The Road to Inveraray

On the noon bus from Glasgow to Inveraray, I had lots of time to think, scribble, play solitaire, nap. I reached my destination way before the hostel office opened, so I left my bag in an alcove off the dining room and toured the TIC for information about the area.

The way I look at it, Inveraray qualifies as either a small town or a large village. It comprises two main streets off the busy, Argyll Scenic Coastal Drive, a country road that hugs the town in a curve on its way down the east coast of Argyll. It's at the mouth (inver) of the river Aray, which feeds down from the hills at the west. I spot several restaurants and crafts and souvenir shops, two large hotels and numerous B&Bs. Residences are behind the town, and there are also a waterfront park, a golf course, a woolen-mill outlet store that draws in tour coaches every few hours for shopping.

Oh, and there's the castle, of course, home of the famous Campbells, the primary clan of Argyll and the forebears of a Thompson line. (Thompsons can apparently spring from Scottish, English, or even Irish ancestry; I've been told my lineage is Scottish or English. I had expected some sort of instant "at home" feeling here in Argyll, but it's not here, not like what I was sensing closer to Dumfries, which I don't think was Campbell territory. Perhaps the heritage is stronger from the English side, after all.)

The Inveraray hostel is lightly booked tonight; I'm here for five nights in a room with four bunks, but only two roommates, who have yet to show up. I usually select a bottom bunk nearest a window. Preparing a stir-fry dinner at the onsite kitchen, I met Geoff from Belfast, who now lives in Edinburgh, and who has just finished cooking an eggs, sausage, and bacon dinner. He's a big man, tall, dark-haired, thick-bodied, with a big booming laugh that reminds me of Tom back in Oly. He is a freelance bird counter, naturalist, and just got another PhD that he's going to Glasgow to collect in a week.

He tells me he's near the end of a three-month bird counting job in which he goes to saltwater lochs to count black-throated divers and red-throated divers (loons). His client is checking the changes in population since the last census, about ten years ago.

He talked a lot about the Hebrides islands nearby and especially recommended going to Jura or Arran. I'm doubtful of this idea, though, because of the distance and the need for buses and ferries and coordinating their schedules. I've already booked a WWOOFing week in Torlundy immediately after my stay here, and doubling back geographically afterward would take more time than I'd like before going south for the beginning of the coast to coast walk. An island visit will have to wait until another trip.

At his invitation, we had a drink at pub--him a beer, me a fruity J2O, sharing a small bench and table. The physical nearness of another person felt good, especially since it wasn't impaired by a lot of flirtation or nervous attraction or forced, polite conversation. We just talked about our lives and plans and enjoyed each other's company.

We walked back to the hostel and had a late night talk with Jean and Heather, two middle-aged nurses who've left their husbands at home so they can travel other parts of Britain. They remind me of Janet and Trisha from Bridestowe--rambunctious and funny and down-to-earth.

The Jean, Heather, and I were slated to stay in the same room, but the single room across the hall ended up being empty for the night. We all joked about snoring and middle-of-the-night pee breaks (with them using a carton in the room--they're nurses, after all) and we laughingly decided it would be best if I could move into the empty room for the night. Fortunately, the hosteler agreed, "but only for one night because I've got more coming in tomorrow."

So I tossed all my stuff into the pack and shuffled it across the hall. The hall here is dank. A faint odor of mildew comes from the showers and bathroom, which have poor ventilation or small windows with no chance of a cross breeze. Everything is cleaned daily, so nothing to give me the willies from a germ standpoint, but the moistness is an unpleasant reminder of dorm living every time I enter the hall.

The toilet seat in one of the stalls can also be a surprise if I forget about it. Improperly held on by two clips that face the same direction (instead of opposing each other), it skids over the porcelain when I sit down and once nearly dumped me to the ground with my pants down. I try to avoid that stall now.

Last summer I went to the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw, an hour or two from where I live in Olympia. This annual festival brings together people of Scottish persuasion and Scottish interest. Bagpipe-band competitions (blood-enthralling things to me, blood-curdling to others), market and food stalls, Scottish dancing and fiddling, and "heavy" athletic competitions like tossing the caber (think sending a telephone pole end over end while wearing a kilt), throwing the open stone (think shot put while wearing a kilt), and flinging weights overhead (think granny shot with a basketball, only you send a 56-pound weight over a bar above you and hope it doesn't land on your head--and, yes, while wearing a kilt). Curvy women everywhere in tartan, burly men everywhere in tartan. And of course clan booths galore.

I had stopped at the Campbell booth to look up the Thompson line and met a trueblood Campbell who lives in Arlington, WA. He showed me the map of Argyll and a small guidebook from Inveraray Castle. He lamented that the guidebook was over ten years old, and I promised to send him a current one if I ever got to the castle. I decided then and there to go as part of this holiday.

That task, purchasing an updated version of the guide, was what I did today in the Inveraray Castle gift shop. The half-size guidebook of the past, with its faded photos and outdated kitchy copy, has become a grown-up glossy booklet with up-to-date family tree and photos of its many rooms and regalia. I looked it over while taking tea and cake at the onsite tea room, and decided that I didn't need to visit the house itself. The photos were enough to show me that it would be a similar experience to the tour through Drumlanrig, which is still fresh in my memory. I can quickly get "museumed-out" while traveling, and seeing more than one estate every fortnight is pushing my definition of travel entertainment.

Instead I plan to take in one of the castle's outdoor offerings: a walk up to the Watchtower, a fake-ruin folly at the top of the hill near the castle.

The Watchtower is one of the few "things to do" in Inveraray aside from the shopping, golfing, and a local adventure park that offers horseback riding. A long-term tourist destination spot this place is not. Which is precisely why I selected it.

Even the hostel receptionist asked when I made the reservation for five nights, "Why Inveraray? There's nothing to do there."

"That's the point," I said. "I'm looking for place to Be, to do nothing. To sit and see what it feels like."

As I scoped out the town and the castle grounds and sat on the grass looking down the mouth of the River Aray to a pretty little bridge and Loch Fyne beyond, I realized, "Huh. This is it," and wondered at the wisdom of this decision.