The next day dawned slightly overcast but not windy. This was great news as Kevin the Bikespokes man from Nairn had said that the hardest thing about cycling on Orkney was riding against the wind.
Yes, I was once again embarking on adventures via bicycle. This time, however, the first part of my path was well worn and traversed by many a tourist before me since the sites were all clustered in the same area. I had the itinerary all planned. I would pick up my bike from Orkney Cycle Hire at 9:00 a.m., ride “twenty” minutes to a ranger talk at the Stones of Stenness at 10:00, head a few hundred yards over to Maeshowe for a noon tour, and, if my brain could take in any more information, I would then retrace my path to hit a 1 p.m. archaeologist talk at the Ness of Brodgar where digs were underway (a 2000-year-old wooden bowl had been unearthed in an underground chamber nearby just a few days before!). After that, I would indulge my hiking needs by cycling six miles over to Yesnaby, a point midway on that much desired coastal walk between Stromness and Skara Brae, and venture to explore the cliff trails. A good plan for my last full day on the island.
I had chalked in my breakfast time for 8 a.m.. Yvonne was a little behind schedule, but still managed to provide a delightful meal by 8:15 a.m. identical to the one the day before except for a new variety of smoked fish. I think it was mackerel. What did take a long time was for her to prepare the packed lunch I’d ordered the night prior. While I was very grateful for this service, I was getting antsy about timing on bike pick-up and getting to that ranger talk. Today, I wanted to learn more about the standing stones that laid before me than I was able to glean the day prior from my torn guidebook pages and the information stands at the Ring of Brodgar.
While I waited, two people staying across the hall entered the breakfast room. We nodded at each other, and they sat. Yvonne bustled in and the man with salt and pepper hair ordered the hot breakfast, surely a great error in judgement. The woman, who seemed “old” with gray curly hair, glasses and a walker, wisely went continental. As I sipped my tea, I distracted myself from watching the time by pondering the relationship between the two. Could the man be her son? Hmm . . .
The man’s sausage, fried egg, baked beans and roasted tomato plate arrived along with my huge cooler-packed lunch. I wished the couple a good day and began a new route to town since the bike rental facility was a bit outside of the harbor area. It was a misty morning, but rain was forecasted to only be an infrequent guest during my day. Following the general direction of Yvonne’s waved hand, I descended a rough narrow road, over a steep hill and then straight down toward the main street. I’d passed Orkney Cycle Hire on my way to the shore walk the night before and noted a small rectangular sign on the side of a building heralding the location. I remember thinking that there was no way one could see the business if coming from the other direction. Which indeed I was. I had a good idea as to the location, but when I passed a work crew, I approached their van window and asked if I was getting close.
For the most part, I could decipher what they were saying. In any case, I gleaned that the two twenty-something men had never rented a bicycle, at least in this town. Despite that, while the passenger gave up, shrugged and returned to his cellphone, the driver sure did his best to direct me with his thick island dialect and gestures even though he clearly hadn’t a clue where I should go. I thanked them very much for their help, continued my descent and turned onto the main street.
I walked on, looking back every few houses to see if I had missed the sign. I finally sighted the burgundy placard, descended the six crumbing stairs and entered a courtyard filled with a cacophony of bikes. I could see a man drinking his morning tea through a window, and he rose and came outside presently.
Let me just say how very different this was from my earlier Nairn bike rental experience. In that case, after requesting my weight and height a perfectly aligned well-oiled machine was delivered to my door with spare parts included. Minor adjustments were made to ensure a perfect ride. In this case, the owner looked me up and down and said, “you’re a bit tall, eh?” Then he went into a shed across the courtyard, brought out a bike and said, “that will do.” I asked if I needed a lock but was unsurprised when he said it wouldn’t be necessary. The rust would deter any thief more so than any lock would. I asked about a helmet, and he pointed to a bin. He sized up the bulk of my packed lunch and located some worn bungee cords to attach it to the rack on the back. Then I asked about directions (the website advertised “FREE route maps”). He pulled out a tourist center map and gave it to me saying that it was no good. (And the point of giving it to me was . . . ?) Thankfully, he then produced a much photocopied map and highlighted a route. I needed to find the short road to Yesnaby after my tour of the sites to avoid tripling my distance and was doubtful the orange marker showed the way. Nonetheless, I hoisted the bike, bouncing it up the disintegrating stairs, and began my brake squealing passage through the harbor area and towards my objective of the Stones of Stenness.
