Through the Looking Glass, and What Bryn Found There (#123)
Reflections on the first travels out of Canada post-pandemic.
“Do you know, I always thought unicorns were fabulous monsters, too? I never saw one alive before.”
“Well, now that we have seen each other,” said the unicorn, “if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you.”
- “Through the Looking Glass” by Lewis Carroll
I imagine this is what Alice felt like, walking through the “bright silvery mist” to a world that seemed very familiar.
Taking tentative steps off the airplane, it certainly seemed the same: similar sights, smells, and sounds to the world that I was once part of only five hours prior. I mean, I could still see buildings and birds, and rivers and roads.
And yet - there was something decidedly different.
It was a land of paradox: idyllic with calm, yet at turns pulsing with a dull bass line of energy sourced from thousands of years of written history. Charming storefronts from my childhood books, selling art and books and the best donuts1 I have had in seven years2, neighbouring boarded up shops sporting helpful graffiti tags such as, “It’s nae a public toilet.”
Not that I had a handle on all the local turns of phrase, mind you:
Me: “I’ll have the scone, please”
Lady at Counter, with a fond yet slightly derisive snort: “We dinnae hae scones.”
Me, pointing to menu: “Oh, it says ‘scone’ there?”
Lady at counter: “Tattie scone.”
Me, shrugging: “Okay, I’ll have that, then, please.”
Lady behind me, waiting for her breakfast order and hearing my North American accent: “Um…that’s quite a Scottish thing you’ve ordered.”
Indeed, it was. Presented with a crusty roll with thin fried triangles of dense potato pancake, dressed with brown sauce, I devoured it. Maybe it’s the 14 hours since eating and the first meal in a new country, but I’d argue it was delicious regardless.
That said, it still takes us a few days - nearly the halfway point of a ten-day excursion - to truly realize we’re not in Kansas anymore. (Coincidentally, this timing aligned with our departure from towns and cities to villages and much more rural locales: Drumnadrochit, Claigan, Lismore.)
In these isolated surroundings, there were bunnies abound, bounding with scarcely a glance in their direction. Sheep - enough to challenge my deepest insomnia - endlessly bleated their disapproval at our existence. We’d spy them everywhere, even on the most precarious cliff edge in search of the perfect grassy morsel.
The birds were distorted cousins of ones I’d seen in my garden or nearby park. robins were smaller, rounder, and painted by watercolour than the sharper acrylic demarcations of their American cousins. The pigeons were taller and sporting a crisp white collar; so many seen in burial grounds, hiding in trees and haunting the tombs with their firm “coos”, that they may have been sporting clerical collars.
The roads were narrower, curving and compressing from the weight of millennia, wherever they could find passage through the imposing mountains of the Highlands, leaving no room for shoulders to carry curious passengers hoping to pull over for a quick snap of the beauty. In driving, the effects of the looking glass were more pronounced: traffic flipped, the right hand turns on red lights that were commonplace a day ago were now a severe faux-pas.
Despite cities nearly a thousand years old, much of Scotland remains undiscovered or barely touched. Coastlines are bitten into by ancient sea monsters to reveal layers of years and leave behind beaches of chewed-up “‘coralline’ hard seaweed called maerl”. Mountains blanketed in heather (just beginning to bloom) stretch along all axes - often so high that the highest clouds still meet their peaks.
It’s been a little over a week since we’ve returned. We’ve been shaking our heads, reacquainting ourselves with breakfasts that don’t feature black pudding or dinners that opt not to use haggis as a stuffing, and guzzling coffee to offset the emotional bleariness that comes from jet lag and an emotional accounting of a long-awaited, beautiful time exploring undiscovered country together.
What was different through the looking glass?
Nothing at all - and yet, everything.
The rather simply named fudge donut. Covered in a thick brown sugar fudge dip, and filled with the butteriest cream I’ve ever tasted. Wars were fought over this donut.
The best still being Maine Donuts in Portland. I’m still thinking up reasons to drive down there and score a box.
Ah, Scotland. The less Scottish version of Nova Scotia (I heard this once from a Scottish researcher visiting NS).
Soyou didn't try deep fried Mars bars?Lovely pics and descriptions. I'm going to have to visit that bookshop some time.