Tarnmoor’s ABCs: Scotland

The Isle of Skye in the Hebrides

The Isle of Skye in the Hebrides

All the blog posts in this series are based on Czeslaw Milosz’s book Milosz’s ABC’s. There, in the form of a brief and alphabetically-ordered personal encyclopedia, was the story of the life of a Nobel Prize winning poet, of the people, places, and things that meant the most to him.

My own ABCs consist of places I have loved (Iceland, Patagonia, Quebec), things I feared (Earthquakes), writers I have admired (Chesterton, Balzac, Proust, and Borges); locales associated with my past life (Cleveland and Dartmouth College), people who have influenced me (John F. Kennedy), foods I love (Olives), and things I love to do (Automobiles and Books). This blog entry is my own humble attempt to imitate a writer whom I have read on and off for thirty years without having sated my curiosity. Consequently, over the weeks to come, you will see a number of postings under the heading “Tarnmoor’s ABCs” that will attempt to do for my life what Milosz accomplished for his. To see my other entries under this category, hit the tag below marked “ABCs”. I don’t guarantee that I will use up all 26 letters of the alphabet, but I’ll do my best. Today the letter is “S” for Scotland.

When I write about the places I love most, Scotland ranks high on my list. I have been there four times, but have barely scratched the surface. Twice I went with Martine, who liked it as much as I did. To this day, she still wears the Cardigan sweater she bought at a woolen mill near Oban, and I still have two Scottish sweaters I bought almost forty years ago, which I still wear occasionally even though they are starting to pill a bit.

Nowhere else in the British Isles are you likely to get as tasty food as in Scotland. Scots are typically friendlier than the folk south of Hadrian’s Wall—probably because they know so many Americans have Scottish blood flowing in their veins as a result of the Highland Clearances that took place after Culloden.

What really distinguishes the Scots in my mind is their sense of history. There’s not only the rebellion of 1745, in which the Highlands wasted their manpower for the unworthy Bonnie Prince Charles, but going farther back, back to Somerled and the Lords of the Isles, William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, the struggles of the House of Stewart to establish themselves, the great tragedy of Flodden Field, the death of Mary Queen of Scots, the cruelty of Butcher Cumberland, and that brave late 18th century renaissance that brought so many Scottish thinkers and inventors to the fore. As with Hungarians, the Scots live the entire spectrum of their history.

Edinburgh is probably one of my two or three favorite cities in the world, especially that long walk downhill along the Royal Mile from Edinburgh Castle to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, and then the climb of Arthur’s Seat to see “Auld Reekie” in all its glory. But if you really want to see Scotland, go for the isles, for Mull, Iona, Islay, Skye, and the Orkneys. When you walk among the graves by the church at Iona, remember that Macbeth and a score of early Scottish kings are buried there in unmarked graves.

Martine and I have looked for the Loch Ness Monster at Drumnadrochit. (We didn’t see it.) We visited castles, Scotch whisky distilleries, ate haggis and neeps (at least, I did), and enjoyed a bowl of cullen skink.

Then were all those novels by Nigel Tranter and Sir Walter Scott, not to mention the poems of Robert Burns, whose museum I saw at Dumfries.

Och, it’s time to go back!

 

 

Roadside Saints

Argentinians Have Made Up Some of Their Own Saints

Argentinians Have Made Up Some of Their Own Saints

This comes from a post on Multiply.Com which I wrote on August 18, 2011. Some changes have been made:

Oh, oh! I’ve been thinking about Argentina again, and that means you’re going to hear about some more really obscure (but, IMHO fascinating) stuff.

To begin with, Argentina is such a Catholic country that it had to create additional saints native to its own soil. Let’s begin with La Difunta Correa, which means, literally, the Dead Correa:

According to popular legend, Deolinda Correa was a woman whose husband was forcibly recruited around the year 1840, during the Argentine civil wars. Becoming sick, he was then abandoned by the Montoneros [partisans]. In an attempt to reach her sick husband, Deolinda took her baby child and followed the tracks of the Montoneros through the desert of San Juan Province. When her supplies ran out, she died. Her body was found days later by gauchos that were driving cattle through, and to their astonishment found the baby still alive, feeding from the deceased woman’s “miraculously” ever-full breast. The men buried the body in present-day Vallecito, and took the baby with them. [from Wikipedia]

All over the country, there are roadside shrines to La Difunta Correa, many surrounded by gifts left by truck drivers and travelers in a hope for a safe journey to their destination. Remember that Argentina is the eighth largest country on earth, and that distances can be farther than one imagines, especially on unpaved ripio roads.

There are two other popular saints with shrines all across the nation: Gauchito Gil (“Little Gaucho Gil”) and El Ángelito Milagroso (“The Little Miraculous Angel”), a.k.a. Miguel Ángel Gaitán.

