Last time we spoke, I was in Glasgow enjoying the Doc Martens, cool graveyards, and obscure rock concerts.
But aren’t you supposed to be doing a ~religious~ fellowship, Carine?
Oh don’t you worry, because my next stop was Largs, where I stayed in a Benedictine monastery.
Largs: The Benedictine Sisters
I got onto the train in Glasgow to get to Largs, a bit uneasy. For one it was pouring rain (shocker, rain in Scotland!?) and I was folding under the weight of my backpack (sweaters are heavy guys).
Teenage mutant ninja turtle on the move
But I was mostly uneasy because I knew that visiting Largs meant being alone again. And not go-crazy-and-feel-lonely alone, but forced-to-reflect-and-think alone. Lots had happened to me in the past months: the Camino, my misadventures in London, and all the rest of it. Now it was time to take stock, especially as my trip back to Boston was looming in early November (hi friends I’m coming back!!!!).
But as soon as I got to Largs, I started feeling hopeful. The sun came out (a miracle in Scotland)! And I got off the train (having done little to no research about what Largs looked like) and was pleasantly surprised by a gorgeous coastal town, surrounded by rolling hills and little islands in the bay. It was so freaking cute.
I walked along the ocean to get to the Benedictine monastery where I would be staying. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by the biggest smile from Mother Prioress. She showed me around the chapel, the common areas, and to my beautiful little room, overlooking the ocean. (Again, I always expect religious visits to be austere and then I get three hot meals, my own room, and an ocean view…).
Honestly it was a bit difficult to adjust back to being in a religious community. The last time I was with nuns was in France two months ago. And while the Camino was certainly a religious experience, it wasn’t as solitary. When you’re in a monastery, you spend a lot of time in silence and in prayer. Benedictines pray seven times a day and visitors are welcome to join in as much or as little as they would like. I ended up spending my days attending some of these sessions while exploring Largs and its islands for the rest of the day.
I asked Mother Prioress about places to visit while I’m in Largs. She mentioned some of the hikes in the area but then caught me off guard when she said: “that’s where our visitors like to go…I can’t leave unless it’s for groceries, so I’m not sure.”
Benedictines are cloistered, meaning they can’t leave the confines of the monastery. I did see and briefly chat with the sisters when they delivered our meals to the dining room, but other than that, I only saw them at different intervals of prayer behind the metal gate that separated the congregation from the altar.
I struggled with this reality: the sisters live in this gorgeous area but don't even get to see it.
At first glance, you’d think them trapped. The gate in the chapel, the rules of cloister, their confinement to the monastery. But no, I’ve come to see this differently. Like I’ve noticed at every convent/abbey/monastery: they seem to be perfectly content…they’re at peace.
First of all, the “rules” they live by are a choice. They’ve taken vows to live among their sisters and with Christ. They’re chosen to sacrifice taking the ferry to the islands and walking along sheep pastures behind the monastery.
And why?
They have a deep, deep sense of purpose. Their mission is to pray, welcome visitors, and serve God and the Church. They live for others. In all the religious communities I’ve visited all over Europe, I’ve seen just how fulfilling this can be.
Nuns are the happiest people I’ve ever met.
You might be sitting there saying: “well we can’t all be saints.” I totally feel the same way, I can’t believe their strength and discipline. But their sacrifice — their cloister — is also an advantage. While they’ve given up certain pleasures of “regular life” on the outside, they’ve also separated themselves from the greed, stress, and busyness that we all face. They boil life down to the most basic: prayer, service, and friendship among themselves.
The sisters have taught me that to be a really good person, you have to be really disciplined. It’s easy to slip into bad habits, to fall prey to the pressures around you. You also need discipline for peace. Coming back to Largs reminded me that regular, even scheduled prayer/reflection/mediation/whatever floats your damn boat is an important part of not only faith, but also stability.
On my first day in Largs, I went on a “hike” (walk) around Knock Hill, a loop that goes through farms and ends with a sweeping view of the ocean.
Scotland has supernatural lighting. I’m no healing-crystals-and-sage kind of girl, but there is a special energy to the place. Not just in Largs, but everywhere I went.
^^ I mean c’mon!!!
I spent another day on the island of Cumbrae, just a five minute ferry ride across the harbor. When I got there, I rented a bike and did the ten mile loop around the island.