By the time I left the bike rental, it was already 8:40 a.m. Though I was doubtful of the advice to take the second exit off the roundabout towards a “small” hill, I decided to go for it on the chance it would save a few minutes and help me arrive in time for my tour. Progressing through a roundabout, in general, is not a regular occurrence in the daily life of most Americans, though such traffic implements are becoming more common. Going around one CLOCKWISE and on a bike, well that is another matter altogether. I have to say, I claimed my spot in the circular path and exited without effort or incident onto the desired route. Pat on the back, Abby.
On my rusty steed, I pedaled toward the hill ahead. It wasn’t so much that the incline was so steep, but that the incline lasted for so long that was the challenge. That and this bicycle had a minimal number of gears that didn’t want to snap into place in a timely fashion. I spent a few minutes pumping as hard as I could and then stopped. I no longer had any pride about what the infrequent automobile drivers thought, so I swung my leg off midway up the hill, cursed the bike rental man and walked myself and my squeaky bike to the top.
Thank goodness the hill up was mirrored by the hill down. I glided and pedaled my way past verdant fields and a loch until the brown sign for the Stones of Stenness appeared 15 minutes later. I turned onto a narrow strip of land upon which this site, the Ness of Brodgar and the Ring of Brodgar (visited the day before) stood between a fresh water and a tidal loch. I hopped off to steer my bike on the gravely road past the seniors exiting their mint green tour bus. A good thing they shuffled slowly — the ranger tour guide patiently awaited their arrival though the tour start time had come and gone. I merged into the small group, depositing my bike and attached lunch in the grass by the gate along the way. I would just have to trust that both would be there when I returned.
Ahead loomed four immense stones. The tallest over 16 feet. The diminutive guide said that we would return to the massive rocks after we visited the nearby remains of Barnhouse Village, thought to be where those who cared for and presided over the monuments in the area lived. She led us through the center of the circle and down a turf path toward a clearing close to the loch.
On the ground were a few low ring-shaped foundations of dwellings. As we gathered around her, we learned that in the 80’s excavations revealed remains of 15 stone huts similar to those at Skara Brae. These huts, however, were above ground and had thatched roofs similar to those still seen in some parts of Britain. While before us we could see a few of the round remnants, most were hidden underneath the surrounding grassy fields being grazed upon by cattle. At one point these structures were destroyed purposely, perhaps because they were no longer needed after the stone circle was complete.
Some children in the group instantly began climbing on the foundational relics, balance beaming their way around the shallow circles. Before any of the adults could intervene, the guide interjected and told us that this was completely acceptable as what we saw was rebuilt and could be romped upon. Cool deal.
As the ranger told us of the history, we were free to walk through the entrance gaps in the stacked-rock rings. One former hut had a second circle inside the outer circle. To get to the inner circle, one had to go through a narrow opening that had been used as a hearth. Did people need to walk through fire to enter? No one knows for sure. This gave storytellers free reign. I say that they had to cartwheel their way through the flames, and there is no one to contradict me. Fun.
Back to the ranger. The driver of the green bus was coming her way. He pointed at his watch and insisted that his group was on a timetable. The ranger shifted gears and led us all into the center of the stone circle following the same path as those from Barnhouse Village journeyed 5000 years before (and 1000 years before Stonehenge – I was distinctly getting the impression that no one up here in Orkney was too impressed with those not-so-ancient stones to the south).
While clicking photographs, we students learned that the plan for the original circle was thought to contain 12 stones. Mysteriously, however, one stone still laid in the field nearby with the cows and was never erected. This is known because the megaliths that loomed before us were like reverse icebergs – ⅔’s of the stone were visible on the surface with ⅓ underneath. No slot was dug for that 12th stone.
Having paused to arrange with the driver to turn around the bus and come back for his wards, the ranger continued her languid instruction citing the essential facts. There was likely only one official way to enter and exit the circle, the stones were of different shapes, colors, and heights depending on their relation to the sun, and though this ring was much the elder to its neighbor, the Ring of Brodgar nearby was the largest one in Scotland.
At this point, the bus group edged away, filed back into the coach and lumbered out of the parking area. The few of us stragglers remaining learned that the location of the absent stones for the most part is a mystery. Except for a few including a special monolith that stood nearby the circle, the Odin Stone.
