Scotland Part 4: Oban and Crieff
Day 10 in Scotland is when I distinctly got the feeling that the end of our trip was approaching. We were leaving Skye, and heading to our final destinations. And while I would love to say that my only emotions were excitement, they were also tempered by a sort of melancholia that I often feel towards the back half of a vacation. There’s something about the initial days that make it feel like this - whatever this is - could potentially last forever. But when you’re 2/3 of the way though, you start to recognize that the end is closer than the beginning, and that you’re running out of underwear.
So it was with a semi-heavy heart that we set out from Skye on our way to Oban. Don’t worry, once we got there we were fucking ecstatic to be there, but we didn’t know that yet as we loaded up our trusty Honda HR-V, and followed the roads out of town.
We came into Skye from the North, but would be leaving by the South, in order to see Armindale Castle - the clan seat of Beth’s family. She’s a McDonald, and fun fact: the McDonalds and Frasers historically hate each other. (But then again, it’s Scotland, so most of them have hated each other at times due to some historical event or another.) So we were sort of giddy to both go there together - a Fraser and a McDonald, together as a bonded pair. (I doubt anyone actually cared but us, but we treated it with all the maturity of two teenagers sneaking out at night to smoke weed in the park.)
Anyway, Armindale castle was surprising for two reasons: first, it’s not so much a castle as it is castle ruins. So seeing the castle involves standing in front of one of the few remaining walls, and going “huh.” Second, this was once again a moment when Scotland’s propensity to go much harder than needed for tourists came into play. Because while the castle ruins were interesting but not particularly compelling outside of the historical context, the museum hidden near the back of the frankly-stunning gardens was so much more extensive (and expensive) than it needed to be for something that was “free with your admittance to the castle grounds.”
Focusing on a history of the Scottish Highlands and Isles through the lens of Clan Donald, it tells a singular story of Clan Donald’s formation from the earliest Viking settlements, through the Jacobites and Battle of Culloden, and ending with the Scottish Emigration during the Highland Clearances. I think we spent two hours there, simply walking amongst the exhibits and absorbing the monumental amount of history that was so expertly communicated in text and collection.
Again, this was a “free with castle admission” museum, and the first room is a 1000-ish square foot exhibit of five huge carved stones, each weighing literal tons apiece, arranged in a ring, with 360 degree photos and videos to tell you the story of some of the earliest inhabitants of Skye. The museum as a whole was far more impressive, interesting, educational, and visually spectacular than it needed to be. I found myself immersed in the story of history it told, while Beth was swept away by the presentation of it all. Suffice to say, we loved it.
Having fulfilled our “a castle a day keeps the fae away” road trip requirement, we set off for Oban by way of a ferry. I don’t know why I was nervous to drive onto a ferry - something that literally millions of people do literally every day - but I was. For some reason this thing stuck in my head as weird, dangerous, possibly sinister, definitely unnatural.
So when it turned out that - no surprise - it was easy and seamless, the rest of our drive ended up feeling like an absolute breeze. We were once again told to expect rain, and we were once again granted a reprieve. We even had time to pull a 180 on a highway to drive back and take some photos of a different castle on its own little island way out in the sound. And then that afternoon we got into Oban, the single most surprising town of our entire trip.
Here’s a pull-quote: Oban is Scotland’s Monterey. And yes, I’m just as surprised to type it as I was to see it.
Wrapped around a horseshoe-shaped bay, ringed by mountains, facing west to enjoy sunsets over the water and nearby islands, and with an expectation of seasonal tourism, Oban seemed instantly familiar. It wasn’t until we’d dropped off our luggage at the Inn/Whisky Vault where we were spending the night (an excellent decision by Beth, if I might say) and walked out onto the pier that we discovered something else:
We glanced back, and stopped talking. Stopped doing everything other than just staring. Because Oban is just absolutely stunning.
We caught it at the perfect time too: big fluffy clouds were settling in over the mountains, and the sun was debating what it was planning to do for the rest of the late afternoon. So looking back from the pier, all we saw was a perfectly lit, perfectly backdropped, charming little seaside town with restaurants and art galleries and hotels all on display. And right in the middle of it is Oban Distillery.
Oban, the town, was built around Oban, the distillery. So Oban, the distillery, sits right on the edge of bay, and the town extends out from the distillery and up the mountains behind it. And if you happen to hike up those small mountains (because you want to see the weird tower that sits above the town like a concrete crown) you leave the restaurants and hotels behind as you walk into and through the neighborhoods of Georgian, Edwardian, and Regency buildings serving as family homes, B&Bs, and vacation houses.
So we kind of fucked up when we only booked one night in Oban, because for the whole 24 hours we were there, we really did enjoy every moment.
