I savored my post Halloween headache during the four hour bus ride from Aberdeen to Inverness, a journey that cost me a mere one pound stirling through the wonderfully affordable UK Megabus service. Since Scotland seems to have shrugged off the idea of having a major highway system, the main roads connecting these two somewhat major cities are sweeping narrow lanes that wind elegantly through the lush green countryside. What the trip lacked in swiftness it more than made up for in authentic glimpses of the Scottish people who still pridefully nurture and live off of the land. The panoramic bus windows framed impossibly picturesque meadows and mountains peppered with sheep and quaint little farm houses that wordlessly insisted on not wanting to over-impose. On these landscapes were men, honest, down to earth, by the sweat of their brow men, out baling hay and chopping wood with a cool, steady rhythm. Watching them was an inspiring affair. I was almost disappointed when the roads began to straighten out and the signs for Inverness were replaced by signs of Inverness.
Long bus rides are by their nature an exhausting ordeal, but the cool fresh air that filled my lungs after stepping off the bus hit me like a double espresso. My ever faithful travel companion Cheeseman and I shouldered our packs and went in search of a hostel, which we found a grand total of two hundred feet from the bus station. I had never stayed in a hostel before, and my only impression of what one might be like came from a slapstick scene in the movie Eurotrip:
Hostel clerk: “Hello, and welcome to our fine and luxurious youth hostel. We feature one medium sized room containing seventy beds which can sleep up to three hundred and seventy five bodies a night. There is no bathroom. Nor is there one nearby. If you do not wish to have your valuables stolen I suggest destroying them or discarding them right now. You can also try hiding your valuables in your anus. This will deter some but of course not all thieves. Once you are inside, the doors are chained and locked from the outside. They will not be opened again until morning, no matter what. Should a fire occur due to our faulty wiring or the fireworks factory upstairs, you will be incinerated, along with the valuables that you have hidden in your anus. Tips are greatly appreciated!”
So with expectations lower than the Titanic, we rang the bell at the Inverness Backpacker’s Hostel. We were both pleasantly surprised by the bright atmosphere and warm reception inside. It was the off season, so although we had no reservations, there was plenty of room available. We scored a couple of bunk-beds in a ten person, mixed gender dorm room complete with lockers, a window overlooking a toy store, and a healthy “lived in” smell. There were private bathrooms and showers on our floor, and downstairs there was a large community kitchen and a nice TV lounge. What more could one ask for for ten pounds a night?
We picked up a map of the city and some good advice from the receptionist before venturing into the brisk Inverness evening. Our first spontaneous stop was in Leaky’s bookstore, a two story gem of a shop built into an old Gaelic church. Stepping inside the place was like stepping into a dream. The the old church had been gutted of its pews, alters, and holy relics, the wide expansive space instead filled with thousands upon thousands of precious used books. Shelves lined every inch of the walls and at the center of the room, flanked by a few leather chairs and a mountain of chopped wood, was an old wood burning stove the size of a train engine crackling hungrily in the midst of the giant tinderbox in which it was housed. There was one kind old man sitting a wooden desk near the front entrance, scribbling something furiously with a fountain pen into a leather bound journal. I asked him where I might find something written by Bill Bryson, at which point he put down his pen and bit the end of his glasses thoughtfully as he closed his eyes and retraced twenty years worth of steps trying think of where he might have shelved such a thing. After some deliberation, he gestured to an area on the second floor, where a choir might have once stood and sung their praises from, an area reachable only via a small metal staircase spiraling up at the end of the room. Sadly, I did not find what I was looking for up there, though I did find plenty of other wonderful travel books to thumb through. I bought one and left Leaky’s bookstore, if a bit unwillingly.
We eventually found our way to the River Ness, a swift little river that sections off a third of the city. Only a handful of little bridges cross the river, a few of them pedestrian only. At night these bridges are all beautifully lit with colorful lights, making the river glow with an ethereal quality. Standing in the middle of one of these bridges at night was magical. The sound of the rushing water under my feet was a cadence to the ringing bells of St. Andrews cathedral from the east bank and the melodies of scottish folk music drifting out of pubs from the west bank. Bathed in a soft orange light and regally overlooking the west bank from a hilltop was the impressive Inverness castle, a sight that involuntarily waggles the eyebrows.