This Odin Stone was over 8 feet tall and had a hole in its side. As late as the 1700’s, couples would grasp hands through the stone, declare eternal love and were instantly married for life. However, this oath could be undone if both partners put their hands back through the hole and nullified the deal. One such couple consisted of a woman who, unbeknownst to her beforehand, married a pirate. When said pirate was taken away and hung back on the mainland of Britain, she found someone to sever the hand and post it back to her. This way she could grasp her husband’s hand through the hole, declare herself single, and not have to be a widow for the rest of her days. Gruesome but effective.
In 1814, the leaseholder of the fields upon which the stones stood, Captain W. Mackay, became tired of people visiting the sites and “ruining” his land. He decided to destroy the monuments and began with the Odin Stone. Before the law could intervene, Captain Mackay had already toppled one stone and destroyed another. Very unpopular and a bit fearful after several attempts to burn down his house, he left Orkney never to return.
The ranger pointed to the center of the ring where there was a large broken stone slab featured in Sir Walter Scott’s novel, The Pirate. This is not likely the sacrificial stone depicted in that novel. The guide seemed pretty certain of this because there is a local rumor that the stone was not placed atop another in the “table position” described in the book until after a stag party in the last century lifted it there. She personally knows one of the party, but so far no one in the group is talking.
I love what I learn from tour guides after the crowds go.
Time to move on to Maeshowe – “The finest neolithic building to survive in Northwest Europe” according to the Historic Environment of Scotland. I headed back towards the gate and found my bike (and lunch) reposed in the grass awaiting my return. I propped them up to begin retracing my inbound path to a petrol station intersection and veered left towards the visitor center a short distance away.
While Maeshowe is visible across a field from the other neolithic stone sites, it is only accessible by guided tour from the visitor center – I happened to catch this fact online a month prior to my visit and snagged one of the last tickets. I found a bike rack and parked mine next to one loaded with bulging turquoise packs draped across the back rack. Unlocked. No worries about leaving mine here. I went inside and claimed my ticket. I was surprised there wasn’t more of a historical display, though there were some fun Viking ski hats for sale complete with golden braids hanging down the sides. My tour wouldn’t start for a ½ hour, so I went outside, found a picnic table, and explored the lunch Yvonne had packed for my day.
In addition to a tray containing the remains of my breakfast meats and cheeses, I found two sandwiches (selected by text at 11 p.m. the night before – ham with sweet chili jam and cheddar with chutney), Jacob’s Mini Cheddars (British style savory biscuits), an apple, apple juice, two mini raspberry yogurts, a package of strawberry, blackberry and yogurt breakfast biscuits, a bag of almonds plus chocolate digestive biscuits (aka “cookies”). I would certainly have fuel for my day.
The time for my tour departure was drawing nigh, so I packed up the vast vestiges of my lunch (I’d eaten the meats, cheeses and chocolate biscuits), bungeed the cooler pack back onto my bike rack and stood in the parking lot in anticipation of the bus that would escort me to the chambered tomb built nearly 5000 years ago.
The mint green bus of the Stones of Stenness pulled up, and the seniors with their one tag-along grandson disembarked. They milled about confused until the bearded driver rounded them up into a huddled mass.
Another bus turned into the parking lot and soon disgorged the contents of the previous tour. Once empty, this driver leaned from his seat toward the open door and asked, “anyone gettin’ on?”
I filed on behind an English gent who told the driver, and I am not kidding, that “you look like a refugee from Black Sabbath.” True, he had dreadlocks, a pirate mustache, mirrored sunglasses, and a black shirt sporting a white Viking ship. But really.
In addition to our colorful driver, an enthusiastic plump blond fellow served as our guide. As the bus lumbered its way towards the site, our conductor pointed out a lone stone in the middle of a field and told us to remember it.
We arrived at a parking area across the street. This handy locale was apparently the old visitor center but people kept getting into traffic accidents and causing delays on the main street, so the center was moved to the location from which I departed. We were ushered across the “busy” road which hadn’t a vehicle on it and onto a path heading toward a grassy mound.
I again was surprised that just feet away from the walkway to a site dating from 3000 B.C., bovine beings grazed. I guess these sites were part of the landscape for so many years that the locals just merged them into their daily lives.
We followed the path to a right angle and approached the mound. A small, low door cut into the side, and we were warned to keep our heads low until the guide told us to stand. The passage to the chamber was 36 feet long and only a few feet high.