Dinner the first night was at EE-Usk (no, I can’t pronounce it) a seafood heavy restaurant recommended to us by our lovely B&B family in Inverness. The menu is extensive, but I didn’t get any further than “Salmon three different ways” before I stopped looking and started picking my wine pairing. Beth had whatever the traditional seafood version of Omakase is, where the chef just brings you 2-5 portions of whatever they think is the most impressive different types of fish they got that day, all cooked in an identical way. Appetizers were a smoked fish stew, and the biggest fucking oysters I’ve ever seen in my life - the meat of the oyster was bigger than the entire palm of my hand. And despite having been subject to oyster-based food poisoning in early 2020 (that left me emotionally willing to fight God but physically unable to leave the restroom) I couldn’t help but try one of them and agree with Beth: these were the best oysters we’ve ever eaten.
Over the next two hours, we watched the sun set over the islands and the bay (something quickly becoming a tradition this trip) as we slowly made our way through several very generous pours of wine. We also ate our fill of seafood as Oban delivered on my unstated but very serious goal to indulge in as much of Scotland’s internationally appreciated seafood as was logistically possible.
We didn’t walk home afterwards. Instead, we walked the town, along the water, cutting inward beyond the tourist portions and into the bits where locals-only bars advertised cheap Tennents beers and smokers held court underneath the neon bar signs. We traipsed through the streets around the railway terminal and out to where the churches offered a Sunday roast in the park on weathered signs.
Do yourself a favor and don’t bother looking up real estate prices as you idly wander the streets of Oban, no matter how enticing it may be to let your mind wander. It’s far more achievable to buy property in Eden than you think, and it’ll set your mind a tizzy as you do some really easy Scotch-influenced math (“Babe…we could buy this tomorrow…in cash…like literally tomorrow…”)
When we did make our way back, it was to the Whisky Vaults. No, that wasn’t a bit above - that was actually the name of the hotel where we were staying that night. And aside from being a generally lovely place to stay, it was also named for the tavern holding the (purported) second largest Scotch collection in all of Scotland which sat in its ground floor. Beyond just housing the impressive selection, they were very willing to pour a taster of anything you’re considering. And because we’re indecisive, and the selection was quite extensive, we considered quite a lot of options before we made our decision, all to the genuinely increasing glee (and additional goading suggestions) of the barkeep.
It wasn’t a long night though, because tomorrow was one of my other “must-dos” for Scotland: Oban distillery. Oban is my favorite Scotch, but in another way Oban plays a rather large and interesting part in our reasoning behind this trip.
OK, fun story time.
It used to be that I hated all whiskeys. Every kind. From bourbon to Irish to Scotch whiskeys, they all tasted somewhere between “regret” and “dying” to me. I had an involuntary face I’d make whenever I drank any kind - whiskeyface, we called it - which sort of resembled the faces kids make when you let them stuff a lemon into their mouth and they first begin to realize they’ve made a huge mistake. Anyway, it wasn’t my thing, but beer, wine, gin, and rum exist, so I was fine.
When I turned 30, we celebrated at a place out in Santa Monica called The Daily Pint, which had a fantastic beer selection alongside roughly 300 whiskeys from all around the world - mainly focusing on Scotch and Irish whiskies. Beth is, and always was, a Scotch drinker. She loved Scotch since before I knew her. And I think it hurt her to her very core that I didn’t.
So on my 30th birthday, she bought me a 30 year old Scotch, telling me in the moment “Try this. If you don’t like this, you’ll never like Scotch.”
So I tried it. Instant whiskeyface.
I passed it back to her, tongue crawling desperately down the back of my own throat to escape, with a barely audible “I’ll never like Scotch.”
She sighed, took it back, and hid what had to be unending disappoint behind a very casual “Well, I guess that’s more Scotch for me.”
But I like trying new things, so it became a thing with the two of us where I’d always try her Scotch. She’d offer me a sip, I’d hate it, and she’d (mostly jokingly) scold me for “wasting good Scotch.” For years. Until…
Cut to me at 40, and through persistent trial and error involving whiskey advent calendars, a very surprising South African whiskey, and a shockingly appreciated Canadian rye, I had developed an appreciation for bourbons and Scotch. Moreover, I had gone from “all whiskeys taste the same, and that taste is of sorrow” to having strong preferences for styles of Scotches and whiskeys, as well as origination and brand preferences.
Turns out I’m an Oban man. Top to bottom, I love all of their Scotches. Every single one of them ranks in my top ten. So on my 40th birthday in September 2020, blocked by the world from visiting Scotland in person, Beth’s present was both an acknowledgement of my newfound love for Scotch as well as an attempt to bring some semblance of occasion to what was now the seventh month of Covid lockdown:
A bottle of 40 year old Oban that was obtained by some Odysseon efforts,
Monogrammed glencairn glasses, and
Conspiring with my best friend to bring him to town on my birthday in order to share it all - because Scotch tastes better when shared with friends.
