Yesterday's conversations, as you can imagine, were all about the earthquake. "Did you feel it? Were you scared? What did you think it was, at first? Did anything fall off the shelf in your house?" and etc.
The most surreal part of the day for me, though, (excepting those very terrifying few moments at 1 a.m.) was when I was sharing with a group of friends that I was convinced it was a tornado. I received a few nods but nobody said anything and, as I continued with my story, Jennie interrupted me with a question.
"What is a tornado, exactly? Is it like a hurricane? What's the difference?"
"You're joking, right?" I asked. But everyone else looked equally puzzled. "Don't you get tornadoes?"
Heads shaking, more questions.
"A tornado has an eye, right?" someone else asked. "Which of them is a twister?"
So I quickly explained that a hurricane is a huge storm that starts at sea and has very high winds, that it dies out as it crosses land, and that it has an eye. A tornado, I said, is the one with the funnel cloud.
"Like in that film Twister," I said. "You know, with the cow."
"Oh, right!!" everyone chorused. "I remember the cow flying through the air."
They were also impressed that I've actually done plenty of sitting in basements during tornado warnings (thanks to summers spent living in St. Paul, MInneapolis and Chicago, and also visiting my grandmother in Kentucky). I don't enjoy it. When the sky turns green, I turn green. I remember one swath of tornadoes that hit southern Minnesota while I, up in the city of St. Paul, was actually watching the video of Twister with my college friends. As the tornado hit on the screen, suddenly the tornado sirens went off in real life. We students had to retreat to our dorm basement for hours. We brought our books with us and studied down there, since finals were the following week.
No, I do not like tornadoes. But it does give me a certain kind of celebrity to have "survived" them in this island nation where weather conditions rarely combine favorably for tornado conditions. There have been more tornadoes in recent years, but they obviously haven't made much of an impact upon the public consciousness. My friend Alison, who moved to Evanston about 10 years ago, said the only tornado she'd ever heard of before leaving the U.K. was the one in The Wizard of Oz.
It's moments like these that remind me of the great cultural gap between the U.S. and the U.K. The backdrop of my mind, which I so take for granted in America since so many others share it, is often not the backdrop of theirs.
The train station is near my house, so every once in awhile I wake up and hear an especially noisy or fast train passing. Once in awhile, the house will even shake a tad, and since my bedroom has three exposed walls and is at the top of the house, I'll notice it.
That's what I thought it was when I woke up just before 1 a.m. to the sound of a very deep rumbling so loud it filled the room. But I quickly realized the train would have to be in the garden to make that much noise, and even so it could never make the room vibrate back and forth like it was doing. It was so noisy and the house was shaking so much that I wondered if it was some sort of wind storm. If so, it had to be a tornado. I'll admit that I was frankly terrified, because it felt like the entire, 200-year-old, brick house was about to come down. After a few moments the shaking and rumbling subsided and I ran to the window to see the storm. Yet all was still. Finally, the penny dropped. Was it an earthquake?
Yes, I found out this morning, it was a 5.3 magnitude quake with an epicenter in Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, only 50 miles from Nottingham. Britain had just experienced its strongest earthquake since 1984, and plenty others were terrified, too. As this BBC story reports, there was slight damage to hundreds of homes and people nearest the epicenter actually got of bed and streamed onto the street in their dressing gowns (bathrobes).
My house remained quiet, however, and I almost wondered if I'd dreamed the whole thing. I knew I hadn't, though. It had been too real and had lasted for too long. I peeked out of my room but nobody was up, so I headed to the bathroom. On my way back, a very excited male voice echoed through the corridor with, "Did you feel that?"
It was David, my 23-year-old housemate and English "brother", and he, too, had been hoping someone else would get up to talk about it. He came hurrying down the hall to my room.
"What was that?" I asked. "Do you have earthquakes here?"
"Yes, it was," he said. "We get them every few years. That was massive, wasn't it? And it was so loud! That was the biggest one I've ever felt."
He had a happy gleam in his eye. Once it was over and I knew what it was, I was excited, too.
"Well, we used to get ripples in our swimming pool in Arizona from California quakes, and there were two when I was in Guatemala, but it never even occurred to me you'd get them in England," I said.