I hung back to get a photo without people, but couldn’t resist this photo opp of the gentleman entering before me:
I soon followed in a duckwalking-flat-backed-crouched position. The stones around me were cold and the passage dark except for a small glimmer of light from the outside behind and the guide’s flashlight ahead. Never a great listener, I started to stand when I thought I was in and whacked my head. I wasn’t the last to do this as the two that followed me did the same. Though I didn’t hear the guide ever tell anyone to stand. Just saying.
We stood clustered in a stone chamber topped with a dome about 15 feet wide. There were a few openings showing smaller cells to the sides. Once the last straggler was in, our guide used his flashlight beam to outline the edges of the main area. Amazingly, each corner consisted of a huge standing stone like the ones used in the nearby circles. The floors, ceilings and walls of the three side chambers were made of single stone slabs.
There are some other pretty cool facts about this place. First, the passageway is aligned with the winter solstice and for three weeks each year, sunbeams travel directly down the passage to illuminate the central chamber. The stone we saw en route to our tour is called the Barnhouse Stone and is aligned with these rays and the entrance to Maeshowe. A pretty amazing engineering feat for people working for decades with only stone tools. Another fun thing we learned was that the current roof was added on by a Victorian farmer who got tired of losing cattle through the hole in the top. The most interesting facts and what makes Maeshowe so unique is that after being sealed up for millennia, in the 12th century some Vikings en route to the crusades broke into the mound and left their marks, literally, on the site. They sheltered in the tomb during a storm and left some interesting runes translated, in one case, as interesting activities between “Thor” and “Helga.” There was also a picture of a dragon, but mostly the etchings were variations on “These runes were carved by the man most skilled in runes in the western ocean,” “Arnfithr Matr carved these runes with the axe owned by Gauk,” “Orkis’ son says in the runes he carved,” and “Benedikt made this cross.” Basically, “I was here” graffiti just like that still common in tree bark and underpasses today. The crowd shuffled against each other vying to glimpse the scratchings outlined by the flashlight beam.
No photography is permitted inside Maeshowe – I’m thinking this is because the tourists would never leave, endlessly attempting to get photos taken in the dark to turn out. When our group reverse duck-walked out of the tomb, I was one of the last out. The guide brought up the rear and shut and locked a small iron gate. Being originally from suburban Detroit, I queried if the little lock really kept people out. It did. I had to remind myself that I was in a land where no one pilfered my lunch left lonely on the back of a bike.
After an uneventful return to the visitor center, I pillaged my cooler bag for the breakfast biscuits and decided to take on the 1 p.m. archaeological tour of the Ness of Brodgar. I shrugged into my rain jacket in defense against the gathering mist and pedaled back once more toward the Stones of Stenness and continued onto the Ness. Here, there was no visitor center but only trailers and a few picnic tables on the edge of several large rectangular holes being excavated in the ground. There was a beehive, albeit slow moving, of activity. A group huddled around a man speaking with authority, so I halted. This scholarly lecturer invited me to join the group, so I did. I still am uncertain as to whether this was the ranger tour I was seeking, but the man was clearly in charge or one of those managing the site, so I stayed.
I have to admit, by this time I was suffering somewhat from what I call “museum brain.” I am fascinated by and super focused on interesting artifacts, paintings, or other such brain tantalizers often housed in museums. This can be maintained for two to a maximum of three hours before I feel my memory hitting full and information systematically self-deleting from my overloaded mind. That said, I was able to retain a few morsels about this place.
First, the closest dirt rectangle was only recently discovered last summer (they only dig for a few weeks each July and August due to funding limitations). Ho hum samples were taken to a lab and eventually someone got around to looking at them. Come to find out, they were from 5000 BC, 2000 years older than the rest of the sites in the area. Alarmingly amazing stuff.
Second, the whole Ness of Brodgar area was only discovered in 2003. The majority of the explored areas date to the times of the other major sites in the area and was thought to be a kind of “Orkney Vatican” including important ceremonial buildings, one dubbed “The Cathedral.” At this point I was distracted by memories of enrolling in an archaeology class in college which would culminate in a dig at the end of the semester. Unfortunately (or so I thought at the time), I was only one of four who enrolled, and the class was cancelled. Back in the present, my bleary brain was mesmerized by the slow brushing of the same square of earth by one of the student archaeologists. In the 20 minutes I stood on an elevated ramp watching the activity while listening to the head man, the girl I observed didn’t move from the spot. Others were frozen in similar displays of leaden activity. I thought that I dodged a bullet when that class was cancelled. A week of such lethargy would have put me off Indiana Jones films for the rest of my life.
