Eight Days, Seven Distilleries, Three Castles. : Day One: Trial By Fire (And Fog): Argyll

In which our intrepid narrator and erstwhile companion conquer two planes, a screaming baby, backwards driving directions and the ever-present rain to emerge victorious and be rewarded with breakfast and a bell tower.


A statue in Argyll. Of who? I don't know. Walking that far seemed hard.

More details forthcoming after the cut..

Our journey to Scotland began on Monday afternoon and ended Tuesday evening. Our first flight was a fairly unremarkable hop from Hartford to Philadelphia. It's one of those flights where by the time you reach the part where you can turn on your portable electronic devices you have about 2 songs to enjoy it before the descent begins and you must, again, turn off your portable electronic devices. It was blissfully uneventful.

The less said about our second flight, the better. Truthfully, it could have been a lot worse. There was no turbulence, no one projectile vomited on either of us, and, you know, the plane stayed in the air. I had this fantasy that I'd fall asleep immediately after take off and wake up seven hours later in Glasgow, well rested and ready to face the day. In reality, I ate something that tasted like a bad Lean Cuisine and dozed fitfully for about four hours. We landed at 7am Glasgow time, which was about 2am EST. There's really nothing like trying to accept that the middle of the night is the first thing in the morning. You know you haven't slept, but feel as though you must have sometime, somewhere and just forgotten about it, because it is so clearly morning and you don't remember night.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless sky - picture by E

E, who is a much braver person than I, in this capacity at least, confronted this sleepy otherworldly sort of feeling head on by getting into our rental car and driving on the opposite side of the road to which we are accustomed, on the highway, while it was raining. The fact that we didn't die immediately is eternally to his credit. We were vaguely hungry (more in the way that morning suggested that we SHOULD want breakfast rather than that we DID want breakfast) but decided to get out of the city first.

We learned two things pretty quickly, both of which made me even more relieved that I wouldn't be driving on this trip: first of all, Scottish people sincerely regard speed limits as a minimum, not maximum standard. Secondly, New England may think that we have curvy roads, but we ain't got nothin on Scotland.

Our destination outside of Glasgow was Kennacraig, about 2 hours and 15 minutes from the airport. It was a circuitous and scenic route. We decided to stop in Argyll for some food and a quick visit to Inveraray castle. Our first destination was breakfast, at a local hotel, where we were reminded that bacon means different things in different places.

Scottish bacon: aka "bizzaro breakfast ham"

American bacon: aka "the gateway to happiness"

E outside the place we had breakfast. Being photographed after approx. 18 hours of travel requires more bravery than I personally possess.

The town was cute, if rather sleepy. The fact that we rolled in around 9am may have had something to do with the sleepy factor. The main population consisted of myself, E, a few tour buses full of the elderly and one guy standing in the parking lot of a wool goods store, bagpiping his heart out. Doubtless the tourists found it pleasing, but I wouldn't be surprised if the natives massacred the man after we left. The main attractions appeared to be the castle, the hotel, the wool-goods store and a bell tower, which several signs urged us to visit. We felt rather let down when, after the grand promises of the signs, the we found that the bell tower was closed until 10am, but poked around the area anyway.