Overlooking Loch Garry, Scotland | July 2, 2009
The sky pulled a patchwork quilt of clouds from the sea as if to tuck in the silent form of Loch Garry far below. Greens and grays and blues danced over the lush terrain ahead of a storm. An aged piper in full regalia stood straight and turned his breath into a heart-pricking drone. His kilt and tassles flapped vigorously, like a white flag. Our van sat silent behind us, its doors flung open on their tracks. Each of us stood alone, exposed to the storm’s wild forewinds, and stared into the west.
A rain was coming from the sea. That island-slashed water had given its breath to the sky, now a roiling mass, a vaporous airship inching over Glengarry. Read more...
Isle of Arran, Scotland | May 3, 2006
Like travelers to a fire in the dark of winter, the village and towns of Arran huddle around the narrow coastal road encircling the island. We tracked north from the port in Brodick to the village of Lochranza where an old church, converted to a bed and breakfast, awaited. Above us, like sea frigates turned to airships, broad-bellied clouds plied the skies around the Goat Fell and its sister corbetts, their faces hidden in veils of mist and running with the sometimes audible sound of rivers. Centuries had passed since The Clearances had drained the small of isle of many of its people; hard voyages to Canada, conceived in deceit by the island’s earl, were damned from the first frigid waves that crashed over the Caledonia’s bow. Read more...
…as our conversation aged the evening collapsed into night and draped itself atop the restored brick buildings with chipped and faded paint and wrought-iron balconies that looked across the Douro’s gray band toward the Port lodges of Vila Nova de Gaia… Read more...
A thousand voices of the wind called to us across the royal expanse of Lake Superior. The tiny town of Bayfield lay prostrate in the gales and tumbled down the hill toward the frigid waters. Its piers and docks like the arms of man in submission… Read more...
…the tree-less islands appeared as the pates of drowning sailors, scarcely cresting the sub-arctic waves, the archipelago itself the somber detritus of a tectonic shipwreck. This was a journey to the westerly and distant island of Westray, the final breath of our honeymoon… Read more...
A hunter, oft-stubbled and bleary-eyed, driven by an insatiable hunger for exploration and experience - and perhaps a chance to thin the herd of caffeinated and alcoholic beverages. From the highlands and islands to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and the Borders, I explore Scotland with a pen in hand and a fire in the belly (which could be partly from the whisky). 
