Wandering The World

The Beaches of PQB (Parksville and Qualicum Beach)… The Vancouver Island Adventure

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The beaches around Parksville and Qualicum Beach BC on Vancouver Island are crowded with tourists in the summer. In March they are just beautiful.

PQB, for short, is an ocean side resort located on the east coast of Vancouver Island two hours north of Victoria. The Parksville and Qualicum Beach website depicts it as Canada’s Riviera. Apparently the beaches are filled with frolicking visitors in the summer.

With temperatures ranging in the 40s and 50s during our stay, however, even the heartiest of sunbathers had found an excuse to be elsewhere. We were left with people-free pristine beaches that combined with the ocean and mountains to show off the areas natural beauty.

Another view of Qualicum Beach British Columbia.

We hooked up with our friends Ken and Leslie Lake at the Pacific Shores Resort just south of Parksville. The Lakes live near Sacramento, California and we have been sharing adventures for decades. Ken and I started out together leading 500-mile bike treks and 100-mile backpack treks in the 70s.

Pacific Shores is perched on the edge of Craig’s Bay. Our suite came with a balcony overlooking the Bay and a large Madrone overlooking the balcony. Except for the maid’s vacuum cleaner that insisted on eating the power cord for my MacBook Pro, we had a very pleasant stay.

An evening view from our balcony at Pacific Shores Resort looking out over Craig's Bay near Parksville, BC.

 

Having settled in we immediately began plotting our week. Peggy had met a very friendly couple from Qualicum Beach on our ferry ride from Port Angeles to Victoria who had outlined several must-do activities. We “absolutely” had to see the totem poles of Duncan, the murals of Chemainus and the goats of Coombs, who were apparently off making babies. There were also a couple of restaurants, Cathedral Grove, and Morning Star Farm. The farm is featured below.

Since Morning Star Farm in Qualicum Beach BC was close and known for its cheese and wines, we made it one of our first Visits.

 

The speed limit sign at Morning Star Farm was quite specific on punishment. We decided to obey.

 

Tooth picks poised, Ken, Leslie and Peggy prepare to sample Morning Star Farms excellent cheese. We bought enough to last for the week.

 

A tour of Morning Star Farm introduced us to several four-legged creatures including this horse and the llama featured below. There was also a cow having a calf which I chose not to photograph.

 

I simply can't resist photographing animals. This llama at Morning Star Farm was a natural.

 

Another view of the Llama at Morning Star Farm in Qualicum Beach, BC.

 

And a final view of the llama. My favorite. Note the large, soft dark eyes.

 

We added in trips to Campbell River and Port Alberni plus bought tickets for the musical “All Shook Up” playing at the Chemainus Theater Festival. We would not be bored. I have already blogged about Port Angeles, Duncan and Chemainus. My next blog will be on Coombs and its missing goats.

 

Our friends Ken and Leslie Lake. Ken had temporarily abandoned his SF Giants Baseball cap to "look more Canadian."

 

They say we gain character as we grow older. Or maybe we become characters. The jury is still out. I think this black and white photo of Ken Lake shows character.

Sunny Puerto Vallarta

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Beautiful sunsets are frequent in Puerto Vallarta. Throw in a palm tree and you have a post card type photo. This shot is looking south across the Bay of Bandaras toward the small village of Yalapa.

OK, I’ve been bad. Six weeks of travel before Christmas brought my blogging to a halt. I resolve to be better during 2012. In fact, other than the often-promised, rarely-achieved resolution of beating my body into shape, it is my only New Year’s resolution.

Puerto Vallarta is up first for 2012. With dire warnings of drug wars from friends and family, we spent two of our six weeks of pre-Christmas travel there. All we saw related to the wars were young soldiers armed with automatic weapons wandering through the hotel property. It was enough.

Our three-year-old grandson Cody loaded his imaginary machine gun and fired off rounds at them. It dismayed his mother and amused us.

Peggy loves Puerto Vallarta. I like it much better since the ubiquitous and obnoxious time-share salesmen have, at least temporarily, disappeared from the streets. If you want a perspective, imagine ten used car salesmen per block, each dedicated to selling you an over priced used car you are expected to share with 50 other families.

The town has been a major attraction for Americans ever since Richard Burton and Elizabeth Tailor filmed Night of the Iguana there in 1963. Taylor’s extramarital affaire with Burton guaranteed massive media coverage and the beginning of the tourist trek southward.

