Wednesday: "Twixt the Highlands and the Low"

In the morning we made the short hop to Culloden (cull-ah-dun), the location of the last battle between Bonnie Prince Charlie's Highland supporters and the Hanoverian troops, also primarily Highlanders. There were about 5500 under BPC and about 9500 of Hanoverians. The battle itself lasted less than an hour and was an absolute slaughter. The battlefield has red (CHECK THIS) flags on the royalists' side and blue for BPC's side, about a quarter-mile apart. In between was a bog, cold with wind---and during the real battle, the troops were pounded with sleet and snow during their charge. All the Highlanders were killed, either in the battle or afterward when the Duke of Cumberlain (the "Butcher of Culloden") ordered his troops to show no mercy, and the injured and retreating were slain cruelly. The people of the surrounding countryside were likewise treated brutally: rape, pillage, murder.

Between the two lines is a large stone cairn in commemoration, and near it in more-or-less a row are stones marking the locations of the mass graves by clan. A very powerful place.

BPC was persuaded to flee the battlefield, met Flora MacDonald, who disguised him as her Irish handmaid Betty Burke, and smuggled him out of the Isle of Skye.

rooks = crows
lorry = truck

Another Ian-ism: "I've got to fiddle out a few bits and bobs."

Most roads up here are one lane each, so when a side has two lanes it deserves a special marker: "Dual Carriageway".

We toured the Glenlivet whisky distillery next. Barley is shipped in to a nearby town and malt (shucked, ground barley) is shipped out and to Glenlivet---where enough is stockpiled to last for ten days in case of emergency. The malt is boiled, and a slurry at the top seperates out into a liquid, then mixed with yeast in large barrels for 48 hours. Other distilleries are near enough to other industries that the carbon dioxide resulting from the fermentation process can be used in the production of soft drinks, Glenlivet is more isolated. The exothermic reaction kills off the yeast, and so the foaming settles, and what is left is essentially beer.

The beer is taken to the distillation chambers---which are large-scale versions of the distillation equipment we use in Orgo labs. Of course. I suppose chemistry was born out of alcohol production and alchemy. It is twice distilled: first into three parts, the head, the heart, and the tail. The heart is the good stuff, the head and tail are mixed back in and redistilled. Irish whisky is triple-distilled, once more "because they need an extra try to accomplish what the Scots can in two." After the distillation, all of it goes into the barrels. These barrels were one used for bourbon in the States, but American distillers cannot use a barrel more than once, by law. It's cheap for Glenlivet to buy ones used. And then they sit, undisturbed, for 12, 15, 18, 20, or 25 years, as the temperatures fluctuate and the porous oak lets air in and some whisky out---"You have to be good, so you can die and go to heaven with our escaped whisky."
Also here it seems to be spelled whisky, not whiskey. Do we spell it whiskey? I think so.
At the end of the tour was, of course, tasting. A dram of whisky, perhaps that means a shot. After you take a sip of the straight single-malt you can add a little water and taste the difference.
Unfortunately, I could still taste the whisky several hours later.

Cows.
Scotch cows are not like our cows. They are larger, heftier, and of a solid color: caramel brown or black. None of this silly white and splotchy black business. These cows, also, have a lot more hair, almost yak-like.

We passed by Cargarff Castle, built in the 15th century but the surrounding walls were constructed by the Hanoverians when they used it for ammunitions storage.

This side of Scotland we noted a change in the heather. It looked zebra striped: purple but with wide swathes of colorless grey. The sheep eat heather, in addition to grasses, but older heathers are too woody for the sheep to properly eat, so farmers burn parts of the heather before it reaches that stage. The burnings begin in November, when they can be properly controlled, and end in April before the gamebirds lay their eggs.

As we rounded to the eastern side the Highlands were noticably rounder, like the difference between the Appalachians and the Rockies. These mountains were lower, greener, and small little bumps of hills popped up in the valleys. Funny enough, the roads went right along with this bumps without an attempt to make the surface smooth. Which is probably fine in a car but not in a long coach!

We passed by Balmoral, one of the few lands that are actually owned by the Royal Family (as opposed to being royal lands passed along---these they could sell if they wanted). Initially it was purchased so that Prince Alfred could regain his health in the Scottish airs, and now it is the more private locale for the family---usually the Christmas retreat, and that. It is surrounded mostly by trees, but there are a few spots you can catch a glimpse of the mansion. Even those spots will be gone soon enough, as the young trees planted grow tall enough to block the view.
An Ianism: "[The new trees] serve two purposes, really. They block the view, and there will be a few more trees for Charles to talk to."

If desired, a snap election can be called for Parliament---those elected don't necessarily serve the full five-year term, see. If an election is called, it is six weeks' notice and the campaigns are sudden and blissfully short. The voting is done on a Thursday always, the results called on Friday, and if a new Prime Minister is the result then he or she transfers in over the weekend.
Sounds nice.

Stopped in the town of Braemar, home of the Braemar Games. Gaelic/Celtic games like the caber toss. The caber toss, it is believed, originated when the guards of King Malcolm III (he who came in after Macbeth, who was incidentally killed in battle near Braemar. As was his predecessor, that other guy in the play) trained by tossing logs over fences, way back in 1057.

Braemar was a cute, small town with a castle nearby: creatively called the Braemar Castle. It was once owned by some Lord, but was bought by the town to open up to the public. All proceeds go towards maintenence on the castle, which was once badly needed. The town probably once had its own economy of some kind but now it seems to run on tourism, a shame really. At the same time, the post office is a little closed-in box in the back of the tiny grocery store, and the postman was overwhelmed when so many American women came along looking for international postcard stamps.
A wander down one of the streets led to a church. I took a picture for the architecture.
Dad: "Oh, Rachel, you don't want to take a picture of that, it's Presbyterian, it doesn't count anyway."
The sign said "ST. ANDREWS RC CHURCH"
Apparently people actually use "R.C." to mean Roman Catholic.
Now that I think about it, it is a little odd to find a Catholic church in such a small town, everything else we've seen outside of Glasgow and Dundee have been of two branches of Presbyterian.

I saw a small herd of sheep enclosed with a single llama! I wonder if it was a guard llama.

Dundee is a nicely sized city, 200,000? maybe. Has a university and lots of industry up here. Used to be a whaling enter, and that is why when Scott went on expedition in 1901 to reach the South Pole he had his ship built in Dundee. The RRS Discovery (Royal Research Ship) is on the other side of our hotel!