Cheeseman and I took a stroll along the romantically lit east bank of the river, at which point we both admitted that we wished we had come here with a leggy blonde rather than with each other.
We crossed a swinging pedestrian bridge at the far end of the bank and made a beeline for the castle on the hilltop. The castle had a surprisingly modern front gate and paved road leading up to the front door, and it felt a bit clandestine as we traipsed across the manicured lawn to get to the overlook of the city. We had some fun putting on a shadow puppet show for Inverness on the castle walls using the massive flood lights illuminating the fortress. In keeping with my tradition, I found myself a darkened corner of the castle to relieve myself on, thereby claiming it as my own by dog rules. But as I stood there admiring the stonework, I spotted a little security camera orb nestled below one of the battlements. I thought that was a curious thing for a castle to have, as was the modern electric gate and paved front drive. I would later learn that I had just taken a feloniously leak on the Inverness courthouse.
Cheeseman and I ducked into a pool hall for a while to watch a football match and shoot around with the locals. Tables were by the hour and beers were cheap so we felt properly inducted into the local culture as we joined in swearing over missed shots on both the table and the screen. Shooters; a nice place for a grungy crowd. Wanting to hear some live music, we traded our cue-sticks for our jackets and walked out into a refreshing rain.
The first place we came across with live music was packed to the brim with people who honeymooned during Elvis’s prime. A three piece jam band with a combined age of two hundred was playing an interesting version of Black Magic Woman. The bassist was on point and the guitarist was a natural born improviser, but the singer gave me flashbacks of the geriatric kareoke bar I stumbled into in Portsmouth, England. But just like that kareoke bar, the poor vocals somehow made the song all the more enjoyable. When I heard the first two chords of the next song I nearly dropped my drink. “This is Wagon Wheel,” I muttered, turning to Cheeseman. “CHEESE! This is Wagon Wheel!” For those who do not know, Wagon Wheel is something of an anthem in North Carolina, as indicated by the opening lines: Headin’ down south to the land of the pines. Thumbin’ my way into North Caroline! As Cheeseman and I started dancing and singing at the top of our lungs, to our delight, so did everyone else in the place! The whole bar, including the bartenders, astoundingly knew every lyric to what I thought was a regionally isolated folk song.
At the next bar we went to, a popular place called Hootananny, a traditional Scottish duo followed their intro songs with–you guessed it–Wagon Wheel! And the whole place went crazy again! As I swayedarm in arm with the crowd, the Scottish man next to me shouted “I love this Bob Dylan song.” I politely corrected him, saying that this song was in fact by Old Crow Medicine Show, a Nashville-based folk band. The man and I proceeded to argue over this fact and he went so far as to bet me a beer that it was by Bob Dylan. I did a quick Internet search on my phone and then did a walk of shame to the bar and bought the man a beer. And I call myself a North Carolinian…
At the bar, I got talking to a nice Norwegian couple about my travels. Norwegians are astoundingly polite and friendly; they are like the Canadians of Europe. The man was an engineer and his fiance was a nurse, two very demanding and time consuming jobs. Despite that, they shared a love for travel and made a point to go to see countries together whenever they could, sometimes at a moment’s notice when the weekend weather in Norway looked to be dismal. They had a lot of intelligent things to say about the state of American and European politics and insisted on buying round after round after round as we talked. Good people, good company.
Cheeseman and I eventually worked our way to the back stairwell in Hootananny that led up to the grimier bar scene. The crowd upstairs was smaller, younger, and drunker enjoying the depressing ballads of a Radiohead cover band. I was impressed by the obese bass player who would frequently sling his guitar around his back and produce drumsticks to bang on a drum midsong.
We explored up another staircase where we found a cozy room full of couches and armchairs surrounding an intimate stage. Sadly, the cute young keyboardist premiering her EP had just wrapped up her performance. I chatted to her a bit about her music anyway and hungout with her and some hilarious Scottish guys on one of the couches. They had some great recommendations on where to go in the Highlands if I got the chance.
Cheeseman and I left Hootananny bar feeling adaquetly entertained and thoroughly buzzed. We walked through the quiet streets back to our hostel talking with a Captain Ahab-like enthusiasm about hunting down the Loch Ness monster in the morning.