Puerto Vallarta makes its living off tourists. This becomes particularly obvious on days when the massive cruise ships are in town. Still, the city has its charm.

I am particularly fond of the Isla Rio Cuale and the Malecon, a downtown walkway that fronts on the ocean and is filled with sculptures. Sunsets on the Bay of Bandaras are also worthy of mention.

Shopping can be fun; a number of fine crafted items are for sale plus there are the usual Mexican crafts. The latter are found in abundance at the port and the downtown Market. Bargaining is expected. Prices are increased to account for the practice. Tourists feel they have driven a hard bargain and shop owners walk away with a profit.

Taking a river taxi to small village of Yalapa south of Puerto Vallarta provides both diversion and a small adventure. We saw blue whales and dolphins on our way there this year.

Peggy and I visit Puerto Vallarta every other year for one to two weeks. The following photos hopefully capture what we like about the city and its environs.

Puerto Vallarta has done an excellent job of placing sculptures along the Malecon, an attractive car-free walk-way that fronts the Bay of Bandaras downtown.

Another attractive downtown Puerto Vallarta site is Our Lady of Guadalupe Church of and its unique tower.

I shot this photo of pigeons in flight at a small town square.

The young Cody who fired his imaginary machine gun at the Mexican soldiers prepares to fire a very real water gun at me as I am catching a nap. Both his mother and grandmother were encouraging this reprehensible behavior.

Quaint streets and walkways make a walking tour of Gringo Gulch a must. This is where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton lived when they were filming the Night Of the Iguana and had their notorious affaire.

Peggy and I were at a restaurant called Tapas in Gringo Gulch with our friends Tom and Beth Lovering when we found this great parody of the Marilyn Monroe photo. I was particularly taken with it because it resembled one of the holiday cards I design and draw for friends and family each year. It's featured below. I am sure you will spot the resemblance.

What can I say? Happy New Year?

There are lots of great beaches in Puerto Vallarta but be prepared to be visited by a steady stream of vendors. They come with the territory.

The Public Market next to the Rio Cuale is filled (brimming over) with small shops featuring Mexican Crafts and inexpensive local restaurants. We also found this attractive lady skeleton that Peggy is matching smiles with.

Restaurants, a museum, crafts and arts are featured on the island located in the middle of the Rio Cuale. We also found this intriguing sculpture.

Restaurants, a museum, crafts and arts are featured on the island located in the middle of the Rio Cuale. We also found this intriguing sculpture/fountain.

My friend Tom Lovering can't imagine why anyone would go to Sr. Frogs with so many good local restaurants in Puerto Vallarta but I managed to get him to pose with the frog.

Peggy took this photo of a rather attractive wood canoe on the beach. Note how it has been carved from one log.

I took this photo of Mexican crafts at the small village of Yalapa which is south of Puerto Vallarta and can only be reached by water. I love the bright colors and can't resist the small boggle-head creatures, in this case, turtles.

The Old Church B&B, a Ghost, and a Lonely Grave: Part III

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An early sketch of John Brown the Martyr of Priesthill Scotland being shot down by Bloody Clavers.

An early sketch of John Brown the Martyr of Priesthill Scotland being shot down by Bloody Clavers.

THE LONELY GRAVE

I first heard of John Brown the Martyr of Priesthill in the late 60s.

My dad arrived home from a reunion with a family tree that traced a branch of our family back to the martyr. Given the staunch Presbyterian leanings of the ancestral Mekemsons, it was an important connection.

My Great, Great, Great Grand Father, James Mekemson, married Mary Brown Laughhead Findlay. (Mary had already seen two husbands die.) John Brown was five generations up the line.

The story of John Brown’s murder verges on legend. He was, as the saying goes, a Covenanter’s Covenanter, a very devout man. Reverend Alexander Peden, one of the top leaders of the Covenanter Movement, described him as “a clear shining light, the greatest Christian I ever conversed with.” High praise indeed; the type you reserve for a man who is killed for your cause.

They say that Brown would have been a great preacher, except he stuttered. Leading Covenanters visited his home and secret church services were held there. Important meetings took place.

Alexander Peden stayed at his house the night before Brown earned his martyrdom and warned of dark times. Peden was something of a prophet when it came to predicting dire events. This time he was right.

Brown was out gathering peat with his nephew the next morning when soldiers led by John Graham of Claverhouse appeared out of the mist and captured him. The date was May 2, 1685.