Oban: Solo Travelers and Pub Trivia
After Largs I decided to go to Oban. Honestly, I had never heard of it until the Camino. I met a Scottish couple, Paula and Rob, who mentioned that there was a great youth hostel and some nice day hikes. These days, that’s more than enough info for me.
So I just up and went to Oban, with the intention of spending the day then taking the ferry and a bus to Iona, a Catholic pilgrimage site in the Hebrides.
So I get there all excited to see the tiny island and maybe sleep there for a night. Welllllll turns out that public transportation doesn’t run on the ~Sabbath~ in western Scotland so I found myself stuck at the Oban youth hostel for three days.
But as so often happens with travel, your little mistakes turn into nice adventures.
When I got to Oban (train from Largs to Glasgow then train up to Oban), I walked into a rainy, but beautiful coastal village facing the Hebrides. To be honest, I didn’t even know I was going to the Hebrides. But hey! I made it to the Hebrides everyone!
I walked through the rain to Oban Backpackers and walked into a solo traveler’s dream: a cozy common room filled with other solo travelers…and free tea and coffee. It was wild, everyone there was in the same boat: on the road for months (and even years) and totally open to just hanging around and swapping stories.
One guy had been biking around Europe on a tandem bicycle for a few months. Another guy (had to be in his late 60s) sails around the world and stops wherever he wants. He often stops in the Hebrides and takes fellow solo travelers out whale watching (I got an invite for the spring! And I think I’m going to go!). There was a couple from Colorado traveling from hostel to hostel throughout Scotland, volunteering in exchange for room and board. And then there was me!
We were all immediately at ease with each other, sharing food, drinks, and stories from the get-go. When you’ve been traveling alone for so long, when you meet people in a similar situation, you skip all the initial stages of getting to know each other and dive straight into deeper conversations.
These situations forge an odd kind of friendship. You allow the bond to be very strong, all the while knowing you’ll probably never see these people again. It’s a silent agreement: be good company but accept that the next day, you might be gone.
I ended up spending a lot of time with my fellow vagabonds. One night we all sat by the fire and shared drinks and stories. I played pool with Derrick, the guy who is sailing around the world. He started traveling at 17 and hasn’t stopped for over forty years. The next night, we all went out to the local pub and luckily coincided with trivia night.
It was a blast. Some of us had just met twenty minutes ago, but we all laughed over some of the most ridiculous Halloween questions, sang together with the locals over our pints of Guinness, and ended the night dancing with a group of drunk moms at the back of the bar.
I’m really grateful for those small connections, everywhere I go. The little moments with strangers always come at the right time: when I’m feeling lonely or when I just want to laugh with someone else. And I guess these solo travelers also feel the same way.
Despite being “stuck” in Oban, I certainly made the most of it. One of the coolest things I did was take the ferry over to Kerrera. After a morning scone (the Scottish excel at carbs, see below), I walked an hour along coastal cliffs to a tiny dock and bought my tickets on the suspicious-looking dingy that would take me across the little channel.
Five minutes later, we docked in Kerrera. Though only minutes from the mainland, I felt like I was transported back in time. It was dotted with sheep and cows, hidden among the rolling hills on the island.
I spent about an hour wandering around the fields and hills. Since there’s freedom to roam in Scotland, you can kind of go wherever you want, even onto farm pastures. Despite getting the stink-eye from some cranky sheep, I had myself a bit of a frolic through the fields.
At one point, the sun came out through the clouds, lighting up the emerald-green pastures. I remember sitting down at the top of a hill for a long, long time just staring out at the water and feeling very grateful.
Once my trance was broken by the approach of an annoyed-looking heard of sheep, I got up and wandered some more, finding a little dirt path. It looked promising so I thought, what the heck, can’t get that lost on an island.
Turns out it was a legitimate trail that goes around the perimeter of the island (~10 miles). I walked along the coast, slowly making my way around, soon facing the Atlantic and other islands.
I can’t keep calling things “beautiful” and “stunning” because it sounds annoying and it doesn’t even capture all the single-tear moments I had. So here are some pictures; you be the judge.
Towards the end of the trail you come across Gylen Castle, an old MacDougall castle that sits right on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. I would have given anything to see it in its prime. As I stood in its abandoned kitchen all alone, I wondered what it would have looked like, smelt like, and who would have stood there.
