Hiking in Heels in the Highlands

874 Days to Complete 101 Dreams Come True

The sun came out in Scotland and I drove north to an area called Fort William, the hiking and skiing capital of the country. The drive was breathtaking as I passed bays surrounded by snow-capped mountains. Castles dotted the landscape completing the idyllic picture.

I was told that I should take the gondola to the top of Ben Ness, the tallest mountain in Scotland to take in the spectacular views. When I arrived in town I went to the tourist office to buy tickets for the gondola, but as I looked at the map I saw a hike to a waterfall. I went to the information booth and asked how to get to the footpath. The woman took one look at my pretty winter coat and my dress boots, and told me that this was a treacherous hike with many slippery parts. I thanked her for the warning and the directions.

Once again, driving in Scotland proved to be misleading. The drive was supposed to take fifteen minutes, and forty-five later I arrived after much turning around and asking for further directions. I think I have used my reverse gear more this week than I do in a year back home.

On the drive I met one of the locals - a highland cow. These guys are so cute you want to hug them like a teddy bear. This one tried to come right up to me when I took his picture, but his horns kept me back.

It was sunny and bright as I began my walk with my winter coat on, my camera on my shoulder, an umbrella and poncho in my pocket and my pretty pashmina around my neck. The walk was easy, but I was warm in the coat. I hung my beautiful coat on a birch tree and continued. The path became rockier and wetter, and I crossed over streams until I came to the snow. By this time, my boots, which were more like socks on top of two-inch rubber heels, were filled with enough water that I felt like I walked in puddles as my socks squished in the wetness.

As hikers, in Gortex and hiking boots, passed me on the narrow path they looked at me with question at my attire. I had to laugh at myself and what I must have looked like to them. I politely told them that it was my coat hanging on the branch further down and to please not remove it thinking it was forgotten.

As I returned to my car, I was happy to find my coat where I had left it. My feet and jeans were soaked, but it was well worth it for the hike into the wilderness. I picked up my jacket just as the rain began. I opened up my fancy umbrella (it actually has lace on the ends) and continued towards the car. Hail began to fall in large pellets. A group of hikers in winter, weather clothing walked towards me. I must have been a sight to them because I heard them say, "The stupid French. They can't even dress casual for hiking."

Bates Motel and A Nursing Home

795 Days to Complete 101 Dreams Come True

I set out from Edinburgh without a plan or a hotel for the next three nights. I was told it would be easy to find B&B's and guesthouses. My plan was to go through Stirling, see the castle, and then head to Aberfoyle to hike in Queen's National Park.

Stirling is a lovely little city, but as with most of Scotland, the city has tiny roads that one car can barely fit down never mind two. With a few wrong turns, I found my way to the castle, saw all of the tour buses and decided to turn around. I was done with being around the mobs (I can't imagine what traveling in Europe would be like during the summer months).

As I got away from the city, beautiful, green pastures covered in a light dusting of snow spread as far as I could see. Within thirty minutes I was deep into the Queen's National forest where tall pines and mountains surrounded me. The snow and wind had picked up. I figured I could still hike - I'm from New England I can handle bad weather. I put my poncho over my fancy coat, put on an extra pair of socks and headed to the forest. The rangers stopped me before I hit the end of the car park. They wouldn't allow me access because they were worried that a tree branch would fall on my head and kill me. I guess people freak out about weather all over the world no matter how small the storm. It really wasn't that bad.

There was nothing to do in Aberfoyle, and the locals suggested I move on towards Loch Lomond. Along the road I saw the most beautiful manor and turned around to check it out. Entering it's beautiful lobby I thought, I've found home for the night. I could curl up with a book next to the fire in the library and stare out at the pastures and hills. I could take some much needed rest. When I asked about staying the woman was more than happy to show me a lovely, little room with a view. Then she said, "You do realize we won't have any other guests tonight? You'll hear quite a bit of moving around, but you'll be alone. I mean there'll be someone on duty in the house and all, but you might not see them." I wasn't sure what she meant by this, but then it dawned on me how old the house was. She never said it was haunted, but I suddenly had visions of a psychopath walking the halls at night and stabbing me in the shower. I decided to move on.

Hours later I was still driving through tiny towns, getting lost, turning around, maneuvering roundabouts till I found myself by this beautiful, small castle around Loch Lomond. I thought, this is my chance to make my dream come true of staying in a castle. I rang the bell and a gentleman opened the door and I walked into a foyer with a sweeping staircase and stained glassed. Just stunning. I asked for a room for the night and the man looked at me with question. I asked again wondering how he could misunderstand my needs.