Claverhouse, or Bloody Clavers as the early Presbyterians identified him, was the King’s go-to man when it came to eliminating Covenanters. He was not noted for his compassion.

He took Brown back to his home and demanded that he swear an oath to the King in front of his wife and children. Brown started praying instead. The legend states that Claverhouse ordered his soldiers to kill Brown but they refused. So he took out his own pistol and shot him in the head in front of his family.

The story then goes on to describe how Brown’s wife, Isabel Weir, went about the yard collecting pieces of her husband’s brain. (I don’t mean to treat this lightly, but somehow I can’t help thinking about a TV episode of Bones.)

The family eventually escaped to Ireland and then moved on to North America where it settled in Paxtang, Pennsylvania.

This shot of Peggy captures the isolation of John Brown's Grave, the white speck on the upper left of the photo.

John Brown’s appearance on our family chart in 1969 immediately caught my attention. Not too many families can claim a certified martyr. When I became serious about genealogy three years ago, I determined I would go to Scotland and find his grave.

Our arrival at the Priesthill Farm with its disappearing woman meant that we were near. A faded sign pointed off to the right. The fine print suggested we would find the grave in a mile. We went wandering out across the grass-covered hills, following a muddy path that was minimally marked.

We were beginning to despair about out chosen route when we crested a hill and spotted the lonely grave in the distance with only sheep for company. We hiked down the slope, jumped a small creek, and arrived. After paying proper homage to the martyr we climbed above the grave to where he had lived. Only a few stones marked the site. Peggy photographed me standing in his house, near where he had been shot down on that misty morning in 1685.

Looking down on John Brown's Grave.

I am standing on a rock that may have been part of John Brown's home, only feet away from where he would have been shot.

Our ‘pilgrimage’ completed, we left Muirkirk and drove east to Dumfries where I visited the local genealogical center. The next day we returned our car to Edinburgh and took the train to London. Our visit to England and Scotland was over. Between our visit to Chatsworth, adventure on the narrow boat canal, exploration of Edinburgh, tour of southwestern Scotland and search for ancestors, we had a full three weeks. We we had enjoyed the Midlands of England, we fell in love with Scotland. We’ll be back.

Next Blog: Back to the wild west… There’s a beaver standing on my tent.

The River Nith flowing through the heart of Dumfries.

A final view of southwestern Scotland.

The Old Church B&B, a Ghost, and a Lonely Grave: Part II

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A ram we passed on our way into Priesthill. Nothing ghostly about him.

THE GHOST

Here’s today’s question: Do you believe in ghosts?

My childhood experience of growing up with a graveyard next to our house introduced me to ghosts. They were worrisome but mainly a product of my young imagination. My sister Nancy, on the other hand, believed in them one hundred percent. (See my blog “Mr. Fitzgerald Is Dead” under Misadventures.)

The visit Peggy and I made to Fort Mifflin, Pennsylvania last fall looking for information on the two Mekemson boys who died there during the Revolutionary War provided another experience. Scary! Did something really blow out the hurricane lantern leaving us alone in the dark? (Check out “The Mekemson Ghosts of Fort Mifflin” in Looking for Dead People.)

My first actual sighting of a ghost would wait for Priesthill, however. Maybe. Ghosts tend to be, um, Ghostly.

Priesthill is an old Scottish sheep ranch, dating back to at least the 1600s. This was the time when Scottish Covenanters had gone ‘off the grid’ with their Presbyterian Church and held services out in the open fields hidden away from the prying eyes of the English King and his henchmen. Armed men were posted around the perimeter in case the soldiers came.

Getting caught wasn’t much fun. You could lose your sheep, your cattle, your land and your life. You might find your body quartered and hung up in various communities to provide an example of why you should be a good Anglican.

Priesthill was one of the remote sites where the hidden services were held. To get there we drove north on the road in front of our B&B (the Old Church B&B in Muirkirk, Scotland) for a couple of miles and picked up a dirt road snaking off to the right through a sheep farm.

The road seemed to go on and on; recent rains had turned it into a muddy mess. Our brand new Mercedes rental car bounced along dodging sheep and accumulating glue-like mud mixed with sheep dung. It was still on the car when we returned it to Edinburgh.

Finally the old farmhouse came into sight. A woman was standing on a porch enclosed by a three-foot high rock wall. Since we would be walking through her property in search of John Brown’s grave, I got out to talk with her.