This morning I eagerly quizzed 27-year-old Julia about the quake as she brushed her teeth.
"Oh, that," she said. "That was nothing. It wasn't that big."
I began to wonder if I had, indeed, dreamed up the noise and power, especially when I saw "Dad" Pete and asked if he'd felt the earthquake.
"Earthquake?" he repeated, clearly puzzled. "No."
I felt vindicated, though when Sue, my English "mum" heard us chatting.
"It was massive!" she said. "I fell out of bed. But Pete didn't feel a thing. He just asked if I was all right, and clearly he didn't know why. I was so relieved when I heard you and David talking in the hallway and knew I wasn't the only one who felt it. It was scary."
And I, too, was relieved to hear that it was, indeed, a big quake and that I wasn't the only one who was scared.
The only large quake I've felt before was in 2001, when I was a student spending a week volunteering in a rural Guatemalan orphanage. I was in the midst of translating for a group of Americans and Guatemalans when, suddenly, the sidewalk started swaying back and forth. I automatically looked about for the large truck that must be causing the swaying before I remembered that I was in a tiny village with only a few cars.
"Terremoto, terremoto!" the young boys squealed in delight. It turned out that earthquake had a 7.6 magnitude and caused considerable damage in its epicenter of El Salvador. We felt the waves in Guatemala.
The second earthquake on that two-week trip occurred at night, while our group was sleeping in the city of Antigua, but I never even woke up because I was bone-weary from climbing the nearly-12,000-footAtitlan Volcano that day. Our beds even moved across the floor, my roommates said, but I was lost in dreamland.
Last night, however, I was fully awake. I still can't believe the noise! Everyone says a tornado sounds like a freight train, but I never dreamed an earthquake would, too.
About 200 quakes hit Britain each year, but only 10 percent are strong enough to be felt, according to this Associated Press report.
Friends, I'd like to take just a moment of your valuable time to discuss a subject that affects us all--squirrels.
That's right, squirrels. You may be a gardener (no doubt itching to get into the far-off springtime soil) who is now whiling away the tail end of winter by hatching creative ways to keep the pests from stealing your produce spoils. Or you may be a nature lover who just enjoys watching the squirrel families scamper about the trees, marveling over their curiosity, resourcefulness and dexterity.
I, myself, have a love-hate relationship with the squirrels. I've been in both the gardening and the nature-loving camps. I enjoy watching them, but there was one summer spent shaking my fist at the varmints as they took every single green tomato off the vine and brazenly ate them on the branch outside my second-story window, adding insult to injury by spitting choice bits down onto my car roof below.
But consider now the British red squirrel, a vibrant, cheeky little creature whose scarlet coat simply glows. The sad truth of the matter is that the big, pushy American grey squirrel is taking over the plucky red squirrel's habitat and causing marked species decline.
"The red squirrel is native to Britain, but its future is increasingly uncertain as the introduced American grey squirrel expands its range across the mainland. There are estimated to be only 140,000 red squirrels left in Britain, with over 2.5 million greys. The Forestry Commission is working with partners in projects across Britain to develop a long-term conservation strategy that deters greys and encourages reds."
The red squirrel may be an English icon, just like a red fox, but it is dying out here in Great Britain, as the above Forestry Commission report makes clear. This is hardly a new phenomenon. I think of Bill Bryson's excellent Australia travel book, In a Sunburnt Country, which documents case after case of species annihilation caused by the introduction of Western plants and animals.
This time, though, the little red British squirrel is at the mercy of the behemoth American grey. Of course the culture critics can make all sorts of fun metaphors with that one. But I see this phenomenon as more of a scientific fact of life, albeit one that I hope we can alter. So I cheer on the underdog red squirrel, especially the cute ones that scampered under our lodge window in the Scottish Highlands, snatching up the peanuts we put out for them and running up the nearby silver birch to crack into the shells as we cheered from within.
Just as I am depressed by the sight of American chain stores and restaurants spread across the United Kingdom (as much as I may sometimes enjoy visiting one of those businesses), I am also depressed by the sight of American chain stores and restaurants spread across the United States. It has long been a complaint of mine that, if I drive a few miles out of any American city, I find myself in unchanging strip malls of Chili's, Targets, Borders and Blockbusters.