"This is a nursing home," he answered. "I think you're a bit young for a room." That's when I noticed the distinct smell of a hospital and the fact that he was wearing scrubs for a shirt. DUH!

I moved on, since they wouldn't let me stay, and found my way to a little town called Luss. Nothing was open in town except a small B&B without an inn keeper present. I walked through the quaint town and out to the lake, had a cup of hot chocolate at the local pub and looked up hotels on the internet. My only option was to keep driving around the Loch up to the Highlands and to a little fishing village called Oban.

All in all I drove over six hours that day with only short breaks. The scenery was stunning even in the snow and rain. I found a lovely hotel overlooking the bay with a jacuzzi bath and booked it for three nights. I think I'm better day-tripping from one place. In one day I almost booked a haunted manor and a nursing home. Can you imagine what I would find if I searched for two more days.

A Chevy Chase Moment

797 Days to Complete 101 Dreams Come True

"Look kids, there's Big Ben," Chevy Chase said in European Vacation. In my case it became, "Look kids, there's Edinburgh Castle."

I was rather proud of myself when I picked up my rental car  (a manual automobile that I had to drive on the opposite side of the road) and drove myself to Rosslyn Chapel without getting lost. Now to give you some idea of what it's like to drive in Scotland, it did take me fifteen minutes to get out of the airport area because every intersection is a roundabout. These roundabouts have large signs before you come to the circle that mark the turnoff you want with a diagram, but once you're on the roundabout it isn't quite clear which turn you're supposed to take. Still, I had found my way from Glasgow to Rosslyn.

As I was leaving the chapel I realized I didn't have directions to my hotel. I figured I'd head into Edinburgh, find a gas station, or internet cafe, and get directions. Life would take care of me and I would find someone who could steer me in the right direction. I didn't end up needing help. On instinct I took a turn onto a road that changed into the one I was looking for and there was my guesthouse.

After I checked in, I drove around a little, went back to the chapel, and I was rather puffed-out about my mad driving skills. I was in unafraid in a new country and driving like I was a local. So, when I decided to drive into the center of town to find a music venue, I was certain it would take me ten minutes tops. This time I had a map and I knew hot to get there.

I got dressed up in a cool outfit, did my hair, and was on the road by 8:15 ready for a night on the town. In the first few minutes I realized I wasn't where I wanted when high on the hill I could see Edinburgh Castle lit up against the night sky. I took a moment to look at the romantic view and then drove on. A few turns later, I looked down at my map and deduced I had gone the wrong way. By some fate, I found my way to the street I wanted, and I was ready to park the car.

Parking wasn't easy, so I took a side road, and from there I have no idea what happened. Suddenly, I was seeing Edinburgh castle again all lit up. I smiled again at the beauty. Then I was going past the State house lit at night, and I enjoyed this sight as well. Look at me, I'm getting a tour of the city by night and soon I'll be back to where I need to be, I thought.

Two hours later, my attitude was much different. Something along the way went horribly wrong. I made circles round the city, I went through roundabouts getting cutoff. At each stoplight I tried to look at my map and find where I was, but even when I did find the street before the light changed, if I tried to follow the map's directions the closure of roads placed me outside the main part of the city. I had to watch for tourists crossing the streets as I remembered to shift, stay on the left side of the road, and remembered to keep towards the center of the road because I tended to drift to the left and bang my hubcap against the curbs. Traffic became worse and at one point I had to maneuver around a parked truck and a cab. I scraped the cab and realized I'd damaged the brand new rental car. The guy waved me on with a smile and I hoped what I heard hadn't been paint against paint.

Twice I stopped for directions and thought, now I can just go home. I'll find take-out to appease my growling stomach, and curl into my bed for the night. Each time, the directions only got me further lost due to closures.  And all along, somehow, I would find myself back to the base of Edinburgh castle looking up at that damn romantic view. You would think I could find my way from here, but no. By the end of two hours I thought, I'm never getting back. I'm going to be lost forever.

I did find my way to the guesthouse and to some Chinese take-out around the corner. The next morning, I asked the host where I should park in the city. His response, "You don't bloody drive in Edinburgh. You take the bus. All those road closures will have you going in circles for hours with no way out."

Now you tell me.

When I did take the bus into the city, I realized that I was always just two turns away from being home, if I had taken the right turns. The car is actually fine. The hub cap could look better and there are some surface scratches that can be rubbed out with wax, but all in all, it was a crazy night.