But she did something strange. She disappeared. Now this was strange in two ways. Obviously she didn’t want to talk with us. She turned her back and walked rapidly toward the door.  OK, I could live with that even though we had found most Scots to be friendly and helpful. Possibly she was shy.

What bothered me more was she sank.

It was like she was traveling down an escalator or open elevator. Her head disappeared beneath the stonewall before she reached the door. I did not see her go inside.

“Maybe there are steps down to an underground cellar,” I thought. Or maybe she merely bent over to work on a flower garden. Curiosity got the better of me. I walked over. There was no woman; there were no flowers; there were no stairs. As far as I could see the floor of the porch was solid stone.

I asked Peggy, “Did you see that woman disappear?”

“She went inside,” my logical wife explained.

“Ah,” I said and put the matter out of my mind. Or tried to, it kept nibbling away at me. A couple of days later I asked Peggy if she had seen the woman appear to sink into the porch.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Did you actually see her go in the house?”

“No,” was the answer.

So I rest my case for a possible ghost… or optical illusion. The owners of Old Church B&B know the owners of the the property. Maybe they can find an answer.

Saturday: Part III, A Lonely Grave

The Old Church B&B, a Ghost, and a Lonely Grave: Part I

/ Curt Mekemson / 1 Comment

The Old Church B&B in Muirkirk, Scotland. The two upper windows provided our suite with a pleasant view of the town, countryside and rain. Note the plants growing on top.

Part One: THE CHURCH

Have you ever slept in a church? I mean seriously. Nodding off during a two-hour sermon doesn’t count.

Peggy and I had the experience in Muirkirk, a small community in southwest Scotland east of Ayr.  We were in town searching for the grave of my earliest known ancestor on my father’s side, John Brown the Martyr of Priesthill.

I picked the Old Church B&B off the Internet because it was located three miles from where Brown was shot down by ‘Bloody’ Clavers, the bane of Covenanters. But more on that later…

David greeted us at the door. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I felt he had a slight elvish quality, or is that impish?

What we weren’t expecting was how delightful our stay at the B&B would be. Total credit goes to the owners, David and Lesley Martin. (And, I might add, their children.) The Bread and Breakfast began its life as a church in 1873 and maintained that occupation up until its retirement in 1965.

David and Lesley bought the church in 2004 and set out to remodel it into the present B&B. (David still feels guilty about eliminating the pigeons that called the vacant building home.)

The Martins did a superb job on their remodeling effort; it’s called paying attention to detail. Each room is carefully thought out. Artwork, much of it painted by Lesley, adorns the walls. Furniture begs to be occupied. A wood stove provides crackling heat in the sitting room, a fact we truly appreciated during the cold rainy day we spent in Muirkirk. And the kitchen/dining room is right out of Sunset Magazine.

The inviting bed in our suite.

A serious cook's stove, with which Lesley whips up full Scottish Breakfasts and bakes mouth-watering bread.

But what really made the stay a joy was the warm friendliness of David and Lesley. David is a font of information on all things Scottish. I asked him about the Scottish independence movement, an event that has been evolving for over a thousand years. An hour later he had completed his dissertation. I’m not sure he stopped for breath. He’s for it.

Lesley runs an international bread baking school out of the B&B. That’s a twist. And a benefit for guests! We got freshly baked cookies when we arrived. Twice Lesley sent hot bread straight out of the oven to our room, along with several ounces of butter. Be still my pounding heart. Then there was the full Scottish breakfast she cooked up and David served.

Our one night stay turned into a two-night stay. The bottom line: if you find yourself anywhere in southwest Scotland, put the Old Church B&B on your itinerary.

A final note : Lesley commented on my last blog that I have been misspelling Edinburgh. My apologies to the fine people of Scotland. I shall reform.

Thursday’s Blog: The Ghost

Knick knacks, canned fruit, and a genuine feel of home.

Was Great G’Ma Reincarnated as a Shetland Pony? The Road from Wigtown to Kirkcolm…

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When we arrived in Kirkcolm Scotland, the ancestral home of my Great Grandmother, a Shetland Pony dashed over to the fence. I couldn't help but wonder if Great G'Ma had been reincarnated and was delighted to see us. Either that or the horse thought I was good for an apple.

The bookstores in Wigtown were closed when we arrived on Sunday morning. Good thing. Our small house is already crammed with bookshelves stuffed with books. Plus our suitcases were bursting at the seams.

