My standard lens is a 28-200 zoom, and it happens that I take most of my photos right out at 28mm. This is fairly
wide-angle, and I've found that such pictures look suitably wide at the 2:1 aspect ratio you will find all over
this site. This has become, in the course of developing this website, my standard look.
This year I used my cheapo Phoenix 19-35 lens an awful lot, and took most of the photos at 19mm, which is
very wide indeed. Lots of them look fine at the 2:1 aspect ratio, but many, I felt, needed an even wider presentation
at 3:1. This left me with the dilemma of how to present them here.
I've chosen to keep them at the same height as the other photos, which means they are overwide, and spill off
the edge of the page. In order to see the whole picture, you will have to pan back and forth, just as you would to see
such a wide scene if you were there. I've also presented some multi-image panoramas this way (and will insert some into
previous years' pages as well). Overwide photos have > > at the end of their titles, to remind you to pan the frame.
For those who would prefer to see the entire image at once, I have re-presented all of the overwide photos at
the end of this unit.
As always, there are a few photos here that I'm really proud of, a whole bunch that aren't too bad, and some
I'm almost embarrassed to show. I have fun with photography, and make no pretense of being a pro. It is my intent that
each photo here will have something of interest for the viewer, however technically imperfect it may be. I hope you like them!
As always, comments, criticisms, clichés, and chit-chat may be sent to MrTattieHeid@aol.com.
MR TATTIE HEID
December 2006
Bottles > >
BORDER RAID
Tuesday-Saturday, 3-7 October 2006
This is my ninth trip to Scotland. As always, I've tried to mix in some new places with a few old favorites, and have two weeks
of Ron's company to look forward to. Last year,
I was scheduled to spend a few days in Isle of Whithorn, on the Galloway coast in Scotland's deep south, but had to cancel
when I was called home (see MF2MoG 2005). This year, I booked my
first five nights there.
Tuesday We flew almost directly over Glasgow on the way to Amsterdam, and I'd have had a fine view of the Machars, the broad peninsula
on the Galloway coast that was my destination, had I been sitting on the other side of the plane.
At last I arrive in Glasgow and pick up my rental car. I find, to my consternation, that it’s a Fiat Punto. I hate Puntos!
“But it’s the new Punto,” the agent tells me. In my mind that’s like saying “But it’s a fresh cowplop.” But
it doesn’t take me very long to realize that he has a point–this new model is as comfortable and up-to-date as any economy car
I’ve had here. It even has a CD player, which I’ve rarely gotten from this agency before. Of course, they’re still one step
behind–I’ve ditched the book of CD’s for an iPod now.
Fresh cowplop
It’s a two-and-a-half to three-hour drive to Isle of Whithorn, but it takes me four-and-a-half hours. I stop no fewer
than three times to nap in lay-bys, and once in Maybole to buy stamps and Jacob’s Cream Crackers to go with the Dutch cheese
I bought at Schiphol. A short stretch of the drive is along the Ayrshire coast, with a view of Ailsa Craig. I arrive in
midafternoon, check in to my B&B, and take another nap.
Ailsa Craig
Isle of Whithorn, at the tip of the Machars on the Galloway coast, actually was an island once, but a causeway was built
in 1790, connecting it to the mainland and forming a pretty harbor. The village extends from the mainland out along the
causeway to the edge of the island. My B&B is on the mainland, looking out over to the isle. I nap until 6:00pm. Looking
groggily out the window when I awake, I see a rainbow leading directly to the Steampacket Inn over on the isle. I can take a hint.
Isle of Whithorn > >
The Steampacket’s a nice place, with Cambridge Bitter and Theakston’s XB in the cask, a small handful of malts,
and some culinary pretensions. But frozen swordfish is frozen swordfish. I am about falling asleep in my pint, and
so decide to head for bed. The night air is invigorating, though, and back on the mainland, I decide to spend some time
in the Queens Arms (hope Prince Philip doesn’t find out). This is more the townie pub, complete with obligatory Old Gent
who comes in every night. There is beer from a local brewery, but I’m afraid it isn’t very good. There’s also a bottle
of Bladnoch, of which there was none at the Steampacket. Bladnoch is just up the road; I will visit tomorrow. The
friendly bartender gives me a bottle of beer from the local brewery, gratis, as I am on my way out. I drop it into the
trunk of my car and forget about it.
Moon over Isle of Whithorn
Wednesday Wake up cranky this morning, full of gloom. Decide I must go take the tour at Bladnoch right away and
get a dram in me. I just miss the 10:00 tour, so walk around the small but pretty village, taking pictures. At 11:00,
I get a one-on-one tour, which is usually okay, but I am still groggy. If there is anything special to be got out of
this tour, I am not the man to do it.
Approaching Bladnoch
Beautiful downtown Bladnoch
Outside Bladnoch
Entering Bladnoch
Bladnoch stillhouse
At the end, I am taken into the hospitality room and shown five bottles–fifteen-year-olds at 40%, 46%, and cask
strength (55%); a rum-cask finish at 56%; and Aiken’s Dram, a vatting of six highly evaporated casks, 46%. All are
unchillfiltered, and the 40% is as cloudy as a weissbier. I figure I’ll start with the 46%. The guide pours my dram,
puts all of the bottles away, and leaves me alone in the room. Robbed! I take my time with my dram and then buy 20cl
bottles of the cask- strength and the rum finish, and a 35cl of the Aiken’s Dram. I will use them as roadies, and
take the empties home–they will be useful sample bottles.
Bladnoch courtyard
After, I drive to the Mull of Galloway and promptly take a nap in the car park. Then I walk out past the
lighthouse and gaze at the Isle of Man, invisible in the mist last year. Puffy little clouds scud by like a vast
armada on a sea of sky.
