Highlands

Having been home a week now, I should be caught up, back in the saddle, in the swing...pick your metaphor. If only that were so. Many have asked me about the trip, and I've intended to synopsize the experience before the details are lost but my Grandma had a saying about good intentions and the pavement along the Road to Hell.

Still, the cold winds, fitful rainstorms and generally moody/glowering skies we had today brought Scottish memories back to the fore. Tonight what comes to mind most strongly are the sheep...everywhere. Sheep far outnumber the humans in Scotland. In New Zealand it seemed to be a point of pride that there are sheep an order of magnitude more than the humans. I didn't hear any Scots bragging about their woolly citizenry, but it appeared that if you live in northern Scotland you're either a sheep farmer or a Bed & Breakfast owner. Or Royal. Other options weren't readily apparent.

The rusted heather hillsides were dotted with the grayish shapes of unshorn sheep, followed by the bright white, unstained new lambs. April is the thick of lambing season, and everywhere we hiked we could scarcely avoid treading on Scottish black faced and Lleyn lambs curled together or dashing out of our way, bleating and baaing their fright to complacent ewes. The Lleyn lambs looked for all the world, when lying down, like Easter bunnies...their fleece is short which gives their erectly-held ears a disproportionately large and bunnyish silhouette.

Fences seem only a means of delineating property lines not of actual livestock containment. Sheep run the roadways and ditches and public lands and highlands, yards and even woodlands. Almost anyplace we stopped to take in the scenery we could watch shepherds working the flocks together with the ubiquitous Border Collies. There might have been a Lab or a mutt here or there, but Border Collies ruled the countryside. What a treat it was to watch true working farm dogs doing what their ancestors have done since the dawn of domestication. Found myself wishing I had tried harder to bring one of the GSDs along...they would have learned a thing or two from watching.

Everything in that land was rugged, from the topography of ancient basalt bedrock to the hardy breeds of livestock and dogs, to the people themselves. We learned quickly that they count on their tourists being rather rugged and capable as well...hiking trails were, shall we say, less than well marked. Blazes like one expects to see here in the States must be unthinkable to these hardy souls. And I've got the bog-stained boots to prove it!