Not that an exploding suitcase would have stopped us. We’ve never met a bookstore we could resist.

The locked up stores were disappointing, though. Wigtown is billed as Scotland’s National Book Town. My brochure listed 13 bookstores in the small 4-block community. We had been prepared to gorge ourselves on the printed page. The dead ancestors could wait.

Peggy stands in front of one of Wigtown's many bookstores. I liked the creative use of books as an entry way.

We were looking longingly at books through a window when a taxi drove up. Out jumped the driver.

“Welcome to Wigtown,” he greeted us. “I’ll open the door for you.

“Wow,” I thought to myself. “Here’s a service I’ve never seen a taxi driver offer before.”

As it turned out, he owned the bookstore and Wigtown’s only taxi. While customers browsed, he ran around picking up fares. “Hard to make ends meet with only a bookstore,” he told us. Peggy and I bought six books to keep his kids from starving.

Naturally we had to stop by the town’s graveyard. While Peggy busied herself reading book length tombstones, I checked out the martyred Presbyterians. Two had been staked out in the mudflats so the flood tide would drown them: a slow, terrible way to go.

A standard sized tombstone in Wigtown

The king and his agents were infinitely creative when it came to reducing the population of Covenanters. But there is a thing about Martyrs; they hang around for a long time reminding people how bad their persecutors were.

4000 years ago a different religion held sway in the region. Druids were the priests of the day and mistletoe was the ‘in’ thing. Lining up huge stones in circles kept folks off of the unemployment rolls. Stonehenge is just one of numerous examples.

Outside of Wigtown we came across one of the early sites. I almost got a hernia thinking about what it would take to move the rocks. Some cows gathered to see if I was going to test my manhood. I refused. Instead I photographed the cows and the local scenery.

The stones of the Torhouse Stone Circle.

The cows.

And the scenery: stone fences, Scotch Broom and the green, green grass of Scotland.

Kirkcolm is the ancestral home of my Great Grandmother, Jannette McRoberts Thomson Mekemson. A wild-eyed Shetland pony dashed over to greet us when we parked at the lower end of town. “Maybe,” I thought, “Great G’ma has been reincarnated as a horse and is excited to see me.

Or maybe the pony thought I was good for an apple.

Peggy and I took a leisurely ten-minute stroll from one end of the town to the other. The houses were neat and colorfully painted. I would have been happy to spend the day, or a week.  The clock was ticking, however, and we had miles to go to our next destination.

The colorful, neat homes of Kirkcolm, Scotland.

Another example of colorful Kirkcolm Scotland. Note the flowers behind the blinds.

First we took a quick detour across the peninsula following narrow roads to where Jannette’s father had been born. Then we headed on for Muirkirk, the Old Church B&B, a possible ghost, and the lonely grave of my Great Grandfather to the eighth, John Brown the Martyr.

The narrow road through Dhuloch farm in Southwest Scotland. The early 1800's home of Samuel Melvin Thomson, my Great Grandmother's father.

How in the Heck Do You Pronounce Kirkcudbright?

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St. Cuthbert's Cemetery, Kirkcudbright. Searching for dead ancestors includes spending lots of time in graveyards. Note the size of the tombstones. They are filled with writing memorializing family members.

The second day of our Southwestern Scotland tour took us into Kirkcudbright on the River Dee. Once again I was on the trail of dead ancestors…

But first, just how do you pronounce Kirkcudbright? I think it’s a test Scots give to unsuspecting tourists. If you come up with kir-COO-bree and not kirk-cud-bright, you get a gold star.

Kirk, by the way, is a Scottish Church. Cudbright is a reference to Saint Cuthbert, an early luminary of Scotland who is rumored to have said his prayers while standing naked submerged in the ocean.

Why do saints do things like that?

Afterwards, sea otters were supposed to drop by and warm him up. Hmmm.

On our way to Kirkcudbright from Creetown, we stopped by Carsluith Castle where we bought the best, smoked salmon and Brie cheese I have ever had and Peggy posed as Princess. She has a thing for castles. It may be hereditary. Whenever we visit her mom, Helen declares, “The Queen does not cook.”

Carsluith Castle and the Marrbury Smokehouse where we bought delicious smoked salmon and Brie Cheese.

Princess Peggy looking out the window of Carsluith Castle smiles at the mere mortal taking her photo.