The Holy Grail

798 Days to Complete 101 Dreams Come True

On my first day in Scotland I went in search of the Holy Grail in a place called Rosslyn Chapel. You might remember the name of this church from the Da Vinci Code. At the end of the story they arrive at this small chapel that is said to hold the Holy Grail.

Beyond the Da Vinci code this small church was actually built by William St. Claire. A great man, who in wishing to thank God for all the graces of his life and to ensure his place in heaven, had this church built. Steeped in myth, Rosslyn Chapel is unlike any you have seen before. Intricate carvings not only mark Christ's birth, life, and resurrection around the church, there are also symbols of paganism in the 150 green men carvings. Adding to the mystery of the church is the fact that more carvings mark the church as one of the Knights Templars' places of worship and it is believed that when the warrior monks set out to keep safe passage for pilgrims to the holy land, they also went in search of the Holy Grail. From the elaborate carved ceiling, a marker points to the floor and the legend says that this is where the Knight's Templar buried the Holy Grail.

But even more mystery comes in the carvings of this church. In the feminine altar space, individual carved symbols decorate the arched ceiling. Many believe the symbols are musical notes and some have even composed songs, saying that they have broken the code. Others say that the code leads to the secrets of life. Then there is the carvings of maize. The church was finished fifty years before Columbus sailed the ocean blue, yet here in this church there are symbols of the Native Americans. It is said, that Sir William's uncle actually traveled to Westford,  Massachusetts and lived with the Mic Mac Indians long before Columbus's journey to discover America.

I spent the afternoon steeped in the mystery of the chapel and then walked in the glen towards the destroyed castle below. The castle had been bombed by invaders, but the church was saved because it had symbols of the Free Masons and the conquerors were known to be Free Masons.

You wonder with all this curiosity about the church why no one has dug into the floors to find the answers. Many have asked, but the St. Claire's, who feel it is there duty to save and protect the church, do know that their ancestors are buried beneath and they refuse to disturb the dead. Scientists have proven that there is a set of stairs and a large cellar, but can't say anything more of what secrets the church still holds.

I returned for evening service with Rev. Neil. The church is much different when the tourists leave. At one time this place had eight thousand visitors a year. The Da Vinci code has brought over 150,000 per year to this holy place. But this is still a place of worship, and the members of the congregation close the doors every day at five.

During the service, a woman with a beautiful Celtic voice led us in songs from the Hebrew, Christian, and Islamic traditions, our breath apparent as we sang in the night chill. In a prayer for world peace there was a hum of energy I can't explain that radiated through the room. Even William, the chapel cat, seemed to feel it as he purred loudly in the center of the circle. A peace so deep, that seemed to soothe every weary part of my traveling mind, seeped through my body as I listened to the harp echo off the walls.

At the end of service, we shared sandwiches and wine. I met the reverend and he invited me to talk to him about joining him for a peace pilgrimage next April.

In the end, I don't know what lies beneath the stone of the church. Some say it is the Grail, others the Dead Sea Scrolls. It doesn't matter, because the true gift of this church is the hundreds of years where faith has brought people together to hope and pray for a more peaceful world.

I wasn't allowed to take pictures within the chapel and at this time the church is going through a massive restoration and so the outside is covered in scaffolding. Please follow the link to see images of this beautiful place. Rosslyn Chapel

The Perfect Day in Paris

I woke to the sound of rain against the balcony of my apartment and thought that the day would be spent inside at the Louvre. I'd been lucky up until this point, the only rain I'd encountered was my travel day from London to Paris. Blue, sunny skies had forced spring to bloom and each day on my walk to the Metro, the leaves and flowers poked their heads from beneath their buds.  I thought my luck had run out, but by noon, after I finished my laundry and a bit of work, the skies cleared and sunshine sparkled off the rain drops on the plants making the world look fairy-like.

I put on a spring dress and a sweater and went to the Luxemburg gardens, which turned out to be my favorite place in Paris. The Luxemburg Palace seemed more like a country estate in the middle of a city than a palace. I sat by the fountain watching the children feed the ducks and parents play with toddlers. Locals lounged in chairs, their arms bared to the sun soaking in the warm light. In the last few days I've barely stopped, sometimes being on my feet for over seven hours. Here I relaxed, eating bread and cheese. When I finally rose to walk around the gardens I spent an hour smelling the flowers, watching men and women play bocci in the square, and for the first time I felt a part of Parisian life instead of a tourist.