"If I look at the retail landscape, I can't tell anymore whether I am in Minneapolis, Phoenix, Chicago, D.C. or Lexington, Kentucky," I moan.
I do appreciate the convenience and the lower prices of these chains, but I also bemoan the continued homogenization of America. The same thing is happening in England, although the mom and pop stores seem to be doing better overall here than at home.
Let's do what we can to prevent the same thing happening to the world's wildlife. I know it's been happening for centuries, but that's no reason that we have to keep on letting it happen. Go red squirrels, go!
I'm back in Nottingham now and back to real life, but real life is still pretty good.
I generally have Sunday dinner (or lunch, a hallowed British tradition) with the wonderful family I am living with, but this week everyone was away so I joined two of my friends for a leisurely lunch at the Victoria Hotel, affectionately known as "The Vic." The Vic is one of the very best locals around (a local is, appropriately enough, what the locals call the local public house). I've been before for drinks, but never for a meal. The food was stunning and the afternoon ideal.
There are several differences between an English pub and its most obvious American equivalent, the casual dining restaurant. Unfortunately, one of them is not price--despite the approximately 2:1 exchange rate between the British pound and American dollar, an entree is still between £7- £10. It was well worth it, though, to join Ruth and Laura on a rainy, chilly Sunday's afternoon for a leisurely meal and chat.
First things first: At most pubs, patrons find themselves their own tables. This can take awhile, as there's generally no host on duty and the customers have to stand around watching for a free table and, while still managing a modicum of the famous British civility the ability to queue up and wait politely, claim the seats as quickly as they're vacated. That's what we did today, anyway, but we were clever enough to stand in the gap between two rooms, away from the queue at the door, and wait until a party stood up. Before they had their coats on, Ruth was very politely enquiring if she could sit down, which she did. As soon as the group was pushing in their chairs, Laura and I had joined her and the table was ours.
Secondly, you usually order food at the bar. The Vic has an amazing food menu, but instead of waiting for servers you head on up and stand in the omnipresent queue, where the bartender will take your order, give you your drinks, and send you back to your table while you wait for food.
Thirdly, the English aren't nearly as fond of eating salad with their main courses as are Americans. Now, it's true that you can get salad in many places, and Laura ordered delectable vegetarian burritos that came with a lovely salad, but when I ask for a salad with my meat and potato entrees, my friends often give me a bemused stare.
"I would never have salad with a roast dinner," someone recently told me, as I tucked into a lettuce salad that I'd piled next to my plate of roast lamb and vegetables. "That's just wrong."
However, there are exceptions.
"My mum always orders a salad with her entree," Ruth said. "I think it's more of a Continental thing. They do it in France and Spain, they just don't do it in England."
So while today I enjoyed a delicious plate of bangers and mash (sausage and mashed potatoes) with steamed peas and carrots, and while I did long for a crisp, green salad to go with it, I knew better than to ask. At a proper restaurant, Ruth tells me, I'd be more likely to get a salad if I asked nicely, but pub food means roast dinners and hearty meals, and the customer is definitely not always right.
One similarity between many pubs and American casual dining restaurants is the portion sizes. Today, for example, my plate featured two huge sausages, a giant pile of mashed potatoes and generous portions of steamed vegetables. At home it wouldn't be a problem, as I'd eat half and take the rest home, congratulating myself on getting two meals for the price of one. But they just don't do doggy bags in England. The first time I asked for a to-go box, the server gave me a blank look. Thus today, as I stared down the remaining, mouthwatering sausage swimming in onion gravy, mash and veg, I knew my pleas for a doggy bag wouldn't go far.
"I just really want to take it home," I told my friends. "I've paid for it, why can't I bring it with me?"
"Why would you?" they asked. "You're full."
Ah, the difference between the European and American mindset.
"I could wrap the sausage in a napkin and put it in my purse," I suggested, but we all laughed at that.
"The grease would get all over your stuff," Ruth said.
"You're right," I conceded. "I'm just going to start carrying Ziploc bags around in my purse for these occasions."