Kirkcudbright is a very attractive community. McClelland Castle dominates the town. Our brochure suggested that Robert McClelland of Kirkcudbright built the castle for conspicuous consumption as well as protection in the late 1500s when there was a slight break in Scotland’s bloody history.

McClelland Castle, Kirkcudbright, as it looks today.

An inside view of McClelland Castle. Note the thickness of the walls.

By the mid 1600s the castle was on its way downhill, a victim of the commitment of the Lord’s of Kirkcudbright 2 and 3 to the Covenanter Movement. The Covenanters were serious Presbyterians who firmly believed that Jesus Christ, not the King of England, was the rightful head of their church.

The King didn’t approve. Consequently, there were lots of Covenanter Martyrs, including at least one of my ancestors, John Brown of Priesthill. You will meet John in a later blog.

McClelland could have been a distant relative as well (or not) since Browns and McClellands hooked up in the America of the 1700s. All I have to go on is the strong bond between Covenanter leaders that seemed to transfer to early America.

Peggy, on the other hand, had definite Kirkcudbright ancestors, the Kevans. I suggested possibly they worked as servants for the McClellands and got in trouble (grin). Turns out the Kevan/Cavan family was quite prominent in Kirkcudbright’s history.

Peggy and I dutifully did a walking tour of the town under cloudy skies threatening rain. Highlights included the Tollbooth, an eclectic museum, a Celtic cross and the town in general.

The Tollbooth was once responsible for collecting taxes and serving as a jail for Covenanters and witches. It now serves as an art center.  The museum brought us up to date on just about everything of importance to Kirkcudbright including the towns relationship to John Paul Jones, a native of Scotland and a slave trader before he joined the American Revolution.

The Kirkcudbright Tollbooth which once served as a tax collection center and jail. It now serves as an art center and recognizes Kirkcudbright's commitment to the arts.

Kirkcudbright's Celtic Cross

A walkway off of High Street, Kirkcudbright. We often found these intriguing paths filled with flowers and even art work off of main streets in Scotland's towns and villages.

This 'take the pledge' bowl we found in the Kirkcudbright Museum amused me. I suspect my Scottish Grandmother would have approved.

I was also amused by this gargoyle like cat-man we found over an arch near McClelland Castle. The flowers added a nice touch. I suspect cat man's job was to frighten off evil spirits.

What photographer can resist a picturesque cottage?

Having sated our desire to see Kirkcudbright we headed back to Creetown. Next blog we visit Wigtown, Scotland’s bookstore center, stop by an ancient druid monument, and visit the birthplace of my Great Grandmother, the colorful village of Kirkcolm.

We found this pretty flower box attached to a house in Creetown.

How to Get Lost in Scotland

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The Southern Highlands of southwest Scotland are both impressive and beautiful. "Lowlands" don't create waterfalls like these between Thornhill and Moniaive on Highway A 702.

Years ago my father told me that our family came from southwestern Scotland. I was mildly disgruntled. It would make me a Lowland Scot. I wanted to be a Highland Scot, a man of the mountains.

I have just completed a tour of southwest Scotland and I’ve changed my mind. The Southern Highlands produce some quite respectable mountains, or at least high hills, thank you very much.

And the whole area is beautiful.

We started our tour with a day in Edinburgh. Peggy and I, along with her sister Jane and husband Jim, took the train up from Long Eaton, England where we had just completed the narrow boat tour on the Trent and Mersey Canal I wrote about in my last blog.

While Peggy, Jane and Jim explored the city, I worked out our tentative Scotland itinerary. Having travelled a lot, I like to keep my plans flexible. Opportunity may knock.

While I worked on planning our itinerary, Peggy, Jim and Jane did a tour of Edinburgh. This was their tour bus. Could it be more garish?

Edinburg has a lot to offer in sights, however, as this view of Edinburgh Castle suggests.

A cannon view of the Walter Scott Monument looking down from Edinburgh Castle. The writer Walter Scott and poet Robert Burns are highly honored as national heroes in Scotland.

A final view of Edinburgh looking up toward the Nelson Monument (on the left) from Waverley Station. We took the photo while picking up our rental car. Not many parking lots can claim such scenery.

The next day was a parting of the ways. We taxied together to Waverly Station where Jane and Jim had booked a train to London and Peggy and I had reserved a rental car. Quite to our surprise, the rental agency had upgraded us to a brand new Mercedes with a total of two miles on the odometer.

