Bouncing Back

If my day hiking in Pitlochry started out as a wonderful adventure and then turned into something akin to a scene out of the book Wild (you know the one, where she hurls her Chaco off the side of the cliff?), then my day biking to Culloden started out with trepidation and then turned into the best day depicted in Tales of a Female Nomad.

When Jimmy, my host’s husband, told me the night before that there were no bike paths en route to Culloden, I really truly was surprised. I’d been living too long in Holland, Michigan, where there were bike paths or sidewalks just about everywhere. I didn’t do any of my Scotland practice biking on roads with cars. Or riding on the left side. “And some cars go 60 miles an hour.” That was it. I was emailing Kevin the Bikespokes Man and telling him the deal was off. I would suck it up and ride a train for 15 minutes, passing Culloden, only to take a local bus 5 miles and 40 minutes back to the battlefield. Then do the reverse for the trip back.

This is where Corinne stepped in. She said, “Look at him – he doesn’t cycle. I do this almost everyday. You will be fine.”

I went to bed that night completely prepared to bail the next morning. If, when I awoke, my legs hurt anything like they did the day prior, I was perfectly willing to hand the bike delivery man 20 pounds and go back to bed. In the morning, Kevin arrived with a clearly well-maintained mountain bike, seemingly confused that anyone would think that this would be a challenging ride (though he looked like he might be able to sprint up and down the Ben Vrackie summit in 1 1/2 hours). He pointed out the attached tire pump and the bag with the spare tire tube. (I felt myself physically block the scene of me attempting to change a flat from my mind). As he turned to leave, he did pause and remind me to ride on the left side of the road.

Earlier that morning, over granola with huge fresh raspberries and a boiled egg, Corinne volunteered to bike with me to the start of the route so that I wouldn’t get lost. I was going for it.

After riding the first two turns with Corinne, she waved goodbye, and I was on my own. It was a straight shot, 12 miles, I couldn’t get lost. The beginning of the route passed by the workshops of the town — piled lumber and tools filled the back lots. It was only a few minutes, however, before the cows and pastures began to appear. I am shocked at how timid these creatures are. Unlike the only other cattle I’ve met, at petting zoos, these were perfectly skittish. I rode past a herd of about 20 such beasts feeding at a huge watering trough. The watch cow spotted me, made a grunt and the whole herd took off at a sprint — I kid you not, those bovines were fast.

No matter, I pedaled on. The scenery became more pastoral, and I was inspired to take breaks not out of weariness, but out of growing excitement at the beauty around me.

The first few cars to pass by were small vehicles. They were very polite and proper about slowing down and passing me at an almost insultingly large distance far at the edge of the oncoming lane. What did they think I was going to do? Be sucked in by the drafting speed of their crawling pass? That said, I was grateful for the care. I relaxed and by the time a huge logging truck passed by, I was an old hand at holding my own on the back roads towards Culloden.

I cannot begin to express my gratitude at not being on a bus that would stop so frequently that it takes 40 minutes to go five miles. Super grateful.

When the sign that Culloden was only 5 miles away appeared, I couldn’t believe it. Already? I had only been riding about 50 minutes (I had doubled the online estimate of one hour 4 minutes for the “to” portion of the trip to two hours for me).

I approached a work crew on the road and waited for the temporary red light to turn green. That it did, and I confidently made my way through the construction zone and past the vehicle at the other end waiting at its red light. I had this biking thing down.

When I started my trek, the sky had been partly sunny. Now the light overhead dimmed and a drizzle began. Clad in my bright orange waterproof (really!) jacket, I accepted this as part of life in the Highlands and carried on through the forest which appeared before me. I realized that this was the actual path that the Highland soldiers took the night before the Culloden battle. This very road. The feeling of awe carried me through the remaining miles until I found, yes!, a very short bike path through the woods along the road that took me the rest of the way to the site.

My interest in seeing the Culloden Battlefield began with Mr. Rick Steve’s three triangle rating of the site (and I think he only gave three triangles to Culloden, to Edinburgh Castle and to Orkney’s ancient sites in his whole Scotland book – I cannot tell you for sure because I couldn’t fit it in my bag and cut out the chapters I needed, leaving the mangled ruins next to the bathroom garbage can at my mother-in-law’s house). How could I miss a three triangle event? A more compelling draw, though, came from reading the first three books of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon. The story of Jaime Fraser and Claire Randall/Beauchamp/Fraser stirred my imagination. I wanted to see where the real history happened.

For those of you who, like me prior to February of this year, are not Outlander fans or have never heard of Culloden, this moor was the site of the last battle fought ever on British soil. Most stories bill this as the Scots against the English, but it is, like most war stories, much more complicated. Scottish clans fought on both sides of the battle lines as did some of the English. Having stepped foot in Scotland for the first time ever in 1745, Bonnie Prince Charlie led the Jacobites against the English army in a bid to regain his family’s lost Scottish throne, didn’t listen to his advisors, created chaos and then fled Scotland forever following Culloden in 1746.