The sky was still blue as I left the gardens and made my way to St. Supuis and St. Germain, two churches within the Latin District. I have to say, though lovely, I've had my fill of being inside beautiful, old churches after being in Italy last year and then seeing five churches these past few weeks. As I left St. Germain, I saw the dark clouds moving towards me. Since I'd left my umbrella at home I figured I would shop until the rain hit and then wherever I was I would take cover. I roamed through the artisan market next to St. Germain, made my way through bright-colored shops of fancy clothing, costume jewelry, and perfume forcing myself to behave as I found the ultimate shopping in Paris - the Latin Quarter. Here, I could afford the prices and the items were unique and to my liking, but still there was the issue of room in the suitcase.

As I turned down a small side street, the sound of thunder shook the buildings and I ran for the nearest cover - an ice cream shop. I love gelato. I ate it twice per day while in Italy, and I never thought a gelato could rival that of Michelangelo's Piazza's gelatori in Florence - but Amorino in Paris is actually better. As the rain came down in sheets, I sat outside under the umbrellas eating double chocolate and cherry cream. I took in my surroundings: the patter of the rain, the cobblestone streets, the floral shop, the Paris architecture, the brassiere and patisseries while I savored my dessert and thought, wow, here I am - this couldn't be any better.

The rain stopped and I walked around the Latin Quarter peeking in shops until I found the temptation that broke me. A store called Parfums had unique, feminine clothing all hand-sewn and designed by the woman who owned the shop. I tried on a dress that didn't look quite right. The woman shook her head and brought me three different outfits that all fit my body perfectly. "Tres Jolie," she said with each spin I took in the mirror. I added the amounts, did the conversion and realized I could afford the splurge, but could my suitcase? NO, but I couldn't leave the skirt and dress behind. I'm in Paris, shopping has to be part of my experience, so I bought them.

I left with my fancy shopping bag and made my way to the Seine. As I crossed the pedestrian bridge and looked towards Notre Dame, a rainbow appeared. I mean come on, how more perfect could the day get? I smelled the fresh air, I watched the people, I strolled to Notre Dame and took pictures as the sun set. I made my way to the Isle de la Cite and spent another hour perusing quaint, bright shops, trying to speak french to the shopkeepers who thought I was local.

As night fell, I walked from the low-lit Hotel de Ville, along the Seine to the Louvre. I sat inside the Palace looking at the candlelit facade as I listened to a man play the cello. And in that moment I felt that life was perfect.

Impressionism and a Whirlwind Tour

801 Days to Complete 101 Dreams Come True

"Art is an abstraction; take it from nature while dreaming in front of it." Paul Guaguin

I love the Impressionists. As Robert put it, on my first night in Paris, "Most art is religious or stern portraits of royalty. Most paintings were created to show sacrifice or power. The Impressionist are colorful, bright pictures that make you feel alive."

What he says is true. Impressionism brings the softness of every day life to a place in your heart. With swishes of paint it reflects the light and color of the world. Instead of demanding you see the hard lines of reality, it blurs the landscapes into something serene and almost touchable, as if the world is in a constant state of peace.

To walk the halls of art lined with Monet, Degas, Renoir, and Van Gogh has once again left me in awe of my life. I'm so blessed.

It's wild to watch the other travelers rush through the museum. They stop at each painting for a brief moment and then move on. It's hard for me to understand how they can do this since I find it almost painful to look away knowing that I won't see these masterpieces again for many years.

I've noticed the rushing is true of many tourists, not just with art, but also with the great scenery of the world. I remember sitting at the Grand Canyon and watching people walk up to the edge, take dozen of photos, and then say, "Let's get some ice cream." I wonder if our fast-paced regular life has left humans with the inability to really experience the greatness this world has to offer. I think it's been forgotten how to stop and take in the present moment and in that the memory of how to really live is lost.

Paris is full of tour buses. The tour leaders sit up front pointing out the important buildings and monuments while half the passengers are fast asleep from exhaustion. This is the way most travelers see the world - whirlwind tours set to tight time schedules that leave little space for the unexpected. I want to yell at them to get off the bus and out from the hordes that follow leaders holding up closed umbrellas. Get out and experience the city you're in. Realize you're blessed to be standing in front of true magnificence and take more than a second to soak it in.

Okay enough of my rant for the day.