After the castle, I walked another hour to the old dingy to get back to the mainland. I sat looking back towards Oban and feeling really proud of myself. I just walked around an empty island all alone, just because I wanted to.
Adventure not over yet!
Remember the tandem bicycle guy from the hostel? He was on the same ferry and offered me a ride back to town. The rain had started and I was not looking forward to another hour of walking so I said yes.
As we biked along the cliffs back to Oban, I remember thinking Carine of four months ago would not have tandem-bicycle-hitchhiked with a strange middle aged man. But hey, I’m out here growing!
Inverness: Not as Cool as in Outlander *womp womp*
Well I did something stupid. I set expectations. Travel tip #1: NEVER SET EXPECTATIONS…you never know what you’re going to get so you might as well expect nothing.
This is a rule I’ve followed pretty consistently. With Largs, Oban, and Glasgow, I always ended up pleasantly surprised.
But then I got to Inverness. And man did I throw my rule out the window on this one. Not only did I set expectations, but I set my expectations based on a FICTIONAL book about some lady who goes back in time to eighteenth century Scotland.
Yes, I’m talking about Outlander.
For those unfamiliar with Outlander it’s a Starz series about a lady that goes back in time through some pagan stone circle to eighteenth-century Scotland and meets a Highlander hunk and falls in love. Yeah, it’s basically one of those dramatic historical romances for moms (and me, apparently).
Aaaaanyway I had read/seen the series and decided that Inverness looked pretty neat so I might as well visit on my way to Elgin (my next stop). So I took a bus from Oban through Fort William all the way to Inverness. It was an awesome route that went right by Loch Ness (it’s HUGE but certainly not the prettiest thing in Scotland by any measure).
This time, my whimsical vagabond, go-where-the-wind-blows me tactics failed because Inverness was just meh. Nothing wrong with the place, but it wasn’t the magic sheep island of Kerrera or the peaceful village of Largs. It was just okay. And the biggest letdown? I touched a stone and didn’t go back in time. Not even one highlander hunk. All I got was a notification that my credit card bill was due. Womp womp.
The only highlight of Inverness was meeting Taylor, another female solo traveler from Colorado. She had a week of vacation saved up and bought the cheapest trans-Atlantic flight she could find which happened to be to northern Scotland (I love that kind of spontaneity…it honestly doesn’t matter where you go, you’ll find something interesting and new). We met in our hostel and decided to go get a drink.
We ended up at Hootenany’s, a pretty iconic live folk music bar. While traditional musicians played in the background, Taylor and I talked about being women alone abroad and how empowering the experience can be.
Taylor is a reminder that you don’t need a year/unviersity funding to have a solo adventure. She’s a full-time employee in local government. She has a boyfriend and an lease. And despite her job and responsibilities, she decided to take time to push her limits.
Elgin: WWOOFing and Whiskey
Ok cool stories Carine but where are you now?
Well, here’s the deal. Remember a few blogs back where I talked about a new sense of confidence and capability? And then remember in my last blog how I talked about being less scared of the world, travel, and being a woman out in the world all alone? Well put those two things together and you have a recipe for…(drumroll please!)…impulsive decisions!!!!!
Impulsive decisions can only go two ways: badly (because you didn’t think them through, dumbass) or “wow, how did that work out!?” Happy to report that this impulsive decision turned out to be the latter.
Currently writing to you from my own Victorian-style suite in an old manor house in northeast Scotland. Yes, after months of sleeping in a bunk bed on top of snoring randos, I am now in a SUITE in a MANOR.
How’d I score this one? I’m WWOOFing!!! Since high school, I’ve thought about participating in WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms), a program that matches travelers with family farms, gardens, etc. You exchange a few hours of daily labor for meals and a place to stay.
WWOOFing is a giant gamble, which is why I never did it. Your host could feed you gruel and demand ten hours of labor. You could be staying in some shack with no heat, electricity, or, the worst fate of all, no WiFi.
Ok so maybe I’m exaggerating (there are host reviews and accreditations and all that stuff), but WWOOFing is a generally risky bet. You’re hoping that your hosts are nice people and that you have a decent place to stay.
Well after my ridiculous ten-day isolation in London, I think fate decided to throw me a win.