For more information, I suggest tackling the first 4-inch thick Outlander tome. It is worthwhile historical fiction and will go faster than you think. I hear the Starz mini-series is also quite good (albeit a bit risqué).

After all of the thought and planning on how to make it to the site and the bike training done ahead of time, arrival was frankly a let down. This is what Culloden Battlefield looks like from the parking lot:

Nonetheless, I went inside to the cafeteria to replenish my lost energy stores with a fruit scone, strawberry jam, roasted vegetable bisque, hot tea and Scottish Highlands sparkling water. I was ready.

The site had an indoor exhibit to give the history of what happened in the outdoor battlefield. This exhibit was crowded with the buzz of tourists speaking German, Spanish, something Slavic and an assortment of English accents concurrently. It was a maze that snaked around, leading its subjects through corridors with displays on both walls and down the center. I turned back and got the audio tour to narrow down the information. I would never get a “big picture” by reading all of that 8-point font.

While the audio tour was okay, the most interesting part of the indoor exhibit were the installed displays. These had recordings of actors reading aloud actual diary entries or documents from the time. The complexity of the different fractions involved in the battle came to life. For an overall picture of the battle, Outlander was enough for me. I was grateful to have a platform on which to  add some additional real human stories.

The part of the indoor exhibit that had the largest impact was called “The Battlefield Experience.” This was a square room with a screen on each wall. Kind of a basic IMAX experience, but the better for being toned down. The English army was on one side and the Jacobites on the others. Standing in the center of the room, it felt like I was in the middle of the fight, watching the Jacobites forced to stand awaiting orders to charge while Cumberland’s English army mowed them down with artillery. It was truly awful. The battle lasted less than one hour and 1500 Jacobites were killed or wounded compared to Cumberland’s army’s 300.

The last room on the interior tour depicted the aftermath of the battle. Many of the wounded Jacobites were slaughtered and the survivors executed. In the following years, most things typically thought of as “Scottish” such as the wearing of tartans and playing of bagpipes were outlawed and the clan system destroyed. Bonnie Prince Charlie escaped capture by dressing as someone’s maid. This pretender to the throne ended up fleeing Scotland dressed as someone’s maid, becoming a drunkard and leaving no heirs.

I headed outside.

The field was actually quite large. There was a row of widely spaced blue flags marking the battle lines of the Highlanders. This was quite a distance from a row with red flags marking the English army’s.

Walking the path of blue flags, stone markers showed where the different clans formed in preparation for the battle. Circling towards the red flags, stones carved with the same clan names showed mass graves where the bodies were found and buried after the battle.

Walking in the quiet field in the steps of the soldiers had quite the impact, more so than any of the exhibits proceeding it. I felt Culloden settle into my being. It’s history now a part of mine.

It was time to go.

The day’s goal accomplished, I had time for some optional add-ons on my return route. Biking out of the Culloden Moor back onto the main road, I quickly took a right turn toward a sign denoting “Clava Cairns.” Coming to an intersection with no signs, I continued in the same path in hopes it was the correct one. I quickly thanked my lucky stars that I took this way back instead of on the way there because I looked down a 45 degree angle slope that went on for at least a mile.

What is the best part of biking? The thrill of making it to the top of a tough hill? For some, this may be the case. For me, it is the glide down a steep hill. I still remember the excitement as a kid building as we approached “Crazy Lane” in our neighborhood. Well, Crazy Lane was dead flat compared to what lay ahead. This was going to be fun!

I think I may have actually “whooped” on the descent. I do know that I laughed out loud as I raced toward the bottom. I did slow at one point to ask a German biker huffing my way if I was going the correct direction. She said, “Yes, at the bottom of the road turn right. You will have a long way back up.” Not me! I just was going to enjoy the ride down and continue on my way. I felt like I won the lottery.

I swooped down the remainder of the hill and glided to land just at the gate to Clava Cains. Quickly locking my bike to the fence, I approached the entrance. The site had four cairns (neolithic burial chambers) and three stone circles. Two of the cairns had entrance shafts that lined up with the setting sun during the winter solstice. These structures were built about 4000 years ago. And there wasn’t a guard around or a gate to stop me from exploring them! How fun is that?

After an imagination stirring 1/2 hour romping amongst the ancient stones, I was ready to head on. I hopped on my trusty bike and made my way back to road to the village of Cawdor where bike guru Kevin would collect me at the local tavern. All was well in the world.

Once back on the “main” road from Clava Cairns, I continued my happy glide downwards. I rounded a bend and actually rode under the train viaduct I’d been vying to get a good photo of on my “to” route to Culloden.

Soon, however, my luck seemed to turn as I came upon a hill of Ben Vrackie inclines. It was bound to happen at some point. Unflustered, I brought my bike to a halt, hoped off, and took a hike up the hill, bike in tow, happily certain that at some point I would get another chance to glide.