And almost exactly two years later, on the day before my 42nd birthday, I walked into Oban Distillery for a full tour and tasting, officially completing every one of the previously-planned must-do items from this previously cursed trip. Oh there was still more to come for this specific vacation, but everything we’d put on the list years and years ago, only to push back again and again, had been checked off - and every single one of them was better than we’d imagined.
I’ll admit that sitting in Oban, drinking a distillery-exclusive expression felt a little like a victory. Like we’d passed a finish line. This, and every other must-do we’d emotionally invested in had been dangled and snatched away from us time and time again, and yet here I was. In a moment of internal consideration, I toasted the two of us and drank deeply of the taste of success. We’d done it.
It occurs to me in this moment, that the aforementioned deep drinking of success may have something to do with why our immediate next actions were to do some serious pound to dollar converted damage at a cute little chocolate shop next door. Regardless of the motivation, Oban Chocolate Shop was the beneficiary of our sudden realization that we were still about 30% short on gifts for friends (and that we also really fucking wanted some chocolate right then.) So, expertly combining two impulses (travel tip #403: always combine impulses for maximal combo damage) we indulged on a spread of handmade truffles, fondants, ganaches, and creams. Truth be told, we’d already spotted this place the day before as ripe with souvenir possibilities, so we’ll count this particular experience as us checking quality control in advance of formally committing to gifts.
[As a side note: we also found out that they ship internationally, so once we were back stateside and setting up a Scotch tasting with friends to share the duly-declared spoils of our trip, we placed an order of some of our favorites to pair with the Scotches we brought back home. If you want recommendations - we have them.]
Alas, as the morning came to a close, and afternoon set upon us, we had one last location in Scotland to visit: Crieff. And Crieff has two almost diametrically-opposed emotional resonances for me, which we’ll get to in a moment.
But first we have to get there. Because apparently what we thought of as days-upon-days of a rain reprieve, was simply Scotland saving up to unleash it all at once and scare the absolute shit out of us.
It’s easy for me to write this now, because it’s so straightforward: the drive from Oban to Crieff was the most terrifying day of driving we had. The rain pounded down, obscuring our vision to less than twenty feet at times. The roads were tiny - smaller than almost anywhere else we’d been in the country - a single lane for each direction, and perpetually winding around imprecise and often decreasing radius curves. For much of the trip, there were sheer rock faces just inches beyond the lane lines to my left, sometimes even leaning in a bit over the road. Other times the lane line was just a sheer cliff into a loch. And since it was logging country, logging trucks periodically barreled around the corner in the oncoming lane - some of them wider than the actual lane itself.
Combine all of that, and there were more than a few times where I’d be trying to navigate a turn, desperately trying to get as close to a sheer rock wall to my left, because a massive truck was encroaching on my lane to the right as we pass each other at a reference adjusted speed of 120 miles an hour, in the pouring rain.
It wasn’t what you’d call fun.
It was, however, what you’d call exhausting. In my memory, this trip was six hours of anxiety - Google says it takes an hour and 45 minutes. And when we got to our hotel, I was so emotionally and physically spent, that I essentially collapsed onto my bed while Beth poured me what remained of the bottle of Scotch we purchased on Skye.
And then the Queen died.
Okay, so it wasn’t quite that abrupt - but it also kind of was. We’d been aware of the predominant news within the country over the past few days - how everyone was bit by bit coming to realize that this particular health scare wasn’t like the others. And how the royal family was treating it a little differently. Cancelling plans. Traveling up to see her. We’d even tuned into BBC radio for much of the trip just to hear if there was any news - the only day we actually used the radio in our rental car. (And I did the most old person thing possible and turned it down when I needed to concentrate; take me out back and shoot me now.)
So we knew that everyone was starting to treat this particular day with a little less revelry and starting to act a little more somber. And 30 minutes after we unloaded the car, just as we were starting to decompress from Satan’s Rain Rally, we got a text from Beth’s cousin Kelly:
“They just announced it. The Queen died.”
First things first: check twitter. Yep. Breaking news alerts. Well fuck.
We had no idea what was going to happen next. We didn’t know whether the next two days of our trip - our final days in Scotland, and the ones overlapping my actual birthday - were going to be affected. We read some discussions about ten days of mourning and businesses closing. About events being cancelled. About historical sites being closed in recognition and remembrance.
We needn’t have worried.
Walking down to the pub below our room (once again: Scottish Inns for the win) the bar was half full, and most everyone was talking. All over the televisions was wall to wall coverage…
… of football. (Soccer, to our American friends.)