There were car tires stacked everywhere. I asked what they were for and was informed that areas not under current excavation as well as the whole site in the off season were covered by tarps and tires. This would protect them from the Orkney winds and marauding Vikings, or the contemporary equivalent.
When I could find a pause to politely slip away, I deposited myself on a rickety bench guarded by the site dog while I ate my ham and sweet chili sandwich. It was a bit soggy, but still tasty and provided the energy boost I needed for my hour bike ride to Yesnaby.
I had asked that first ranger at the Stones of Stenness where the shortcut road to Yesnaby was located. She said up the hill past a farmhouse. So, I headed west, cycled past the largest stone circle in Scotland and began my way. I was struck by the lack of trees on the island. One guide mentioned that the landscape today is very much like it was in ancient times — trees don’t grow well on super windy remote isles.
My mind cleared with the movement of cycling. The rainy mist stopped, as did I to remove my jacket. I paused at some structures which could have been considered farmhouses, but the gravely entrances seemed more driveway-y than roads for public use. At last a very well marked lane sported a sign for “Voy.” I consulted my mimeographed map and saw that Voy was indeed the direction of the short path I desired.
I cycled alongside grassy fields surrounding the southern loch bordering the sites. I was on was a single track road – one lane for both directions of traffic. Every so often, a bubble in the asphalt appeared on the side of labeled “Passing Place.” I thought this a calming description of a situation where traffic came head to head and one vehicle had to reverse until it reached such a spot to let the other go by. As for now, the only traffic on the road was me.
I soon came to the main road and mostly confidently took a right toward the hopeful turn to Yesnaby. Success! Just ahead a sign pointed me towards my desired destination. I paused to remove my fleece and tuck it in my small backpack and take a drink from my much-refilled Highland Spring water bottle. Long undulating slopes remained between me and my goal, and I began pedaling my ups and downs. I was getting the hang of this biking thing. Though I could not ever remember coming across a mountain biker that had anything but a grim facial expression, I did note that on the larger inclines these experienced biwheelers did not seem to be exerting concentrated efforts but rather a sustained, steady pace. Unbidden, a mantra began inside my head, “Beautiful scenery, steady and slow. Beautiful scenery, steady and slow.” In this way, I drew nearer the coast without pausing, passing some moody ruins along the way.
My journey was well worth the effort. Stunning cliffs crashed by waves met my view. I deposited the bike at a car park (littered by taxis by the way). As I polished off the two mini yogurts from my pack, I contemplated scenarios whereby I could convince a taxi or bus driver to return the bike, so I could wend my way back to town along the cliffs instead of hiking out and having to retrace my steps back to collect the bike. Alas, I came up with no plausible plan. I settled for an hour out and back to conserve enough Abby fuel to make the final leg of my bike trip back to Stromness.
Highlighted on my map was the word “Castle.” The Yesnaby Castle was a sea stack, or natural rock tower jutting upwards from the ocean. I turned south and headed in that direction. A trail a safe distance from the cliff edge lay ahead, but there were also lesser worn paths that traversed the edges of the sea-battered bluff. The shoreline was a jagged one, with many narrow inlets carved by thundering waves. I edged along the lesser used trails and peaked down. It is just stunning what nature can accomplish.
This is why I hike.
Rock cairns, or piles of stacked stones, marked an outcropped area. All over the world, hikers put their biofriendly stamps along hiking trails to alert others of not-to-miss areas. This one was truly remarkable.
Any weariness evaporated with each step I took. The ever surprising and changing view spurred me on my way. Adrenaline and euphoric energy traversed my body as I absorbed the sounds of the crashing waves, while I was cooled by the mist that fell upon me. Before I knew it, my hour had almost elapsed, and there before me loomed the Castle.
I pondered how anyone could or would want to climb this 12-story high two-legged rock edifice jutting upwards from inhospital waters. Landing at the base from a boat tossing in the frothing sea seemed the smallest of the challenges. Though I do remember someone who just couldn’t not climb a mountain. Perhaps it is a universal human condition to see a height and want to conquer it.
I fervently wished I had more time on this amazing island to further explore. I felt certain that I would someday return and vowed I would traverse this wondrous shore when I did. For now, I savored the beauty, felt the surety that my essential core needed this connection to the greatness of nature. To feel the absolute certainty that I was exactly where I needed to be.
