Call the Interpreter Tales

Now offering a new series on where life as a French-speaker and an interpreter might take you. One of my friends joked it could be named "Call the Interpreter" as one of my beloved t.v. series is entitled, just with "Midwife" instead. Only with less blood and gore and screaming, except during labor and childbirth, of which there was quite a lot for the first nine years.

And truthfully, it all began spontaneously. I was a former translator and interpreter, but currently a mom at home. The first phone call was to request I report for duty... at the western wall of the in-patient psych ward one wintry day. "Yes," came out of my mouth, it does sometimes. I have kept much of it tucked away as this used to be a homeschooling blog. But the hard, real, hilarious at times, truth of being a semi-working mom and wife and homeschooling five children will be interwoven in the fabric of these stories.

The plan

Share the juiciest, most exciting, lively, and tender moments of this 20-some-year adventure in every type of interpreting encounter you might imagine, but entirely fictionalized. No real stories will be shared, would-and-might-have-beens only.

        My short-list 

of people, places, memories and scars, as noted on my Ipad. Please do excuse the formatting, as I have only one hand and I'm relying on a write to text app to produce this.

People from:

France  🇫🇷                 Congo RDC 🇨🇬

la Belgique   🇧🇪     Congo RC 🇨🇩           la Cote d' Ivoire 🇨🇮

Benin  🇧🇯             Haiti  🇭🇹          Togo  🇹🇬

le Liban  🇱🇧                               Cameroun 🇨🇲

le Quebec 🇨🇦                 la Suisse 🇨🇭

le Maroc  🇲🇦           l'Algerie 🇩🇿                     Burundi  🇧🇮

Rwanda  🇷🇼                          Niger 🇳🇪                     le Burkina Faso 🇧🇫

le Mali 🇲🇱                                        Senegal 🇸🇳

                                The Central African Republic 🇨🇫

Gabon  🇬🇦                           Tunisia 🇹🇳                             Roumanie 🇷🇴

.

Places

les Landes                         Springfield                  Las Vegas

Iceland                   Nashville                  Muscatine 

Paris                                Cedar Rapids

San Francisco                    Racine

Waterloo           

                …and hidden FLW masterpiece gems like Cedar Rock and its boathouse

        Des Moines... my own capital (but hardly known)

        Chicago... my own city of proximity (scarcely visited)

Dublin                 Salt Lake City                     Rock Island

        London                             La Salle                          Adel  

Scars:

relatively few

- one or two from biking the Golden Gate bridge...

-psychological ones from high-winded, icy, bleak highway travel in winter

Memories made:

the best and the worst and everything in-between

Names and any other identifying factors shall be disguised beyond all recognition and stories will just be stories, based on treasures of all sorts I’ve seen and heard. Weird treasures. Beautiful treasures. Terrifying treasures.

Cabin on a Small Lake a Short Drive to the Large Lake (Michigan); Perfect.

A post left to thaw out in the busy days since it was written. Here we were, just a few short weeks ago.

Has this become a travel blog? It is just two of the kids, husband and little me, off to Michigan for a long weekend in lieu of spring break in southern climes. It is surprisingly beautiful, the yet partially frozen Lake Michigan, even with a temperature of minus 50,000 degrees if you take into account the insane wind speed and chill factor. Springlike!

We are accompanied by only two of the five children, the others being otherwise occupied at life and school. It is a peaceful trip, in our little cabin on the shores of Lake Chapin, which could not be more tranquil if it competed for the prize of "Idyllic Lake Spot of the Year".

The tree branches out my bedroom window are perfectly bare, yet shining in the setting sun with the lake blue-grey behind them. Mahogany, gold and chestnut sway gently in the breeze as the lake flows past. It is a moving loch, flowing into the St. Joseph river a few miles downstream. 

Each morning the first two days, when we woke, Mother Nature treated us to a small snowstorm raging and then gently falling against this magnificent backdrop. Nobody but me cared that a hike was out of the question, did I mention there is also a giant television in the main room? One that has a paid movie channel on it? Philistines.