We'd decided to order pudding (dessert) and I was already full, but since I'd paid nearly $20 for my food (or £9) I felt obliged to keep eating. I managed half of the remaining sausage but then the girls ordered me to stop.
"Stop eating it," Ruth said.
"Put the fork down now," Laura suggested.
"But I paid for it!" I said again. Finally, I put the fork down and went to the bar, where I ordered a gorgeous, ginger-infused Parkin cake (sort of a molasses cake) topped with brandy sauce and floating in poured cream. Ruth had her steamed treacle sponge with custard, and Laura settled for ice cream. We drank our tea and coffee and chatted well into the afternoon.
Four hours later, our bellies are still full, but we're still smiling.
The joys of a holiday in Scotland continue. I'm really enjoying staying in a big, luxurious lodge. Don't get me wrong--I love camping. But in this big house we all take turns making delicious meals for one another and get good nights of sleep and hot water, and the steam room, sauna and spa are just down the path at the hotel.
But I also love that there's a veritable playground for outdoorsy types like me just outside the door, from mountains and rivers to villages and even a big city.
Yesterday afternoon our group of seven drove to Aberdeen. I talked them into visiting Provost Skene's house.
This 16th century house was originally grand but was subdivided and became dilapidated by the 1930s, when it was almost razed in a slum-clearing effort. The Queen Mother Elizabeth then stepped in to help restore and save the house, and it's now a wonderful, free museum displaying how Aberdonians lived between 1600-1850. There are two marvelous, mysterious galleries featuring sublime wall and ceiling paintings, and three rooms at the top house Aberdeen-centered historical exhibitions.
After dinner at a pub, we went to the cinema to see a film, which is the British way of saying, "Going to a movie." I even call them cinemas and films myself now, instead of theaters and movies, but I did laugh when Neil said, "Let's go see this picture, shall we?" Apparently folks of an older generation still call it, "Going to a flick." We saw "Juno," which I really liked, but it was a bit surreal to sit in a Scottish theater watching a movie set in small-town Minnesota, not far from where I lived as a child and where I then went to college.
Today we splurged on a horseback ride through the Royal Deeside region, and it was absolutely worth it.
We took a two-hour horseback riding tour through the land surrounding Glen Tanar Equestrian Centre, near the village of Aboyne. It was a gorgeous and even warm day, with plenty of sunshine.
Neil smiles big for the camera as his noble steed Bob leads him through the forest.
We've just returned from a trip to the village of Ballater, near the resort. Instead of walking along the road we took the scenic path alongside the River Dee. When we reached Ballater we called in first at the local butcher's for a rib roast joint, then at the co-op for roast dinner ingredients, then at a mercantile to buy local jams and bread, and finally at a small book shop to pick up a thank you card for the time-share's owners. I love shopping this way! I think being able to stroll through any village's centre and run errands at small shops is one of my favorite things about Britain, although the English have their share of giant supercenters, too. Still, the old-time custom of strolling down the high road stopping at individual stores still thrives, especially in a village like Ballater.
On our way back from Ballater, we walked alongside the steep hill that Craigendarroch resort is built upon, making the trek more challenging but also providing a lovely view of the sunset over the gleaming river. Now our roast dinner (normally served on a Sunday, but we decided to have one anyway, even though it's Thursday) is sizzling away in the oven and sending out delicious smells. I'm about to concoct the Yorkshire Pudding, which is pretty funny since I'm the American. However, I just wrote a food article about Sunday dinner and Yorkshire Puddings for the Pioneer Press papers, so I am, strangely, the theoretical expert. Luckily Kathryn is also here, and her mom is from Yorkshire, so between the two of us we should be able to figure it out.
Hooray! I've finally figured out the photo upload tool. And now that our international group has dined on delicious gnocchi concocted by the Dane and one of the Brits, it's time to share a few pix from yesterday's mountaineering adventure.
We climb about 2300 feet, starting in an ancient pine forest then gradually ascending moors covered in heather and moss. As we get higher, it gets colder and snow and ice become more common.
Kristen and her brother Tom climb up the steep side of the mountain to reach the corrie (ridge) that leads along the top to the summit.