Gauchito Gil hails from the state of La Rioja near the Bolivian border. A farmworker, Gil was seduced by a wealthy widow. When the police chief, who also had a thing for the widow, and her brothers came after Gil, he joined the army in the War of the Triple Alliance against Paraguay (perhaps the bloodiest war ever fought in the Americas, with the exception of our own Civil War). When he returned home, the Army came after him to join in one of Argentina’s many civil wars. Not to put too fine a point on it, the Gauchito deserted. He was discovered by the police, who wanted to execute him. Whereupon Gil prophesied to the head of the police detail that if he were merciful, the officer’s child, who was gravely ill, would get better. Instead of being shown mercy, Gil was executed.

When he returned home, the police officer found that his son was indeed very ill. So he prayed to Gauchito Gil, and his son got better. It was this police officer who returned to the scene of the execution, gave Gil a proper burial, and built a shrine in his memory. Today there are hundreds of such shrines scattered throughout the country.

By the way, the Gauchito is not the only deserter hero in Argentina’s past. Perhaps the national epic is Martin Fierro by José Hernández, about a gaucho who deserts from the so-called “Conquest of the Desert”—really a war of genocide against the native tribes of the Pampas—and is pursued by the police militia.

The Nineteenth Century in Argentina was unusually bloody, what with civil war, wars against the native peoples, and wars against other countries such as Paraguay and Brazil. So it is not unusual to find deserters as heroes, which is unthinkable in Europe and North America.

Finally, there is another La Rioja “saint” named Miguel Ángel Gaitán, El Ángelito Milagroso, who died at the tender age of one in 1967. When his body didn’t rot, the locals thought that meant it was supposed to be exposed for veneration—and so it was.

Everybody Who Is Anybody

A Lane in Buenos Aires’ Recoleta Cemetery

A Lane in Buenos Aires’ Recoleta Cemetery

In the United States, there is no single cemetery where everybody who is anybody is interred. France has its Père Lachaise and Pantheon, and Argentina has La Recoleta.

There you will find the tombs of Argentina’s presidents, including Bartolomé Mitre, Carlos Pellegrini, Domingo Faustino Sarmiento, Hypólito Yrigoyen, Julio Argentino Roca, Marcelo Torcuato de Alvear, Pedro Eugenio Aramburu, and Raúl Alfonsin. Perhaps its most famous inhabitant is Evita Perón, who is buried here under her maiden name of Duarte. Not here is the only Argentinean president most people are likely to know: Juan Perón. He was buried at Chacarita Cemetery, then moved to a mausoleum some 35 miles outside of Buenos Aires.

Although Jorge Luis Borges—Argentina’s most famous writer—is buried in Europe, here you will find Silvina and Victoria Ocampo and Borges’s collaborator Adolfo Bioy Casares.

Walking through the labyrinthine passageways between the crowded crypts, one finds fabulous wealth (such as that of the Bullriches) side by side with neglected tombs with broken glass and crumbling plaster.

And yet, to pass eternity in this place has a high entrance requirement. Many of the tiny crypt spaces are more expensive than mansions in the more elegant parts of the city. These are the most exclusive fourteen acres in all of South America.

If you find yourself in Argentina, a visit to Recoleta is a must.

 

Back to the Andes

In 2011, Everything Was Covered with Volcanic Ash

In 2011, Everything Was Covered with Volcanic Ash

When Martine and I went to Argentina in November 2011, we bypassed San Carlos de Bariloche because it was a disaster zone due to the eruption of Puyehue/Cordón Caulle in neighboring Chile. The Tren Patagonico between Viedma and Bariloche was shut down, and the whole State of Rio Negro was essentially shoveling volcanic ash. Instead, we went to El Calafate to see some spectacular glaciers such as Perito Moreno. It was worth it, but I want to see Bariloche, and not only Bariloche, but take the Lakes Crossing over into Chile and perhaps spend some time on the Chiloé Archipelago off Puerto Montt.

It would involve a crossing of the Andes by a combination of bus and boat (!), The Lake Districts of Argentina and Chile have some beautiful waterways, and the two-day Lakes Crossing looks interesting. I can always take a bus back without spending quite so many pesos.

 

 

Tarnmoor’s ABCs: Quebec

Central Quebec City

Central Quebec City: The Haute Ville

I was so very impressed by Czeslaw Milosz’s book Milosz’s ABC’s. There, in the form of a brief and alphabetically-ordered personal encyclopedia, was the story of the life of a Nobel Prize winning poet, of the people, places, and things that meant the most to him. Because his origins were so far away (Lithuania and Poland) and so long ago (1920s and 1930s), there were relatively few entries that resonated personally with me. Except it was sad to see so many fascinating people who, unknown today, died during the war under unknown circumstances.