The return trip was amazingly beautiful and not at all disappointing for having been seen previously from the other direction. My bike leaned against part of an old World War II battery. With one more deep breath, I etched the cliff top view before me into my mind and turned towards the road and Stromness.
As I pedalled past fields toward the main road, a mint green tour bus approached. A whole crew of seniors waved out the window to me, excited to be sharing the same wondrous day’s journey with the solo pilgrim in the orange coat riding her rusty rental bike.
While this Mainland Orkney island was not hilly by Scottish standards, once I crested the top of each long upward stretch, the downward rewards were minimal and not at all the joyous roller coaster ride I’d experienced near Nairn. When I finally approached the roundabout, I squealed directly to Orkney Cycle Hire. One of the main virtues of this enterprise was that there was no curfew – “no deadlines, just drop off the bike anytime at night, the gate will be open.” While it was only 6 p.m., I was done. I bounced the bike down the steps, replaced the bungee cords and my helmet, and was met by a startled woman surprised by my early return. I just nodded and turned to press my weary legs into the steps, elevating myself to the street.
I did not envision a situation whereby I would mount the “short” route up Brinkie’s Brae for a rest and then return to the town for dinner. I checked my lunchbag and found the mangled remains of the chutney and cheese sandwich and deposited them in the nearest bin (I didn’t want to hurt my hostess’ feelings by disposing of them at the guesthouse). The almonds and apple would keep. Just down the street was a takeout Chinese place that Yvonne had pointed out on the car ride up from the ferry. I’d had more than my fair share of time at the Ferry Inn and take-away sounded perfect. While waiting inside to place my order, I briefly contemplated the menu board’s contradictions of “vegetarian duck” and “vegetarian chicken” before opting for King Prawns with Vegetables.
Feeling the effects of a fruitful day, I made a satisfied journey back to the top of the Brae with a brief stop to feed my apple to my horse friend of the first night. A short walk further brought me to the breakfast room to enjoy my aromatic meal. I didn’t even care that I forgot that in the UK one had order rice separately and that I had only a soupy dinner of shrimp and celery. It was perfect.
There does come a point sometimes when traveling that I just cannot take in any more “awesome.” I remember being with Sharon on Santorini in our youth hostel in 1992. We were in one of the most beautiful places on earth but were saturated with scenery, history, tzatziki, sunshine, and Greek words buzzing in our ears. It was a beautiful summer night, and we sat on the outdoor patio. There was a television, and someone put in a video of a movie I’d seen many times back in America — I think it might have been Top Gun. Sitting there on autopilot watching the film was exactly what I needed at the time. This day, I remembered that on my house tour, Yvonne had pointed to a bookcase with DVD’s and said “I’ve got Bridget Jone’s Dairy.” After all of the awesomeness I’d experienced in Orkeny, I was ready to go on autopilot for a little bit.
When I couldn’t sort out the function of the DVD player built into the mounted television, I knocked on my hostess’ door. Bless Yvonne, she immediately came upstairs, found a stool and spent fifteen minutes attempting different combinations of remote control, various buttons on the back of the television, and positions of DVD insertion (despite my repeated assurances that “It’s okay — I don’t really need to watch it”).
As the film started, I sat on the edge of the bed, untied my hot and steamy hiking shoes, peeled off my socks, and fell back. I laughed out loud as Bridget blundered her way through her life as a “singleton.” The frequent interrogations about why she was alone and dealing with others’ discomfort at her being so felt very familiar. Every person I met on a train, stayed with, or requested a table from had the same look of confusion about my state of companionlessness. I also was rusty at this solo travel thing, and many times I felt like Bridget. Her mini-skirted descent down a fire engine pole landing bottom first onto the lens of an upturned video camera live feeding a broadcast felt similar to when I was flagged at airport security going to Edinburgh. For the first time on my trip, I was venturing out on my own and cautiously filled my borrowed tubular money belt with my aluminum-coated-anti-identity-theft-sleeved passport and credit cards. Alarms went off at security, and Abby the Terrorist was ushered to the public frisking station. The metal sensing wand flared at my waist, and I realized my error. What a graceful image I made shimmying the belt (borrowed from a friend much slimmer than I) out of my pants and snugly down my legs so that the contents could be inspected. Then for some ungodly reason, instead of shoving the belt in my bag or putting it back on in the privacy of a restroom stall, I reversed course and shimmied it back up and inside my pants.
Bridget Jones was exactly what I needed.