Inverness - a bus, a plane and a train...

i've heard of Britain's "low cost" carriers and their methods for saving money. now i'm sitting in the back row of a little Airbus A319 on EasyJet's Inverness-Gatwick run, stuck next to a really big guy on my left and... damn. the plane was landed before we were boarding. turnaround scraped in at just under half an hour. there's no seat assignments, and checked luggage is an extra charge so EVERYONE has a fuckload of carry-on. my backpack's half-way up the cabin because there was simply no room for it anywhere closer. my shoulder-bag is sitting between my ankles on the floor. i'm amazed i got a seat on this thing - i only booked 2 days ago and it's jam-packed. the safety lecture led straight into the in-flight advertisements, suggesting that we spend-big for valentine's day. now i've got my earphones in (oh fuck me... the fat guy just farted. and i thought my bowels were bad...) so that i don't have to listen to his breathing or the drone of the engines and once again i'm glad that my Eee not only has a decent amp, but that it's lack of bulk fits nicely on the tray table. i'm also thanking fuckery that i'm not carrying the weight that once i did or i'd be making life extremely difficult for the average-sized lady to my right. at least it's only a 100 minute flight.

i was up yesterday morning in good time, with a plan for the day. rumour had it that there was some nice coastline and the possibility of dolphon-sightings a little up the west-shore of the Moray Firth. the original idea was to head to Cromarty, a 3/4 of an hour bus ride away. after a couple of conversations with random strangers i fetched up in Rosemarkie instead - around half-way to Cromarty, with better prospects for aquatic mammals, and by 10:45 i was walking along a quiet beach that ran between two little hamlets (Rosemarkie and Fortrose) which are roughly a mile apart by road. it was quiet, peaceful, like pretty much everywhere i'd seen around Inverness. 45 minutes or so later i was sitting at a park bench near the lighthouse on the little peninsula. the people are friendly around here. it's all little villages, so it's obvious you're a stranger when you're walking around, and a hairy man dressed all in black stands out around here like a clown at a funeral. still, everyone i'd passed on the beach had smiled and said hello which kept my spirits high. i after sitting around for a while and seeing nothing but still water and little birds mucking around in the grass and the snow i picked up and walked the 2 miles into Fortrose through the golf course, found the bus and sat there enjoying the view (both outside of the Firth, and inside of possibly the prettiest redhead i've ever seen who'd been welcomed onboard by a heavily made-up girl with the query "Or-ite? Wossa craic?") on the way back to Inverness.

three and a half hours later i'd found the appropriate bus and gotten out to the Collodden Battlefield and was standing on the spot where the front lines of the Jacobites who'd survived the artillery blasts and musket barrage met the redcoats in hand-to-hand combat before being blown to pieces by the government's 2nd-line, who encircled them and opened fire. wandering through the exhibition there's a video-rendering of the movements of the battle - an hour or maybe less during which the little blue ants had the shit kicked out of them by a strong defence and a commander who wasn't blinded by delusions of a god-given destiny. the story of the lead-up to the battle, and the aftermath, are worth reading because it explains a lot of the religious and political situation of the time. also worth doing is stopping to have a talk to the period-garbed staff at the end of the exhibition centre, because if you ask nicely you'll find yourself holding some extraordinarily beautiful weaponry. the muskets and shields are replicas (GOOD replicas, mind), but there are originals you get to play with if you're lucky. i wound up being handed and swinging around a 200+ year old Jacobite Cavalry Backsword, so named because the rider would swing it down and back as he galloped past the infantry. it was beautiful, too - well preserved and perfectly weighted, and as much as i wanted to bolt for the door i DID give it back.

i was about done with Inverness by the time i got back there in the evening. this is partly because a lot of the fun stuff to see and do was closed for the winter, but also because i was itchy to be moving on. fortunately or unfortunately, "on" meant back to London. i was fully prepared to chill out in the hostel for the evening, but wound up being dragged to the pub by a french guy and a couple of italians. i even wound up getting chatting to a tiny little brunette from Perth (Australia) called Rachel, but was interrupted by the italians who were trying it on with her pretty messily then got stuck talking to the french guy who was really fucking loud and annoying, to the point where i drained my beer, made an excuse about getting some sleep and bolted. as i strolled back to the hostel i was stopped by a group of Scots who were asking if i could point them to a good boozer. i'd pointed out 2 or 3 that i'd seen or been into before the leader looked at me and asked "Or-stralean?" yeah mate. "Orite! Cheers mate!"

for some reason last night i had great difficulty sleeping. i was the second person to hit the sack, and the other guy had the good grace not to snore, but for some reason i just couldn't nod off. i put my ear plugs in but kept waking up again and again until finally i slept half-way through the morning. i took my time getting packed, heading downstairs and having a strong, hot coffee while i checked my mail in the common room. i'd checked on where to catch the bus to the airport the day before, so finding the stop and getting out was uneventful, until of course i had to go through airport security. anything liquid in my toiletries bag went into a clear plastic bag. my Eee came out and was scanned separately (although they were happy for it to stay in its little sheath). my belt had to come off, although i'd prepared and everything from my trouser pockets was already in my coat. every time i fly anywhere the security gets more and more anal, and i enjoy the experience less and less. what was really 20 minutes felt like forever, but eventually i was in the air with my Eee open and Title And Registration by Death Cab For Cutie launching into its 23rd repetition in the last week. at least the flight's quick and from the inclination of the aeroplane i have the feeling that it'll be over soon - then i just have to look forward to the ruinously expensive Gatwick Express to Victoria Station, then the bus ride back to base-camp. oh joy, ecstasy. at least the snow that hit the south and midlands the other day hasn't caused any delays in my travel plans, unlike the snowfall last week which backed up Heathrow worse than a fat man on a beef and imodium diet.

please excuse me if i hate everything right now. i'm most of the way back to the real world, which is something i was managing quite nicely to avoid while i was away. going back to London means resumption of my responsibilities, fiscal conservativism and job-hunting. it means grey streets and grey people, and watching while louise messily self-destructs and cries herself to sleep at night. of course, it also means not sleeping in a room full of stangers or walking for miles a day. it means quiet time and semi-normality. it means sitting around wondering where i'm going to go next, a question for which i have more answers than pounds. it means no more being beaten in the back of the head by the sound of snow crunching under my feet the smell of clean air and the feeling of being remarkably alone in a beautiful setting, wishing i could magically teleport all my mates there so that they could see what i was seeing and share in the moment. one of the joys of traveling with someone is the times later when you can turn to them and say "do you remember when...?" and they smile and nod and you share that moment all over again. being somewhere on your own robs you of that, but at least you still have the story to tell years later at the pub when someone talks about something they heard about Scotland and you get to be that irritating fucker who pipes up with

oh yeah - i was out there back in 2009. fucking beautiful out there. you should go...

i'm going to need to get away again, and soon. days, weeks, a month at the most. get away and forget i have a care in the world while i grind the soles of my boots further down on different streets and darken foreign doorsteps. run away from the real world and return to being yet another dirty backpack-toting itinerant with their 24-Hour Friends and No Fixed Address, constantly trying to reduce the number of places they've never been by one. meanwhile, i'm hearing the call of the hostie asking that electronic equipment be shut off so that's me done. i'll be back with the regularly scheduled programme once i've slept, sorted a few tihngs out and the haunted look's gone from my eyes whenever i look the mirror.