I, on the other hand, have reveled in each hour, even from just inside the balcony of the bedroom. There was a set of double doors and four large windows on either side of those. Yesterday was still white, a few inches of the stuff covered the ground. Today, spring has manifested in a bright day of 34 degrees or so and the great snow melt.

On a brave, brief venture to the beach on our first day, G. was delighted to discover actual icebergs, as he dubbed them, along the shore of Lake Michigan. We all marveled at the structures and sculptures made of snow and ice, and my husband could not believe he was walking on frozen sand. For this man of southern France and its beaches, it was an event. I grew up with everything in sight freezing every single year, so...why not sand? Of course, the only sand in Iowa is in a box in the backyard, which was not happening with my mother in charge, so my experience of sand has been limited to warmer places as well. 

As the days have grown warmer, our time out exploring has lengthened to walks along the wild shores of this sea/lake. The horizon is green prettily edged in a bright, deep blue. The waves crash against the rocks, pound the sand with a rhythmic roar that echoes gladly in my heart. 

Had I known winter would still be here mid-April this year, I might, perhaps, have chosen Florida again. It is back into the 60's this weekend, six weeks later, but I see the nights will still be hovering just at freezing, so the outdoor flowers will extend their sunroom stay another petit moment. 

Trapped in a Kwik Star with Nothing but Ice Beyond the Door, but Rescued by a Library

In which the happy, adventuresome itinerant interpreter comes face to face with a near-ditch experience, seeks shelter in the first option available, and is rescued, once again, by a community resource, this time, The Maquoketa Public Library.

The First Place Available

As I left home

Courthouse in Dallas County, Iowa, a "normal day in the life"

 

Well, Susana, oh, what can I say? When I left, the weather it was dry. True, rain was predicted, but it has been warmer of late and this was not surprising. What began as rain had become a "wintry mix" thirty miles from home. My husband called, concerned. I saw nothing, but out of respect for how worried I would be in his place, I stopped for a coffee refill and to make sure my court of destination had not decided to switch to a video hearing today. I took the next ramp promising "food and gas" and that was almost my last move of the day; at 8:30 am. 

This library! Maquoketa Public Library

While the highway itself had been clear and on the dry side, the exit ramp, as I slowed, lost all sense of stability. My snow tires were glass, the road was an ice rink and the ballet of my movement on it clumsy, spinny, and desperate. I kept my calm, winter weather is home territory, no palm trees in a cyclone, earthquakes or tsunamis, just...free-wheeling in the strictest sense and at a speed I had no business driving today.

At the bottom of this endless hill, I had the choice between exactly two places to park; the Big W or the gas station. Hot coffee and individual doughnuts won that competition and I eased into the sludgy, crunchy parking lot, marveling at all of the available parking spots (every single one of them was free), and I parked, gratefully yet a little doubtful. I did need to be somewhere today in a certain number of hours, and it was not here. Again, it was in deference to my concerned husband that I agreed to exercise a little more caution, not from any natural aversion to driving in all kinds of weather.

In the twenty-four inches between my car and the front door I almost ended up on my tush. I grasped the handle to open the front door, my hand slipped and it escaped. The glass and the door handle were coated in ice already. What was I doing? I guess I could get some work done here for a little while. Doughnut and coffee purchased, I found a tiny table in front of a large screen and opened up my computer. 

That large screen really was a distraction. Well, I could check my email, tidy up a few loose ends. Already, the question looming in the back of my mind was; "And THEN what?" By then, meaning in the next ten minutes, I would be on my way, roads salted and normal. Workers walked back and forth, doors opened and shelves were restocked. My focus was un-stellar. I did give a deal of thought to offering some sisterly advice to a woman with pretty blue eyes, a shy demeanor and a hairdo that looked like she had set it with her grandmother's rollers. It was a shame, it made her look an entire two generations older. But I desisted. 

I sought some other sort of meaningful work that could be done in the moment.