My own ABCs consist of places I have loved (Iceland), things I feared (Earthquakes), writers I have admired (Chesterton, Balzac, Proust, and Borges); things associated with my past life (Cleveland and Dartmouth College), people who have influenced me (John F. Kennedy), foods I love (Olives), and things I love to do (Automobiles and Books). This blog entry is my own humble attempt to imitate a writer whom I have read on and off for thirty years without having sated my curiosity. Consequently, over the months to come, you will see a number of postings under the heading “Tarnmoor’s ABCs” that will attempt to do for my life what Milosz accomplished for his. To see my other entries under this category, hit the tag below marked “ABCs”. I don’t guarantee that I will use up all 26 letters of the alphabet, but I’ll do my best. Today the letter is “Q” for Quebec.

If you want to see France, but can’t quite afford it, you can always go to Quebec City. While it’s not exactly Paris, it is not quite Anglo Canada either. There will be times you have to dredge up your High School French to make yourself understood. As in France, people understand more English than they let on: They just want to see if you’re willing to go halfway.

Just a short stroll along the cliffs over the St. Lawrence, and you arrive at the Plains of Abraham, where the French were decisively defeated, despite the death of both generals, Wolfe and Montcalm. The English may have won, but the Quebecois will tell you, “Je me souviens”—“I remember.” And they do, to the extent that at several times in recent history, they have threatened to declare their independence. (For the historical background, I recommend you read Francis Parkman’s 19th Century classic, Montcalm and Wolfe.)

The cuisine in Quebec is an intriguing mixture of old country French with such local touches as maple syrup. Probably your best bet is to dine at Aux Anciens Canadiens in the old town. It is probably one of the five best restaurants I have ever visited.

Everywhere you turn in Quebec, you will be reminded of France. See the Musée des Ursulines on rue Donnacona for a tribute to the nuns who played such a major role in French Quebec. Walk along Dufferin Terrace past the Hotel Château Frontenac to see the St. Lawrence from atop the cliffs that once protected the city.

I have visited Quebec City twice and hope to go again.

Back to Argentina?

Third Time’s a Charm!

Third Time’s a Charm!

As tax season pressures come to bear on me once again, I look frantically for some escape. As Martine is still unable to travel with any degree of comfort, I will travel alone for the third year in a row. And I’ve decided that I am far from finished with Argentina. When I traveled there in 2006 and 2011, it was the country of Jorge Luis Borges, of his “Funes the Memorious” and “Death and the Compass.” It still is, but new names have been added, particularly César Aira and Juan José Saer, from Coronel Pringles and Santa Fé respectively.

And there are places I have always wanted to see: San Carlos de Bariloche in the Patagonian Andes and Iguazu Falls where Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay meet. Also I want to spend more time in Buenos Aires—a city that I love. In 2006, I stayed in the Microcentro; in 2011, Martine and I stayed in Palermo; this time, I think I’ll stay either in Recoleta (not the cemetery, pictured above) or Barrio Norte.

Because I will be traveling alone, I will probably take more long-distance buses, especially as Aerolíneas Argentinas is so dismal. To get to Argentina, by preference I will fly on LAN, probably by way of Lima, perhaps even stopping for a few days in Lima.

I wish Martine could come with me, but with her aches and pains, she would turn into a zombie from lack of sleep—which is in effect what happened during our Cabo San Lucas trip last month, which was a test of sorts.

The Coldest and Windiest Place in the Lower 48

Atop Mount Washington in New Hampshire

Atop Mount Washington in New Hampshire in 2005

Mount Washington in the White Mountains of New Hampshire has recorded the coldest temperatures in the contiguous 48 states and the highest surface wind measurement. On January 22, 1885, the lowest official temperature reached -50º Fahrenheit (-46º Centigrade). Only Cyclone Olivia in the South Pacific reached higher recorded surface wind speeds than the 231 mph (372 km/hour), which occurred there on April 12, 1934.

As extreme as the temperature gets, you can easily travel up to the top using the historic cog railway (built in 1869). If you go, be sure to bundle up, else you will turn into an icicle.

The reason why Mount Washington has such extreme temperatures is explained as follows by Wikipedia:

The weather of Mount Washington is notoriously erratic. This is partly due to the convergence of several storm tracks, mainly from the Atlantic to the south, the Gulf region and Pacific Northwest. The vertical rise of the Presidential Range, combined with its north-south orientation, makes it a significant barrier to westerly winds. Low-pressure systems are more favorable to develop along the coastline in the winter months due to the relative temperature differences between the Northeast and the Atlantic Ocean. With these factors combined, hurricane force wind gusts are observed from the summit of the mountain on average of 110 days per year.

Suffice it to say, the cog railway does not run when the climactic conditions are unfavorable. The folks there don’t want their tourists blown to Oz and beyond.