When I got off the train in my WWOOFing town, my host, Roddy, picked me up with the kindest smile on his face. When we pulled up to the place, my jaw dropped. It was the kind of long driveway that’s lined with trees so you can’t see beyond a curve. You’re just sitting there, engaging in some riveting small talk and all of a sudden BOOM, you round the corner and see the place.
It’s a freaking manor. Not going to post pictures out of respect to my hosts, but just take my word on this one. (Insider there were lots of neat, old gadgets that you would see on Downton Abbey, like bells/buttons in guest rooms to call “the help” and stuff like that).
Lady Hajjar finally found her place.
So what’s a day of WWOOFing look like? Here it goes:
I usually woke up and ran along the coast where there are some really cool cliffs and hidden coves.
I’d get back and have some breakfast which always consisted of some of Lucy’s homemade bread (yum). Lucy and I would pull on our giant rubber boots (it’s always soggy, always!!!) and head out to her magnificent garden.
I’d work from 9:30 to 12:45 doing anything from shoveling manure to planting tulip bulbs.
At 12:45, Lucy, Roddy, and I would sit down for lunch, always consisting of a soup made from homegrown vegetables, and Lucy’s bread.
After a cup of tea, I’d head out to finish my work until 4pm.
At 4 I could do whatever. Often I’d go on a walk, or chat with Lucy in the kitchen, or lay down and read, write, or watch TV.
At 8, we eat dinner together then watch TV or chat in the sitting room.
It is so freaking pleasant to have a routine, home cooked food, and a non-bunk bed. Not to mention that Elgin is truly breathtaking everywhere you look.
Lucy and Roddy really made me feel like family. Aside from having our meals together, they always encouraged me to watch TV and movies with them and would often sit with me at the kitchen table and look over newspapers and magazines. This past Sunday, they even brought me along to have tea with Lucy’s mother who baked us scones from scratch.
They also brought me to do some tourism in the area. Just on Monday, Lucy brought me to Glen Moray distillery to go on a whiskey tour. Lucy and Roddy both come from families with a history in whiskey distilling so they encouraged me to at least try some of the famous local spirits…
I think I experienced the whole thing the opposite way: I loved the tour, hated the tasting.
I went in with zero knowledge about whiskey. I learned that its production is very, very precise. Each batch has has to be stored in particular temperatures for specific amounts of time. I also learned that whiskey gets its characteristics from its barrels. The barrels are all second-hand, meaning they’ve held different types of alcohol. So when the spirit is stored, it soaks in the port, bourbon, or whatever’s lingering in the wood.
With each detail I learned throughout the tour, the more I understood why people really savor whiskey. It’s real craftsmanship. I was getting more and more excited to try the stuff.
We ended the tour at a little bar where we were given two samples. I went with the 12-year single malt and some 18-year vanilla blend.
I tried, I really tried.
Coming from a Lebanese family, I know how important it is to eat/drink what is offered, just to be polite. And that’s the approach I took with the whiskey tasting.
Let me set the scene: all these middle-aged men are lining up at the bar to sample the whatever-year blend or whatever-malt scotch. And they’re all swooshing the stuff under their nose, taking small sips and subtly nodding with their eyes closed, as if they’re privy to some whiskey secret. Wow a hint of dark chocolate! Very smooth, caramel undertones! Divine!
Pan over to Carine after a sniff: *wiping tears away and readjusting my contacts*
Notorious for having the worst poker face of all time, I couldn’t help but grimace at my glass. What the heck are these people on?
But no, I can’t be weak. I made it all the way to Elgin, Scotland, and I was going to drink a freaking whiskey. So I followed the old guys’ lead and took a tiny sip.
Awful, just terrible.
But there was so much left and I had a whole other glass.
So I did what I had to do: I took both drinks as shots, put the glasses on the bar, *hair flip*, turned around and walked out into Lucy’s car, leaving the losers to sip their jet fuel.
Twenty minutes later, after a piece of toast and a large glass of water, I had to lay down for a “restorative” nap.
Carine in Scotland: The Movie
So throughout my travels in the UK, I’ve had a lot of movie moments, as I like to call them.
The rom-com: going out to dinner with the guy from Great British Bakeoff
The What a Girl Wants moment (yes, the Amanda Bynes and Collin Firth CLASSIC): Met a musician in London (unfortunately no motorcycle and no Colin Firth).