I clamber onto a rock overlooking Lochnagar, the lake (the mountain takes its name from the lake).
Neil and Kathryn pick their way carefully along the mountain's ridge, gazing down at the snow-covered cliffs below.
I stand proudly on the trig point (highest spot) on the summit of Cac Carn Beag.
There's a stunning view of the surrounding mountains and moors from Cac Carn Beag, Lochnagar's peak.
The melting snows feed the powerful river running down Lochnagar mountain's side.
We finish our 8.7 mile trek by following the river to the edge of a gorge, where it dumps over into a waterfall feeding this popular mountain lake, Loch Muick.
I'm always happy to dip a toe (or my whole self) into an obliging waterfall while hiking in warm weather, but I stay well clear of this one! Brrr...
The fact that I am even posting right now means I am dedicated to this blog and dedicated to this job. My fellow sojourners on this Scotland adventure have all gone to bed, despite the fact that it's just 10:30...Tom & Linea, Kristen, Neil & Kathryn, Dave (unless he's been mauled by an otter) are all happily sleeping by now.
I am knackered, as they say here, or absolutely exhausted, after a 14 kilometer (8.7 mile) tramp over rough terrain up to the top of snowy, ice-capped glacial mountains down to shimmering, barely-thawed Loch Muir, followed by a massive plate of spaghetti bolognese, a glass of red wine and a slice of walnut cake. It was a very good day, but one that's left us absolutely shattered.
Four of our party are experienced Scout leaders, so I was looking forward to a few good hikes on this trip. Since we spent yesterday lounging around our luxury cabin, exploring the village of Ballater and the River Dee, and watching a glorious sunset over the Grampian mountains on the Queen's Balmoral Estate, we opted for a "walk" today. Why the Brits call a walk a hike is something I just don't understand. Friends have explained that a walk is usually over flat ground, while a hike involves more effort, but if that's true, then surely today's expedition was a hike, not a walk, as they kept calling it.
After a "cooked" or "fried" breakfast (a traditional English fried breakfast includes eggs, sausages, baked beans, fried tomato and the English bacon that we'd consider Canadian bacon), our group set off. We drove about 15 minutes until we were near Lochnagar, a well-known munro (a Scottish peak higher than 3,000 feet beloved by mountain climbers).
We started by climbing up through a few stands of pine tree, part of the ancient Caldedonian forest that once covered about one-third of Scotland. It was a cold, cloudy February day, with temperatures between 25 to 32 degrees Fahrenheit, but being well-wrapped and fast moving kept us warm. We quickly gained ground over rocky hills covered only in bell heather, sphagnum moss and other hardy plants, and we had to keep our eyes out for the many green-moss covered boulders in our path. At one point we forded a river, although my fording was really scrambling over rocks so I could cross without getting wet. It was too cold for damp shoes!
Soon, it seemed, we were skirting large patches of ice and snow and, after a quick break below the main summit where we stopped out of the wind for sandwiches, crisps (chips) and apples, we were soon on top of a small range of peaks (known as the corrie flanking the peak). It took about three hours of fairly steep climbing to get to the top, and then we made our way along the ridge, marveling at the small, frozen Lochnagar (a mountain lake) ensconced beneath the peaks. After finally climbing around the corrie, we made our way onto the main summit of Cac Carn Beag. I took my turn scrambling onto the man made piller, or trig point, that puts the visitor at truly the highest point (3790 feet). It was too cold to stay up there for long, however, and by this time the sun was quickly descending, so we made our way back down by a different route.
After leaving the top of the mountain, we walked down a long, snow-covered plain alongside a roaring river. We couldn't see what was ahead, but we could see that the plain dropped off sharply as two mountains came together ahead of us.
"I feel a strange sense of dread," I told the others as we carefully picked our way along the icy snow to the end of the plain. "I feel like I'm in a boat being carried along by the river, and that we're just about to come to the edge of the river and be dumped over the side of a huge waterfall."