Peggy behind the wheel of our brand new Mercedes rental car. Note both hands grip the steering wheel and Peggy looks slightly wild-eyed as she chants her Scotland driving mantra... left, left, left.

New car or not, I do not recommend left-hand-side-of-the-road driver training in Edinburgh. To start with, the traffic sucks (bad word but applicable). Even more irksome, street names seem to change every block or so. And then there are roundabouts to master. A wrong turn can mean serious dislocation.

Peggy was the driver and I was the navigator. I am happy to report that one of us performed like a pro. Peggy was unflappable.

I, on the other hand, had us hopelessly lost in five minutes. In my defense, the car rental agency had given us two routes out. Both were blocked by construction. By the time we managed to work around street blockades, we had gone beyond the ability of my two downtown tourist maps to save us.

All I could recommend was full speed ahead and damn the double-deckers. An hour later we actually found the road I had intended to have us on in five minutes. Ten minutes later we were admiring the countryside.

A view of the country just outside of Edinburgh on Highway A 702. The square stones in the front of the fence were likely part of/or recycled from an old structure. The yellow flowers are Scotch Broom. Appropriately, I might add. We were to see lots of it.

Our first day’s goal was the small community of Creetown on the Wigtown Bay. Google informed me the trip was 110 miles and would take 2 hours and 47 minutes. But Google hadn’t planned for my extensive tour of Edinburgh, or the detour I took out of Moniaive. I missed a jog left.

Our ample two-lane road became a narrow two-lane road and then a one-lane road with passing pullouts, and then a bumpy one-lane road filled with sheep that behaved like they hadn’t seen a car in months. Maybe they hadn’t…

These two fellows pretty much dominated our bumpy single-lane road, and wondered what we were doing on it.

While we were waiting for our two road companions to decide whether they would bother to move, I took a photo of this fluffy guy. I think he was trying to decide if he should charge.

All’s well that ends well, however. Six hours after leaving Waverly Station we arrived at our B&B in Creetown, the Ellangowan Hotel. It was time for a pint. (Next blog: How in the heck do you pronounce Kirkcudbright?)

Our first nights lodging in the small community of Creetown. Peggy was impressed by our canopy bed that featured lace curtains. I was more impressed with the bar that featured fine Scottish Ale and Indian Curry. Of special note: Most restaurants/pubs we visited in England and Scotland featured at least one Indian dish. Given my love of hot curries, I was one happy camper.

From Tulips to Lions… The Impressive Chatsworth House

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The rainy view from our windows in the Old Church B&B in Muirkirk, Scotland. Note the shape of the windows. I suspect they were once filled with stained glass.

It’s a cold, stormy day in Muirkirk Scotland. Peggy and I are hiding out from the weather in the Old Church B&B. As the name suggests, it is indeed an old church that has been converted to a bed and breakfast. I am feeling quite holy.

Sheets of rain are pounding against our windows. The accommodations are spacious, the food great, and the owners, David and Leslie, quite humorous. It’s a great place to hang out for a day and catch up on my blog.

We are now in our final week of a three-week tour of Midlands England and Southwestern Scotland. Peggy’s sister, Jane Hagedorn and her husband Jim, joined us for the first part of the journey.

Jane is into everything English, particularly if it has a garden attached. So our first stop was at Chatsworth House and Gardens, the estate of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. It is located ten miles from Chesterfield, where we stayed our first two nights.

Chesterfield's most famous view, the Crooked Spire. Our taxi driver told us that the legend was the spire would straighten our when a virgin was found in Chesterfield. Given that the church dates back several hundred years, apparently virgins are a rare item.

Chatsworth House and Gardens: Think big, think impressive, think money… and think thousands of peasants helping to support it over the centuries. The house and property date back to the 1500s.

Tulips were the flower of the hour in the gardens. We found them everywhere and in every shape and color. But there were also many other types of posies, sculptures, waterfalls, ducks and gardeners. There was even a maze that Peggy and Jane eventually conquered.

Tulips...

Peggy and Peonies.

This gate was one of my favorite sculptures.

As for the ‘house,’ it is packed with treasures. How often do you walk through someone’s home and come across a Rembrandt?

The various Dukes and Duchesses were collectors… almost to the point of being pack rats, gathering bright shiny baubles from throughout the Empire. Apparently it was verboten to collect what your ancestors did. The result is a museum of miscellany, well worth the price of admission.

This rather impressive lion was one of what I estimate to be 395,281 items packed into the house... but it's a rough estimate.