The psychological thriller: walking around an empty London apartment talking to myself after ten days in isolation…when will she crack!?
The Sound-of-Music-Hills-are-Alive-Moment: Hiking around the hills of Kerrara.
The Downton Abbey moment: Getting to Lucy and Roddy’s and seeing all the cool, old ring-the-butler-for-my-evening-drink kind of stuff. Lady Hajjar at your service.
The Outlander moment: Going to Inverness (AND every time I found a standing stone anywhere in Scotland and reached out with the slight expectation I was going back in time).
me every five minutes^
And now’s the part where I leave you with some deep reflection on how I’m creating my own movie. How I’m the protagonist of my own adventure. A woman traveling alone, finding herself.
Unfortunately Eat, Pray, Love beat me to it.
But more seriously, my month in Scotland was a triumph. I finally hit my stride with the solo traveling. It’s hard to explain but I guess I feel like traveling is my lifestyle now. I feel like I’m a “backpacker.” I can have a drink with random old sailors or I can take two buses to the Highlands and hope to find a hostel without freaking out. I’m not sacred to stay with random people in Elgin or walk around an abandoned island. I feel a bit invincible, to be honest.
P.S. 23 Years Old and No Knife Scars…Yet
The monastery in Largs was getting a completely new roof, a huge job for a huge building. That meant that a crew of roofers had to travel back and forth from Glasgow. I guess at some point the sisters told the guys to stay in the guesthouse during the week so they could work more quickly.
So there I was on my first day, enjoying a peaceful meal by myself and all of a sudden three, what I would call “lads,” came bursting in.
I was greeted with perhaps the heaviest Glasgow accents I’ve ever heard. The boss, I’ll call him Angus, had to repeat everything at least twice.
Our conversation started off by them telling me about getting thrown out of the pub last night…in Largs, a town for mostly family tourism. But don’t worry, it was before the monastery’s 8:30 PM curfew.
Angus proceeded to show me a giant scar across his face when we got to talking about crime in Glasgow (which I guess is a problem). From what I could gather, since gun laws are so strict in the UK, rowdy pub-goers are more liable to get “knifed.”
“I went 46 year with nee a scratch then I got this,” he told me as he pointed to the 6-inch scar. “But it could have been worse, I suppose.” Really Angus, it could have been WORSE?
This is all in the first five minutes of meeting them, all while being served a meal by one of the sisters.
That night, the roofers invited me out to the pub.
Though I politely declined (too tired, you know…), I did learn something important from them: always be grateful for the little things, like going 23 years without a knifing to the face.
P.S.S. Web of Lies (Mwahahahaha)
Well I wrote all the above in Scotland but I’m writing this little section on my flight home from Dublin. I’m coming home a day early and surprising my sister and best friend.
Putting this all together took some effort.
For one, I had to get them in the same place. Easy: I told both of them separately that the other was going through something and needed company but “don’t ask her because it’s private.” Being the compassionate humans that they are, I knew they’d run to each other’s fictional rescues.
Next, how do I get home? My brother, who is joining them for dinner and “picking up takeout” is getting me at the airport.
Last but not least, the hardest one of all: evading Mandy’s (sometimes disturbing) attention to Find My Friends. Yes, I share my location with a select few. And I hate it. But I was hit with the “we’re not letting you go to Europe alone if we can’t see where you are.” Fine. The power has gone to Mandy’s head. I swear she doesn’t go to sleep without making sure that I’m alive and well in my intended location.
So how did I complete Operation Fool Mama Bear Mandy? I capitalized on all the phone troubles I’ve been having (damn you T-Mobile *wags fist in the air*) and nonchalantly mentioned that my international plan doesn’t work in Ireland so I’d be off the grid for a couple days. Cherry on top? “Mandy, I’ll send you my flight itinerary tonight when I get wifi, do you think you could pick me up from the airport tomorrow?” Kid’s a sucker for emotional airport pickups so I got an emphatic “YES OF COURSE.”
And boom. My plan is in motion. As I type this, Mandy and Vicky are sitting down at my kitchen table, waiting for Nick to bring home dinner, and probably staring at each other, silently trying to figure out what’s wrong with the other.
And in one short hour I will burst in and reveal my web of lies. I’m a mastermind.
Mwahahahahahahhaha
(And if anyone ruins my surprise, I’ll be giving a call to my buddy Angus)