The Most Scenic Highway in America

Bryce National Park

Bryce National Park

Of all the road trips I have ever taken in the Western United States, the most spectacular is Utah Route 12, which runs from a point along U.S. 89 between Hatch and Panguitch to the town of Torrey. Along the way, you will find Red Canyon, Bryce Canyon National Park, Kodachrome Basin State Park, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, a scenic stretch known as “The Hogback,” Anasazi State Park, and Capitol Reef National Park. Nowhere else in the U.S. will you find 122 miles of concentrated scenic beauty equivalent to what you will find here. And, what is more, you are within hailing distance of the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, Canyonlands National Park, Arches National Park, the Glen Canyon National Recreational Area, and Hovenweep National Monument.

Below is a map of the route:

Map of Utah Scenic Byway 12

Map of Utah Scenic Byway 12

For the full detail, you can consult a 23-page Adobe Acrobat PDF file by clicking here. In it, you will find that I left out at least half of your destination options.

Martine and I took this highway about six years ago. We considered it probably one of our best trips within the U.S., and certainly the best in the Southwest. Along the way, we visited several other National Parks and Monuments and tourist sites, including a spectacular museum of taxidermy (of all things) just outside of Bryce. We even stopped to see the “original” London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

 

 

 

 

Tarnmoor’s ABCs: Patagonia and Penguins

Killing Two Birds with One Stone

Killing Two Birds With One Stone, So To Speak

I was so very impressed by Czeslaw Milosz’s book Milosz’s ABC’s. There, in the form of a brief and alphabetically-ordered personal encyclopedia, was the story of the life of a Nobel Prize winning poet, of the people, places, and things that meant the most to him. Because his origins were so far away (Lithuania and Poland) and so long ago (1920s and 1930s), there were relatively few entries that resonated personally with me. Except it was sad to see so many fascinating people who, unknown today, died during the war under unknown circumstances.

My own ABCs consist of places I have loved (Iceland), things I feared (Earthquakes), writers I have admired (Chesterton, Balzac, Proust, and Borges); things associated with my past life (Cleveland and Dartmouth College), people who have influenced me (John F. Kennedy), foods I love (Olives), and things I love to do (Automobiles and Books). This blog entry is my own humble attempt to imitate a writer whom I have read on and off for thirty years without having sated my curiosity. Consequently, over the months to come, you will see a number of postings under the heading “Tarnmoor’s ABCs” that will attempt to do for my life what Milosz accomplished for his. To see my other entries under this category, hit the tag below marked “ABCs”. I don’t guarantee that I will use up all 26 letters of the alphabet, but I’ll do my best. Today the letter is “P” for both Patagonia and Penguins, which kind of go together in my mind.

Above is a photo I snapped on Isla Martillo, which lies on the Beagle Channel in Argentina’s Tierra Del Fuego. I had always wanted to go to Patagonia, ever since I read Paul Theroux’s The Old Patagonian Express and, even more, Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia. It was one of those places at the end of the earth. About six hundred miles south of Isla Martillo lies the Antarctic Peninsula. Even farther north lies Buenos Aires and the heavily populated temperate territories of Argentina.

Martine and I have always loved penguins. There was something helpless and cute about them, even though their fishy smell made them somewhat less than huggable. I think I was only able to get Martine to come with me to Patagonia if I could take her to places where she could walk among penguins in the wild. Although past “expeditionary” vacations in search of puffins and moose turned up a blank, I was able to deliver on the penguins—in spades. Isla Martillo was a small penguin rookery that was fascinating, and Punta Tombo in the State of Chubut was even more spectacular. We were there right around the time, to the day, that the Magellanic penguins were hatching. Our trip there was one of the happiest experiences of my life.

Do I want to go back to Patagonia? Absolutely. I’ve been there twice: The first time, on my own, I broke my shoulder by slipping on the ice in Ushuaia … but the second time was a charm.

Life always seems brighter when you could go to far places that you love.

 

 

 

No Tequila Shooters for Me, Por Favor!

If You Can See Me in This Picture, You Need New Glasses!

If You Can See Me in This Picture, You Need New Glasses!

No, I won’t be partying with Sammy Hagar at his Cabo Wabo Nightclub, nor will I be surrounded by lissome bikini beauties unless I drop my wallet. My Cabo San Lucas will be a strange kind of bookworm’s holiday, with a few jaunts to reassure myself that there is indeed an autentico Mexico behind all the alcoholic frippery.

Martine and I will be well away from the Marina bar scene. In fact, I think we will be far enough away from the center of town to require either a bus or taxi. While twenty-somethings are wasting themselves on cheap alcohol, I will be reading books and listening to a program of Jazz and Classical music stored on my Sansa MP3 player. This is how bookworms travel.

Unless I can latch onto a computer in Cabo, I’ll catch up with y’all on Saturday or Sunday. Until then, hasta la vista!