Having been there once before, I mentioned the breakfast I knew was coming at Tigh na Fraoch B & B in the previous post. But, I realized today as we actually sat down to enjoy it, that I didn't do it justice. Whew! Fresh grilled trout caught by our host Heather’s husband that morning, partnered with eggs, scones and thick-cut bacon. And I’m a vegetarian. Usually.
Not to mention the oatmeal. Again.
For all of you out there wondering “What’s all this fuss about oatmeal?” you probably cook yours in water with a dash of salt and a few raisins to give it grainy pizzazz. Take my advice: order some real Scottish oats and cook them in WHOLE milk (not 4%, not 2% and, God forbid, never, ever nonfat). Add a smidge of salt and a dose of vanilla, a hint of cinnamon. Let it get thick and hearty to keep you warm in a Scottish winter. Serve it with butter and fruit and nuts. You’ll never go back to the gruel you once slopped into your bowl. On top of that, your colon will thank you.
I love a dollop of peanut butter in the middle of my oatmeal bowl. Peanut butter (really, name-you-nut-butter) is my meat. But thus far that American staple has yet to hit the Big Time in the UK and waitri look at me as if I am speaking Alien when I ask for it. So when Heather placed a jar on the table I did a happy dance underMeath. When she said “Ah, just take it with ya,” I really just wanted to hug her. But since she'd recently had Covid, I kept it to myself and just said thank you.
We rolled away from the breakfast table and into the rain for the start of today’s 12 mile hike. There have been some uncomfortable, even painful portions on this path, but both Mary and I found today easy. The rain, which didn’t last long, kept us cool while turning the woods into glistening, vibrant green cathedrals. More waterfall-lets. Many rocks pressing through our boots. There were no steep ascents or descents as we strolled north alongside the railway line that leads towards Fort William and the end of this walk. All in all it was a gentle day.
It seems funny to call 12 miles easy; to call that length a stroll. Especially since Mary hadn’t walked more than 5 miles and me more than eight in one stretch before we strapped on our boots in Milngavie. And certainly neither of us were doing those lengths for several consecutive days. But, clearly, we are acclimating. For not being spring chickens, I think we’ve got a lot of spring left between us.
I can’t speak for Mary, but, honestly, I’ve been wrestling with my body the last few years as I’ve moved definitively past mid-age (if we call it at, say, 50). Things ache more. Burn more easily. Droop in strange places. Arms and legs and feet feel like they might break at times. I’ve noticed it’s a lot easier to hurt myself with a misstep that I wouldn’t even have noticed 10 or even five years ago. A path pebble at a wrong angle can (and has) taken me down. But an “easy” 12 miles gives me confidence that this body still is reasonably strong. And it bodes well for the 15 mile day ahead, which both of us have been skeptically eyeing on the map.
Along the way the conversation moved to dreaming. What do we each dream for the next five, 10, 20 years ahead of us? What needs to move, shift, stay the course, be let go of, be picked up in order to move in those directions? No answers. Just dreaming, wondering, feeling the questions of possible change. Probable change. Because isn’t this the way to fullment and even happiness: Rather than waiting for absolutes that do not exist, getting comfortable with our ever-changing existence.
We arrived at Bridge of Orchy – rather a tiny bridge to have a whole town named after it – in good spirits. The sun burst out as we sat down for our walk-end allotment: a pot of tea, a bag of shrimp-flavord potato chips, a dram of Mary’s favorite but new-to-me scotch.
Mary, a connoisseur, has been teaching me, a complete neophyte, about the history, role and distilling processes of scotches. How to sniff and hold the smokey peet aroma that says “I am from the island of Islay.” Or, the sweeter heathery nose of a Highlands distilled spirit.
At first it all tasted the same to me – what I imagine hot lava pouring down my throat might taste like. But I’m getting the hang of it. The distinct fragrances are coming through and I am surprising myself by guessing the region of a pour more than 50 percent of the time. Without looking at the bottle.
I’m not much of a drinker, so this wee dram business is perfect for me. (What is a dram? Good question!) It’s a tiny class full of so many nuances you’d shame the ancestors if you just threw it back like the Tequila of a college party. A wee dram over the space of an hour is a fireside chat on a comfy couch covered in a handmade quilt.
As we were sitting in the sun outside the Bridge of Orchy Hotel, our two male friends (the ones whose story we’ve been writing as a stormy romance across time and borders) joined us at the table. Boy was our story wrong. Walter is from Germany, Martin from England. They’ve known each other for more than 40 years as scout leaders in their respective countries. Their kids have grown up in scouts together. Martin’s wife is German. And these two gents have at least six kids between them. Every year or so, they meet up for an adventure, a challenge that grows and re-grounds the friendship. I wondered if they, likewise, had pegged Mary and I as lovers! Alas we'd disappoint them since we too here simply to grow our friendship. Now that I think of it, that's a pretty good story all around.
The day ended as deliciously as it started. The Bridge of Orchy Hotel gets our five stars for food. Dinner in the hotel’s dining room was superb, not to mention a celebration of our foraged friend, the cup of wild ramps that continues to accompany us in my backpack. We swooned over the fresh garlic pesto made from fresh-picked wild ramps. In fact, I’m so enamored of these leafy wisps I’ve already started googling how to grow them in my garden.
And then there was the sticky toffee pudding . . .
Stuffed to the gills, we noted on the menu for the morning: Eggs Florentine. Traditional Scottish Oats.
Does it get any better than this? Being right where our feet are, present in this moment and nowhere else, settling into hours of conversation, walking from one fine meal to another? And, upon waking, the promise of another still?
I don’t think so. The privilege of all of this is not lost on us.
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