I checked and rechecked phone and computer screens for weather and road updates is what I did. Then I tried to write, but my mind was tizzied and on its way somewhere else, anywhere else, forward to Black Hawk County, still almost two hours away, or back home, three-quarters of an hour behind me with good road conditions.

I attempted the compiling of a pick-up order at the drug store. They had sent out a 20% off coupon for the day, probably in anticipation of absolutely no one in their right mind leaving home without a little incentive, but I could not think, beyond bandages, which we always need, what else we might conceivably require from this store to which one of us is constantly running. My brain was mush, or rather, very busy, calculating mush functioning with the single-mindedness of bacteria. Bacteria needs to reproduce, I needed to move. 

In the interim, the weather was on a roll, it was one enormous ball of freezing, frozen, awful stuff coming down in drops, sheets and droves. 

I could stand back and see that my attitude was silly. This was not so bad. There were no toddlers in diapers to change, children to keep in check, entertain, feed. I was alone and my time was my own. It was almost paradise, except for the distinct lack of exotic dancers, quality cuisine and beach view. 

I tried to make myself see reason. This is really quite fortunate, you can refill that coffee mug indefinitely and there is even a ladies' room right there. I went back to the counter for a snack. I purchased a gallon-sized bucket of soda and a square plastic bucket of potato salad, just the thing to boost one's moral, but when I turned back to my table, I was aghast, a couple had come in and stolen my spot. Just-off-highway robbery. The other table in this tiny haven was occupied by a truck driver who said he had been there for two days. His English was slightly lacking in clarity, but he did not appear to be going anywhere else.

I tried to leave again, maybe I would take the call in my car, appropriate background be damned for today.* But on the way out, I spied a half table and two stools up against the wall of the vestibule, although that is rather a grand word for the freezing cold space between two sets of doors, covered in small piles of green salt that served this function. I sat, soda, salad, straw and plastic fork. I could not see out the window because it was entirely covered in ice bumps. I scooped out a spoonful of the potatoes and tried it. Too cold. Too sweet. Might as well enjoy another doughnut instead.

I checked my phone again, idly, for the latest cloud movement. A break in the pattern? Could it be? Was it going to be big enough for me to get back home? Perhaps...I turned my phone sideways and upside down and in doing so, I noticed the time. I was out of this last. I could, if it was close, get to the library downtown. I thought it might be, but my famous sense of direction now failed me, so I had to check. It was a 6-minute drive. I had twenty-five. I dialed the number hoping...yes, they were open, yes, they could let me borrow a room for an hour. MERCI! 

I ditched the soda, tossed the potato salad on the floor of the passenger place and inched my way carefully to the library. The streets were covered in a hail-like mess, but not too slippery. The sidewalk proved to be more complicated, but again, there was a spot right in front of the library door, so the walk was brief. My mother always said that as I child, I was capable of the most daredevil climbing and other stunts, it was only in normal situations I ever injured myself. In my element on ice then, as it were.

The library welcome was warm and everyone was beyond kind. Downstairs in the children's department was a beautiful room we had once spent an afternoon as a family playing card games when a camping trip nearby had turned stormy and wet. (I wrote about it here.) Upstairs, a kind lady invited me to sit in a large room entirely surrounded in windows and reference books. I took my call in here, as stately a setting as any judge in her law library. I was offered a newspaper, any help needed and even, at the end of my long stay and much discussion, a library card. Of this last, I am pleased as punch. I have never had my own card in a town in which I do not live, it almost feels like an honorary degree in a college I never attended. Thanks, Maquoketa! Way to turn a bad day into an experience.

*In a remote (video) interpreting encounter, a professional interpreter will either have her video off, for simultaneous, or on, for consecutive, with a neutral (blank) background and excellent lighting. A steering wheel between your face and the camera makes a judge nervous and they may even stop the proceedings to inquire whether one is driving right now.

Adventures in Dixon, Illinois, after Racine, Wisconsin

"Travel" was not a verb but a necessity. The work was not where my home was, thus, I drove to where the work was to be found, a courthouse an hour away, an office two hours away. Always, always, the goal has been to get back home as soon as I possibly could. This year the number of hours spent driving intensified and the amount of hours my children were at home diminished. I became, in a word, less attached. 