Lighthouse, Mull of Galloway
Up the western side of the Mull, I pass through the village of Port Logan. A sign outside the Port Logan Hotel
indicates that Timothy Taylor's Landlord is being served inside, and I cannot resist a pint. It's a nice little pub.
Port Logan > >
On the way back to Isle of Whithorn, I have a look at some minor antiquities–a hillfort, some weathered cup-and-ring marked stones,
a couple of standing stones. The latter are at Drumtroddan, in a cow pasture--one of the hazards of visiting these
sites is that the cows think you've come to feed them. They are docile, but they are big.
Traffic in the Machars
Drumtroddan stones
Kirkmadrine Chapel
Thursday A cross-border raid today, to Carlisle in England. I skip breakfast to get off early. It’s a dreich and
dreary morning, and the day will not improve much.
I pass by Carlisle at about 9:30 and drive out on the flats around Bowness-in-Solway, looking for traces of the
western terminus of Hadrian’s Wall. I am still jet-lagged and do not feel much like tromping through the mud in the
rain, and so see only some bits of the vallum, or ditch, that ran alongside the wall. I suspect most of the wall itself
has long ago been pilfered and built into nearby farms and villages. I am not alert enough to investigate this idea
further.
Back in Carlisle, I park in a garage above The Lanes, a shopping-mallified section of old Carlisle, and have a
look around. It’s pretty enough, but the weather and my mood leave me unimpressed with the cathedral. It’s of a lovely
red stone, and actually must be quite something on a sunny day, like St Magnus in Orkney. The castle is also of
sandstone, and both buildings must have been constructed in part with stone pilfered from the old city walls, which in
turn had been built of stone from Hadrian’s Wall.
Carlisle Cathedral
My membership in Historic Scotland gains me free entry to the castle, courtesy of English Heritage, and I spend
about an hour there. I learn about Carlisle’s role in centuries of warfare and squabbling between Scotland and England.
Carlisle Castle
After wandering around town for a little while longer, I head back north across the border. I intend to stop
in Gretna Green, the town to which, for many years, young English couples eloped, the marriage laws in Scotland being
more lenient at the time. There is still quite a marriage industry there, but a quick drive through gives me the
impression that there isn’t much interesting for me to see. It’s not unlike a Las Vegas wedding chapel, I guess, if
considerably more tasteful and quaint. I do get a glimpse of neighboring Springfield.
D'oh!
I drive through Annan on the way back, and stop at Caerlaverock Castle, which has been on my list for a long
time. It’s a peculiar and picturesque structure, triangular with a moat. I bemoan the lack of sun and take the best
pictures I can. Maybe I should have held off on this trip until the weather cleared. Well, you never know what you’re
going to get around here.
Caerlaverock Castle
Interior, Caerlaverock
I have monkfish for dinner at the Steampacket. I haven’t dared try monkfish since getting one the approximate
consistency of a gumboot in Torshavn, in the Faroe Islands. This is miles better, but I’m still not crazy about it.
Friday I’m human again! Not bad, only three days of jet lag.
Kirkcudbright
This morning I go have a look at Kirkcudbright. It’s a nice enough town, on the water, lots of art
galleries–they say everyone here is either a fisherman or an artist. The sun plays hide-and-seek, mostly hide.
I visit Gatehouse of Fleet, and the sun won’t come out at all as I try to photograph the restored mill there.
The Mill on the Fleet
Back up the road are the remains of two chambered tombs called Cairnholy I and II. These have been on my radar
screen for a long time. They remind me more of tombs seen in Ireland than anything I’ve seen elsewhere in Scotland.
The sun gives me but a few tantalizing seconds to work with.
Cairnholy
Up the road toward New Galloway, I visit Bruce’s Stone. Supposedly Robert Bruce rested against this
boulder after a successful guerilla action against the English. Mr Tattie Heid has always been partial to the Bruce,
since that is his own given name.
Mr Tattie Heid rests in the bumprints of his namesake
Returning to the Machars, I have a look at the Torhouse Stone circle. The signboard compares it to the
recumbent stone circles of Aberdeenshire, but I don’t think the comparison is valid–it’s quite different. Interesting
enough, though, and the sun cooperates just long enough for a few photos.
Torhouse Stone Circle > >
Saturday I visit St Ninian’s Cave this morning. It’s a ten- or fifteen-minute walk through the woods
from the car park to a shingle beach, then a few hundred yards to the cave, a crevice in the cliffs. I pick over the
multitude of smooth round stones along the way. The surf rattles them as it washes in and out. Many of the stones
have interesting veins, and I pick out a smallish one to take home. It’s reddish with a darker red stripe through it,
looking like a wet streak.
On the trail
On the beach
I arrive at the cave and notice that visitors have constructed various little shrines of sticks and stones, and
have jammed stones (but not the usual coins) into various crevices. Feeling some sacrifice is called for, I leave my
stone on a narrow ledge. (Of course I will find another on the way back.)
Approaching the cave
Shrines
There are supposed to be some carvings on the wall of the cave, but I cannot find them. The legend is that
Ninian, who brought Christianity here before Columba, and whose church was a few miles away at Whithorn, used this cave
as a retreat. Historians doubt it, but it remains a focal site for the cult of St Ninian.
The view from the cave
A blanket of cloud spreads over the sky, and I spend the rest of the day browsing bookshops in Wigtown
(“Scotland’s Book Town”), and having a look at the ruined Priory in Whithorn. Dinner is at the Queens Arms, for a
change–unpretentious pub food. Tomorrow I must be up early to meet Ron at the airport.