After the museum I walked to Notre Dame and began to stroll along the Seine to take in the setting sun and the way the light hits the buildings casting a golden hue across the facades. Within moments I was joined by a man named David. He spoke french and I forced the wheels of my memory to move as I listened. Actually, my french began to return a few nights before when an annoying man followed me to my hotel insisting I give him my phone number. Suddenly, my bitch came on 'en francais'. To my surprise he clearly understood what I said and ran away. So when David approached I could actually ask him in french to speak slower so I could understand. He did slow but I learned that David didn't take life at a relaxed pace.

Within moments he had my hand and was racing me through the streets of Paris showing me Hotel de Ville, the best chocolate shop in Paris, and the Royal Palace. He grabbed my camera, snapping pictures of me and then handed it to a woman to take a picture of the two of us. He danced me in the streets, hugged me to him, all the while kissing my cheek as I ducked and swerved my head so as not to be kissed on the lips. His enthusiasm was contagious as he had me laughing while he tried to enrich my knowledge of the french language and pretended we were going to go for a swim in the Seine.

He insisted we take the boat ride along the Seine, but I was tired and hungry by this time and ready to call it a night. I bid him adieu with a kiss on the cheek and made my way across the Seine to home.

Gluttonous Pleasure

802 Days Left to Complete 101 Dreams Come True

I want to know why we don't have food like this in the states. It's a crime. We are deprived! I want every meal to start with french cheese topped with fig sauce. Or maybe I want to sit and eat this dish until my belly bursts.

I believe it's time Americans stop eating fake food. Think of the space we could save if our massive grocery stores didn't need to carry all the processed stuff. Instead they would pack every aisle with rich, creamy, yummy whole food. We need more cream, cheese, butter, and sauce. We'd be happier, probably healthier and thinner if when we ate it gave us tremendous pleasure. I believe we're supposed to have flavors explode in our mouth so that eating is an experience instead of a quick grab for energy. Life is supposed to be tasty and we are being deprived.

As you can see, I've found french food. Last night I had butternut squash that probably had a half a stick of butter in its ingredients. The lemon chicken, with its crunchy skin still on, tasted marvelous drenched in lovely gravy. I have three more days in Paris and I'm wondering how I can eat as much as possible while still taking time to see more museums and sights. I might have to forgo viewing the city for food.

The real eating began as I visited Versailles Chateau outside of Paris. I sat at the center pools in the garden, watching the swans and boats move across the water as I ate a Nutella crepe. I love Nutella. (I know Nutella isn't French, only the Italians could make up something so sinful. I have a deep addiction to the chocolate hazelnut spread and I can only allow myself to eat it when I'm in Europe. Once I start I can't stop. It's a good thing I'm in Europe and I can eat as much as I want.) As I sat and ate, music from the Royal Philharmonic came from the palace. It was one of those perfect moments where all I could do was take in how amazed I was at having this experience.

As I looked at Versailles, I began to wonder if I wouldn't fit better in another era of time. I'm rather old fashion in many ways, especially when it comes to romance. I like being feminine and I enjoy being taken care of and allowing a man to take the lead. I can open a door on my own just fine, but do appreciate the chivalry of having one opened for me. I'm not one to rush into a physical relationship and maybe that's why my mind doesn't think that having a conversation, drinks, and dinner with a man I just met has either party thinking about sex. I love the clothing of the past, and I dress conservatively in many people's eyes, but I believe the beauty of a woman is in her class and the way she carries herself, not in flaunting her cleavage.

So as I walked through the inside of the palace with dreams of dancing in the great hall under fifty chandeliers. I honestly felt born into the wrong time. Then I came to the queen's apartments and a story gave me second thoughts.

Nineteen royal children were born in Versailles. The queens were forced to have public births to insure that they didn't fake their pregnancies. Now it's really cool that they got to live in a palace, and their kids were in line for the thrown, but their husbands could take as many mistresses as they fancied, house them next door to the queens' room, and they had to have witnesses to  their sweating and screaming in the most intimate of moments. Now I know there are women in modern day who go on TLC to have their births documented, so maybe a public birth is no big deal, but no thanks.

I realized that I live at a time where though sometimes the feminine spirit is squashed, the whole world is open to me in a way that it's never been in the past.

It's still strange to many people that as a woman I travel alone. I get comments like, "But you're pretty. You're man let's you do this?" First off, I belong to me, and I don't need a man's permission to see the world. Second, what do my looks have to do with traveling, and third, what does being a woman have to do with going out into the world to explore? There are still so many stereotypes, but that's one of the reasons I'm making my journey public. I want women to see that it's amazing to travel the world solo, because there is nothing like being gluttonous and enjoying every morsel life can bring.