With everyone either at work or in school, I have begun to look around a little more, enjoy the journey. After all, I am out anyway. That was very profound, I must say.

This week's pleasures were contained within a single trip. It was Mid-Eastern Iowa to Racine, Wisconsin, round trip in a day. I was somewhat concerned, with my husband out of town for the week, I did not like to be three and a half hours from home for any amount of time, but I was due back by late afternoon.

The day's dawn was uneventful although not without travail. I woke at 4:30 and left home before six with only tea in my mug, the coffee had run out. No matter, I would find a gas station with coffee later, now it was time to make tracks. Not literally, luckily, it was not snowing today. Eventually, I found myself among trees instead of shorn corn fields...the woods of Wisconsin. The sight of a forest always brings me joy. 

My arrival in the sweet town of Racine on schedule to allow for a glance at the water. I parked haphazardly in the empty marina lot and jumped out to greet Lake Michigan. The banks were snow-covered and the waves were fierce. 

 

What a sight. I have not been successful in posting a video here, but I have one up on Instagram, if you would like to see and hear. Why was I alone in the world to greet such magnificence? It was not the temperature, surely, we were in the midst of a February thaw and it was 45 if it was a degree. Complacency, habit, work, who knows? I reveled in the view and headed to the courthouse a few blocks uptown. 

Little did I know the adventures the rest of the day held in store. How could I have?

Presenting briefly, the Racine County Courthouse, designed by architects Holabird and Root, built in 1930. The sculptures are signed Carl Milles, the first commissioned works by the Swedish sculpture in the United States. I love the bronze details on the elevator doors, very Art Deco, close-up below. 

Once my work completed, I dashed back down to the lakeside and took a short stroll. The wind had picked up and was blowing up a gale. My, but it is lovely here. Leaving any body of water behind; ocean, lake, inlet, tears small holes in the part of my soul attached to loved ones and seasides.

Turning away, only then did I calculate where I would need to stop to make the next part of the day work out. I had a hearing over Zoom to complete for another court. This was feasible in any quiet place with a reliable internet connection and privacy. I counted the miles and chose a likely candidate, Dixon, and called their public library. A nice lady informed me that they did not have rooms, as it was a very small town in the middle of Illinois, but she always directed people to call "the Loveland Center" if they needed to reserve a space. "The address is 513 West Second Street, here is the phone number." I dialed tentatively, wondering just whom it was I was calling. Another kind person picked up the phone, acted as though it were perfectly normal for people to call out of the blue looking for a room for an hour and told me to stop on by, he'd be there until four. 

I was on my way, only, I had exactly two hours and thirty-five minutes until I needed to be set up in front of a screen and connected to this meeting. The best route, according to my map, was 141 miles and would take one hour and thirty minutes. I looked at the clock on my car, subtracted ten minutes, don't judge, that's how I keep the clock in my little jalopy, looked at my GPS and zipped. No stops, no dawdling, no running out of gas. I had to drive. 

A non-stop drive this long may not seem like much to North Americans, accustomed to road trips that look like a pilgrimage in French or German terms, and yet to me, it was momentous, because until around 2016, I was perfectly incapable of driving for any amount of time without falling asleep at the wheel. I am talking about a half-hour mini-trip to a park a town away with a car full of kids. I would pinch myself, drink water, splash myself with water, jab acupuncture points guaranteed to recreate zombies from the dead...nothing worked. 

One day, I had to somehow convey my derriere to Des Moines for my first-ever interpreting conference, and only because I just happened to need to visit the capitol to take an ethics exam to be granted certified status post-Illinois-certification. Yes, we all know that Iowa has different standards than anywhere else one might interpret from English into French and back again. Just look at our state's flag (same colors, same order, same direction as France's) and capitol: Des Moines (of the monks). Only, driving the almost three hours terrified me beyond belief. That's how I ended up with a giant, pink, Coach handbag. It was my neighbor's idea, really. 