In fact, that's exactly what would have happened, had we been in a boat. Luckily we were just next to the river, following a nice, safe path. It curved away and down from the plain but as it curved back around, I literally gasped at the new vista. A tremendous waterfall stood before me, and far below, nestled beneath a horizon of rocky peaks, was a dark, blue lake surrounded by ancient pines. It was Loch Muick, a popular lake that's usually accessed by easier routes. We climbed down to the shores of the lake and stood quietly at its side as the setting sun cast orange rays over its barely rippling surface. We then walked a good 4 kilometers along a flat path back to the car park and our nice, warm car. The entire trek took seven hours.
All of this would have made us feel very adventurous and proud of our physical prowess, except for one thing. Since it was a wintry Monday, we saw very few other hikers and only one other group on our path. But as is often the case on such long hikes, it seemed that the other group was destined to be either just behind or just beyond us on the path. And it consisted of a dad, a mum and two towheaded young boys.
As we made our way gasping up a particularly steep hill, Neil observed, "I'd feel better about this if we weren't being left behind by those two kids."
Later, when we'd climbed to the highest peak and stood there a few moments catching our breath, we looked down and realized the family was just in front of us. They'd reached the summit a few moments before and were now heading off for the next part of the walk.
"I can't believe we're getting creamed by a couple of 6-year-olds," muttered Scout leader Tom. We all agreed.
Later, as we plowed through the endless plain of snow, we came across the boys again, who this time were busy crafting a makeshift sled out of a plastic bag and sledding down the slope as Mum and Dad laughed. Ingenious, of course, But then the little boys jumped up laughing and raced on ahead of their parents.
"Where do they get all of that energy?" we asked.
"They don't know what it's like to be old and crippled," grunted Dave, who's also a Scout leader and has reached the grand old age of 26 or 27, although I must admit he had banged up his knee somewhere along the hike and was suffering a bit. That didn't stop Dave, though, from camping out on the shores of Loch Muick that night, so we waved goodbye to him when we reached the lake. As we left him behind in the thickly falling winter night, we joked that he'd be attacked by some vicious creature found on the Balmoral Estate, such as a red squirrel or possibly an otter, one of the few creatures hardy enough to inhabit a Scottish loch.
Those two little boys kept reminding me of my brother and myself in past years, back when our parents took us on weekly hikes up the Arizona mountains around our desert home. But on such a long hike I would surely have been complaining loudly. These kids didn't. As the boys scurried past me on the path yet again today, I finally couldn't help chatting with one. I smiled at him and asked, "Aren't you tired yet?" He just giggled and hurried on ahead.
In the end, the family took a different turn from us and we lost sight of them during the last stage of our walk. For all I know, they're still out there now, dancing happily along the mountain.
After a stop at the co-op to buy a few groceries (where a few of us, it must be admitted, limped rather pitifully as our muscles had stiffened up considerably in the cold) we headed back to our nice, warm lodge. Kristen and I cooked while the others enjoyed hot baths and, over dinner, I announced that I really ought to update my blog.
"I won't write much," I said (and I thought I was telling the truth, but I obviously got carried away!). "I'll just share a bit of what we did, but I ought to share something informative, or at least a funny story."
"Tell them about the 6-year-olds," Tom advised.
Boys, wherever you are tonight, know that seven young adults hold you in awe.
Sorry for yesterday's silence. I was en route to the Scottish Highlands. At the moment I'm perched next to a giant wall of windows in the second floor of the lodge I'm renting with six others. I'm gazing out the window at a stunning vista of pine-covered hills, with higher mountains rising beyond. The highest peaks of the Cairngorm mountains are capped with snow! It's a lovely, sunny day and we're all about to go exploring.
I'm staying at Craigendarroch on the Royal Deeside, near the Queen's Balmoral Castle and outside the village of Ballater. We're about an hour southwest of Aberdeen, the "Granite City" on northern Scotland's eastern coast, from which about 70 oil rigs drill into the North Sea. It took us about 8 hours yesterday to drive from Nottingham to Aberdeen, where we picked up one girl who'd flown in from Denmark, then we headed back to this resort. It was a gorgeous drive on a sun-filled day. I exclaimed many times over the beauty of the countryside as we drove from the Midlands up through the Lake District, finally crossing into the Scottish Lowlands and passing through the city of Glasgow before turning towards Aberdeen.