And glide I did! Once at the top of the hill, the road undulated like a roller coaster. I barely had to pedal to keep my ride going. It was a thrill to pass by the beautiful countryside at a stimulating yet effortless pace.

I paused to finally meet a cow who wasn’t afraid of me — unfortunately I think it was because it’s poor eyes were full of flies. I also think I’ve learned that the skittish ones are the bulls – the cows with their bulging udders would sooner be shot down by the likes of me than to run.

Before I knew it the 7 mile journey to Cawdor was completed. I arrived two hours before my pick up time. Onwards to optional add-on #2: Cawdor Castle.

This castle draws many tourists due to the mention of “Cawdor” more than a dozen times in Shakespeare’s MacBeth. They come despite the fact that Macbeth was set more than 300 years before the castle was built. I came because a wonderful ribbon of road carried me there with time to see it.

I thought that I had seen enough castles in my 20’s living in England to last a lifetime. I couldn’t be more wrong. This castle was just downright fun. Any aristocratic family who loved Don Quixote enough to commission tapestries depicting silly scenes from the novel is okay in my book.

Also, I am sad to say that the last, sixth, Earl of Cawdor is long since deceased. I am happy to say that he wrote up hilarious posted explanations of items in the castle for each room.

One such write up stopped midsentence and asked, “Are you bored yet?” Another describing the Modern Kitchen started this way:
“This was once a dark and dreary place know as the School Room and may have been responsible for turning some of the Campbell ladies into confirmed spinsters and professional invalids.”

In the Pet’s Corner (how fun is it that he even had a “Pet’s Corner”?), the Earl wrote, “The Cawdor family have always had a soft spot for goats, the 5th Earl Cawdor had a favorite goat called Albert, which was virtually indestructible, and it had a great fondness for devouring ivy. On Sunday’s it was given, as a treat, a packet of Player’s Medium Navy Cut cigarettes: first it ate the cigarettes, then the packet, leaving the silver paper as a last special morsel. Sadly Albert passed away untimely after drinking a gallon of red-lead paint primer, and was given a simple but moving funeral.”

It is not hard to imagine this Earl marrying a woman from Eastern Europe who would fly a Buddhist flag from it’s tower. He did, and the Dowager Countess still lives there in the off-season, shuffling all of the tourist leaflets and restraining ropes into storage each winter.

Cawdor Castle is not large by castle standards, but I took a full hour to explore it so I could read more of the Earl’s commentary. I highly recommend a visit if you ever coast a bicycle into the area.

Before departing to my rendezvous with my bike dealer, I briefly explored the dungeon and gardens and got a few picturesque shots along the way. I love that there is a formal garden, one with a maze, and a wild garden that in its comparative chaos stirs more of the imagination than the other two combined.

I felt so great that I convinced the pregnant and tired ticket lady at the entrance to let me make a local call (I did not sign up for foreign phone service and am subsisting off of the Internet crumbs wifi affords). I tried to call Kevin to tell him to forget picking me up — I would ride into Nairn after all! Alas, I only heard a recording and was set to meet at the tavern.

Once alighting on my trusty stead (bike), I was instantly thankful that Kevin wasn’t in. In the little time I spent smiling my way through Cawdor Castle, some areas of my anatomy that were not accustomed to long, hilly bike rides made themselves known. I really missed my large overstuffed bike seat from the States. All was working out for the best, despite my attempts to interfere.

The short route back up the hill from the castle and into Cawdor town was enough to assure me that I had done just the right amount of bike riding for the day. I still had 45 minutes until Kevin arrived and was starving. I entered the Cawdor Tavern and ordered the best meal I had had on my travels to date:

I thoroughly enjoying my “Home Cooked Steak and Orkney Ale Casserole (crushed new potatoes, cheese twist, with roasted roots),” fresh country bread to start and a glass of French red wine.

My plan was to either get a taxi back to Nairn or, if I was really feisty, I could do a two hour walk along a river back to my B&B. As it was, I did neither. Kevin arrived in his bike shop van (I wish I’d gotten a photo, it was truly amazing in it’s organization and inclusiveness). I asked if he was heading back into Nairn and got myself a ride. On the way, I learned of his recent bike tour in Orkney where I was heading next and of his future 1000 mile one from Stuttgart to Budapest. No wonder that my little adventure had seemed so trivial. The spectrum of what constitutes adventure is a wide one. Mine sure broadened this day.

I arrived safely back in my B&B. Having been cowed (or “bulled” is perhaps more appropriate) somewhat by my Ben Vrackie trials, I was now restored to my adventurous old self but a bit wiser. By managing my day, I had the Culloden experience I so desired with the bonus of a joyous journey to ancient ruins and a castle filled with smiles and ending with a sumptuous meal and a ride home riddled with tales of biking adventures abroad. Plus the nice bloke wouldn’t even let me give him a 5-er for the lift.

Thanks to this woman, Corinne, who not only urged me on my way, but even met me at the station upon my departure sporting a pair of my abandoned socks.