She heard me fretting about the drive and told me, "you could cut it in two parts, using the outlet mall as a mid-point stop with things to do." I had never been to the outlet mall. Ooooo, shopping alone?! Say no more. I am not a shopper by nature, however, this whole "outlet mall" held appeal for thrifty me. And alone? With no one expecting me to look at that or hurry up or find the nearest ladies' room right now. I could do this. I did. The bag? I needed one large enough for dictionaries and legal pads, water bottle AND thermos, and it was 80% off and 10% off on top of that, just think!

And never once since that day have I had a problem driving and remaining conscious. But this was going to be a stretch. I usually had pp stops and snack stops and yarn shop stops. Not today. I drove straight through, and I arrived at the Loveland Community House and Museum as planned, ten minutes before the hearing.

A gentleman greeted me as I entered what was a beautiful stone and blond brick building. "You Angela?' reached me from somewhere behind a glass windowed space. The interior was darkened, even compared with the grey of the sky outside, and my eyes took a moment to focus. "Yes, thank you..." even before I finished answering, a man had appeared at my elbow and a door was swept open to reveal a large drawing room holding a board table, chairs, and a most astonishing array of objects in every corner. The golden day bed with a lace doily at the head first catches the eye as you enter, still gleaming in any light at all. "Take your coat off and make yourself comfortable," he said as he closed the double doors behind him and left me to get to business. Wow. 

The internet worked just fine, the call was connected, taken, ended, and I still had a minute to discover the remainder of the interesting artifacts in the room and hallway, the rest of the museum was closed for the day. Look!

I was still home early enough to cook dinner for the kids. They did the dishes. My kind of day.

Germany: Heidelberg

Here is the town that somewhat drew a line through my previous musings on architecture and national character. Of course, Mannheim was largely bombed and rebuilt, whereas Heidelberg retains much of its original 16th-19th century construction. It is cute, and full of tourists, consequently. First, there is a castle;

Germany: Mannheim...and Ponderings on Travel

Who we are affects how we travel. I had only thought of this in the broadest of terms, as, years ago, I firmly believed that travel (and reading) were the best ways to broaden one's horizons. Then I met the former owner of our first house at the signing of the final papers. He was someone who had lived abroad and had nothing nice to say of the native population of the countries he had been in. He was also vulgar, inconsiderate AND stole the ladder leading up to the upper story of the old granary in front of our noses. Pah.

Life in "La Vieille France" or The France of Yesteryear

I had a week...and then another week, and today I am writing from here; on the other side of France and on our way to Germany in a few hours. I am a make-believe countess for two days and a night, in the Chateau de Rigny, a magical, fairy-tale place to stay and visit. The kiddies are with Thierry's family, and we are on a big ol' road trip, starting with a 9-hour drive and a night here:

Mont-de-Marsan; our French Home, or Where are we?

A sweet little town of 30,000 people in the southwest of France; north of Spain, south of Bordeaux. The Atlantic ocean and beach is a 45-minute drive. We've had one memorable weekend there so far.

The important people here are our family members.

How to be a Good Tourist

Valentine's first comment as we looked around, a little dazed, a little lost, in Venice, was; "I hate looking like I'm a tourist."

Palazzo Ducale

This was the day we did our "official tourism"; first stop: The Doges Palace, or Palazzo Ducale in Place San Marco Square.

The Palazzo was built for the reigning duke, who was an elected official. His private apartments, as well as administrative space and all of the chambers where the various bodies of government met, were within the palace.The very first Doge of Venice was Doge Angelo Partecipazio

Venice; Favorites

Love the houses on the water:

Aaah...Venice

This was the year for the twelve-year-old trip of my third child, Valentine, the one with the most Italian name, and fittingly, she had her heart set on Venice. To Venice we went. There is nowhere quite like the very place you have dreamed of visiting and are now staying, especially if it happens to be a place like Venezia.

Paris; More

Someone took 743 photos on my new camera in Paris...maybe my photography-loving son who conned me into letting him hold onto it for me. Here is more of who, what and where; friends, family, food and places in Paris.

