make up your own and insert it. Self-service comedy!). I schooled Brian on whisky-face (it's much like lemon face) and he schooled me on the addition of water to whisky. Apparently, when I pour a litre of water into my Crown Royal, I'm creating an odious swamp water, undrinkable by man. However, when you put but a few drops in there, it opens up the flavour or something (re: it makes it taste less like you're drinking sweetened lighter fluid). In the end, I discovered that I like 15- and 18-year-old Glenfiddich whisky, but not the 30-year-old hella expensive stuff. Which is a nice change from my normal spending habits. I downed 4 of my 6 glasses (look, I might not have liked 30-year-old whisky, but it was expensive, and those of you that know me well know that I cannot waste expensive things, just on principle). I was a happy camper. C, unfortunately, couldn't have too much, as she had to drive, and Amy later regretted not finishing more delicious whisky). We took another picture of me jumping in front of something, and moved along.Our destination was Bruce and Kate's flat in Perth, which is about a two-hour drive from Dufftown (not a Simpsons-based theme town, I discovered. Who knew?). Nothing really to report about the drive, other than it was literally like riding a rollercoaster. roads in the Scottish highlands are basically like one big game of Chutes and Ladders, but without the Ladders. There were more S-curves on these roads than...than...well, I can't think of a good analogy, but there were a fuckload of them. It was making Amy dizzy in the backseat! A deer ran across the road and we saw a craptonne of sheep, but there weren't many other things to see. Oh, and I should mention that it was windy as hell. Like, knocking over cellphone towers windy. I guess them's the hazards of going through mountains. We survived and are better people for it (Ed. note: this is a lie).
We pulled into our hotel just as Bruce and Kate were walking up to the restaurant (located in the hotel, conveniently). Excellent timing on our part (although we were slightly late due to the aforementioned "roads", or "cow paths", as C prefers to call them). Bruce and Kate are always fun (you may remember our time with them from our last trip, when we made an unscheduled "drinking stop" at their flat). And the Tayside Hotel has some delicious freakin' food. I had the haggis and the steak pie, because I like to theme-eat for whatever location we are in at the time. Fabu. We had a few drinks there, then retired to Bruce and Kate's. On the way, I asked the question that had been at the forefront of both my mind and C's mind for the past few days: why are some of the license plates in the UK white and some yellow? Kate looked at us for a good 30 seconds, then burst into guffaws (Scottish people guffaw. Fact.). She then told us that, in the UK, the front license plate of a car is yellow and the back one is white, and, more importantly, how did we not discover this during the FIVE previous days we had been driving? C and I felt like right idiots (I didn't feel like an idiot, because I didn't notice. -C), but we got a good laugh out of it. When we arrived, we were regaled with some great stories, many of which are unprintable on this family blog. What? Oh for God's sake. Fine, I'll give you one. Vultures. Bruce and Kate are not fans of cell phones. In fact, Bruce is of the firm belief that the cell phone is the worst invention of all time (I would contend the atom bomb, but to each his own). Anyway, they were driving along the other day and some dude walked into the center of the street while typing away on his cell phone. He stayed there for a good minute, typing away, oblivious to the car full of angry Scots waiting for him to move along. Finally he did, but not before Kate declared him a "right dick'ead". Amazing. Kate's always great for an awesome turn of phrase or two - this trip, she gave us "bent as a two bob note", referring to a pair of homosexual gentlemen she and Bruce are acquainted with (oops, dangling preposition...whatever, you'll all just have to live with it. I'm getting tired). I would type up an explanation of what a "bob" is, but that's C's job.
So, all in all, I would say that our day was filled with win (and drinks). And there's still one more day in Perth! Calloo callay! Oh frabjus day! Here's hoping our luck holds, because this trip has been #winning so far.
Nanoo nanoo,
KDu
"What whisky will not cure, there is no cure for." - Irish Proverb
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| 50 Years Old -- 10,000 pounds/bottle. Kept under lock and key. |
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