Paris!

Plane, 5 train/metros and 7 million steps later...we arrived at our destination, 7 of us and 6 suitcases. Our lovely aunt and uncle whom we had never met agreed to host our whole family for 3 days. Their car only has two seats, so we gratefully headed to their house on foot and metro.

How we got there:

Scary, super-full metro with suitcases:

Feeling Illiterate and Unsophisticated in Sweden

First leg of journey: Scandinavian Airlines from Chicago to Stockholm. Just after the 4-hour car trip to Chicago, with my kind, indulgent father driving the 7 of us.

Culture shock; a language, or several maybe, that I can neither understand nor speak; not even a word! The Swedish airline stewardesses speak fluent English, and take good care of us. And so many blond heads in a row. Clearly, I am a mere provincial who has barely traveled outside of my comfort zone; English, Romance languages, a tiny bit of German. To my left was a good-natured man from Estonia, who spoke a few words of English; just enough to reassure me that the five noisy kids to his right were not a worry.

Upon arrival at the airport in Stockholm, one quickly separates the Americans from the rest of the Europeans; we are dressed...like Americans, and they are dressed like chic, sleek and put-together fashion plates and do not look as though they had spent a single minute in flight. Ugh. 

The coolest play space ever was at this airport: Waldorfish-heaven. Here are some photos:

Packing, Panicking and Playing with a New Camera

The suitcases are all laid out, ready to reception the goods. My closet has been cleaned out, sorted into "bring, leave and get rid of." And here are a few shots with the new camera that commemorates what will perhaps be our last big family trip together. Departure in 4 days.

How to Pack for Two Months and Seven People

First, accept the fact that you are nuts. Then move on. You've done this before and you can handle it. Most likely. Well, maybe have a cup of coffee to wake up or a glass of wine to relax and then move on. I'm alternating between the two.

All of the Land of the Scots (not Scotch)

Our tour guide, on bus day, reminded the mostly foreign audience, that in Scotland, the people were known as Scots or Scottish, but not Scotch, that was a drink. But before bus day, here is what we did:

Day One: travel, leaving the house at 7:40am, driving to the airport in Bordeaux, first leg of journey to London, stop-over, then on to Edinburgh. We chose the bus option for the trip from airport to hotel (1.90 instead of 22.00, and darn, my keyboard will not do a pound sign, so US-centric of it), so it took a little while to get there. We arrived at the hotel, right in the center of Edinburgh, at 8:30 pm, which was 9:30pm in France.

With my love of different languages, I guess I always unconsciously chose destinations based on hearing a new language; first France, Germany, then Pays Basque in Spain (two languages!), Venice, and so on. Though I dreamed of visiting Ireland and Scotland, I think I felt they would be less exotic because, after all, they only speak English there. Too wrong! They speak Scottish English. When two Scots are speaking together, their secrets are safe from me! I love the language, enjoy the different expressions and ways of turning a phrase that is completely novel after nine years back in the US. Nothing is "small" or "little", it is all "wee". Nobody says "bonny" there anymore, but nobody says "watch out!" either; it is "mind your step" or leaving the train; "mind the gap." I heard one little boy say to his smaller brother (upon hitting the correct button for the elevator), "well done, William!" Ah, what a refreshing change from "good job" and in our family, arguments about who is going to push the button this time up!

So, after a snack in the hotel restaurant (Lily had mashed potatoes and hot chocolate, which the waiter thought was funny) we headed out to explore the neighborhood a wee bit. We went in the direction of the castle, but we seemed to hit a dead end, and everything looked like it might be a castle. There were bigger castles, smaller castles, fancy castles and massive castles. Not having found anything that definitely said "Edinburgh Castle", we thought we would go home and wait for daylight before trying again. We retired to our rooms and set to a little housekeeping.

First attempt to connect to civilization via my computer. After an hour or so of having paid for a connection that wasn't working and calling the help center, I was able to connect, but when I called home Pierre could not hear me, so I typed and he talked. The next day, when I hoped to send the first blog post, I was told all of my minutes had been used up, another $9 for more minutes? No, thank you. So, no posts from Scotland, even the library, when we finally found a minute to stop in, required a library card for wifi access and had a very limited space in which to use a laptop, besides which, the children's section was closed.

Day Two: Despite having finally gone to sleep around 11, we were both up and ready to go around 7:30 or so. Armed with our "stupid map" as it became known; just a very basic, free map of the city, we set out to locate Edinburgh Castle. We got directions, this time, and found it was necessary to go a ways around before an approach was possible. And it is simply massive. You can see it, if you look up, from just about anywhere in the city. We must have been very tired, indeed, to have missed it the night before.

We spotted our first men in kilts and heard our first bagpipes on the way to the castle. Of course, everyone wants to know if we had the occasion to find out what Scottish men wear under their kilts. To tell the truth, we met a number of dashing young Scots with charming accents and a glint in their eye, but none of them were wearing kilts, the other ones were.

It was a good thing we started out early; upon arriving, there was already a line, uh, sorry, a queue, formed, to get in. We queued with the rest of the people from all over the world and watched, amazed and grateful, as hundreds more lined up behind us before the castle even opened. Once it opened for the day, up the cobble-stoned paths we went to discover this famous landmark. The photos can do the rest of the talking.

Afternoon of Day Two: The Royal Botanical Gardens. A long walk across the city and worth every minute of it. Lily's choice, she loves botany and growing all things, the photos will show how spectacular it all was, and still not do it justice.

Day Three: We find our way to a palace we cannot pronounce the name of and that our concierge has never heard of, that does not appear on any train schedule, but Lily says we're to go. Linlithgow Palace, birthplace of Mary, Queen of Scots and of her father, James V.

Lily found out that one could take a train here and that it is only 15 miles away. We got directions and walked to the train station. Since there was a long line at the ticket booth and a self-serve machine without a line, we spent a moment trying to figure out how to buy tickets to Linlithgow by ourselves. We consulted every single train schedule there was, no Linlithgow. Did it really exist? We took a place in line and waited. Our patience was rewarded with a pleasant answer; there was a train every 10 minutes or so and children ride free, just as in London. I LIKE the UK! I knit on my socks as we watched the Scottish scenery roll past and listened to the teenage girls in front of us imitate American accents as they laughed uproariously.

We arrived in a tiny village, in the middle of nowhere, but along a loch. We asked for directions a couple of times and we were soon at the Palace. It is the ruin of a royal palace, built for pleasure as opposed to defense; hunting, fishing, dancing and eating is what would have happened at Linlithgow. The building is in good repair, it is a well-preserved ruin. This notion was explained to us by the guide on duty. Most ruins are almost naught but rubble, not because the elements have destroyed them over the years, but because the stones were stolen in order to build something else. After the departing British army "accidentally" set fire to the palace in the 1700s, a guard was placed on duty day and night to make sure the stones were not removed. Today one can walk the path along the loch below the castle and visit all of the nooks and crannies, both down three floors and up many flights of stairs to the towers, one of them is even open at the very top.

It was a very surreal experience, one could easily imagine oneself back many centuries. You would be near a raging fire to warm up after a long walk out on the shores of the loch in the rain and fog, as we were, or looking anxiously from the tower to see if the hunting party had returned or the ship carrying your husband. This was the most Scottish of days we had here, a close second to the Loch Ness for favorite.

Day Four: the bus tour. Spectacular scenery on our long drive through the Highlands, to Loch Ness and back again. It was really all one could wish for, except for maybe more time to explore everything, a couple of weeks, we were thinking. Time for hiking in the hills, climbing mountains, sailing the Loch, searching for Nessie...

Day Five: sadly and gladly, the return journey, good to be back, good to have gone.

 

Queen Mum's Memorial

This is a tiny memorial structure in the garden dedicated to the Queen Mum. The garden is fairly new, so the flowers are still growing there, but this memorial is marvelous; all shells and pine cones.