We ordered a beer. I glanced at the TV, certain someone was going to break in any moment for live coverage of her death. But as it resolutely continued to not happen, I asked Beth if maybe they didn’t know, while also acknowledging that if they didn’t we absolutely could not be the ones to inform them - thus placing us in a historically weird Catch 22.
Finally, we heard one of the bartenders mention it casually to someone else. He mentioned how weird it was that something which had, for so long, felt simultaneously impossible and imminent … finally happened. Not sadness, or anger, or joy, just … awareness. And maybe some ambivalence.
Which ended up being the predominant sentiment in Scotland over the next few days: acknowledgement that this event was historically significant, a neutral weirdness that something which always felt forthcoming but never here had actually happened, and a general sense of moving on.
The English mourned; the Irish celebrated; the Scottish just nodded and went back to soccer. In fact, once that game ended, the anchors verbally acknowledged the Queen died, and then went back to the second game on tonight’s schedule with the same level of enthusiasm as any other day.
That night was significant for another reason as well. Over the course of dinner, we came to realize that the inn’s pub also served as a local gathering place, and that most of the clientele there seemed to be denizens of the town. In what I perceived to be a joyfully Scottish choice, some brought their dogs to the pub. And some of those dogs decided to do the rounds throughout the night and say hello to old and new friends alike. Thus it was that after being joined for dinner by a very friendly black lab, we came to meet a new friend in that dog’s owner.
We’ll call him Henry, because that’s his name (the person, not the dog.) And in a trip that certainly didn’t lack for warm and generous people, Henry was a standout. As our dinner concluded, we were idly petting his dog (whom he called “Dog”) and he came over to make sure she wasn’t bothering us - to which we answered that not only were we not bothered, but that Dog was welcome to join us at any and every meal henceforth, in this town and throughout the rest of the known universe. He invited us over to join him and another bloke for a round.
We all chatted for maybe three hours, and over the course of the time we covered everything from cars to politics (Californian, American, and British) to art to travel to motorcycles (and scooters) to design. We traded gearhead stories (“what’s the fastest you’ve ever taken your bike?”) and talked car design (we both agreed that whatever other qualities an Alfa Romeo has, they’re all somehow always beautiful) and discussed whether and how Scotland would ever find its own independence from the UK. Henry was one of the most charming, intelligent, and articulate people we met across our entire trip - and one of the most intelligent and interesting people I’ve met anywhere if I’m being honest.
By the end of it, a couple rounds later, Henry had offered to let us stay with him the next time we were in town, and we traded contact info in order to keep in touch. Which we plan to, both because we genuinely enjoyed his company, and because according to the laws of UK bar protocol, I still owe him a round of drinks - and I very much intend to make good on that. But it was one of those chance meetings that felt a bit like providence. And as we shook hands in the rain, just before he took off and we went up to our room for the night, it felt very much like we’d just spent the evening catching up with an old friend. I genuinely look forward to seeing him again, and continuing our conversation.
— — — — —
So why were we in Crieff in the first place? Aberseenshire had Fraser Castle; Inverness had Clynelish; Skye had…the entire isle; Oban had Oban Distillery. Everywhere we chose to go had a reason for us going, so what brought us to Crieff?
Well, it wasn’t the William Wallace memorial - which was breathtaking both in its grandeur as well as in the way it (again, like all Scottish experiences) went way harder than it needed to. And while the MOMA quality tech and video installations 3/4 of the way up a medieval tower were incredible, and the view from the top was absurd (and fucken wimdy), that wasn’t our purpose for being in town. Nor were we there to see Stirling Castle, and its costumed character performers giving us a personalized and conversational explanation of what life was like in that moment for that bard, lady-in waiting, Prince, etc. as we wandered the restored and unrestored sections of the castle.
No, the reason we were in Crieff - and keeping absolutely on personal brand as being more than a little bougie when we travel - was because we have a tradition of each of us taking the other out to a very nice restaurant on their birthday night. And in our research, we discovered that Crieff is home to one of Scotland’s most unique Michelin starred restaurants. Specifically, we were going to a little six table fine dining restaurant within Glenturret Distillery, the oldest distillery in Scotland.
A couple years back, Glenturret was bought by Lalique, the French glass company. And one of the projects undertaken as part of the rebranding was to create a fine dining experience to rival anything anywhere in the world. And holy hell did they nail the execution.
Beth and I have eaten in some great restaurants all around the world. 2 and 3 Michelin star restaurants in Los Angeles and New York, France and Italy, Stockholm and even Estonia (duh.) We’re well-versed and appreciative of fine dining in this era of over-the-top execution of food as art.
That’s the context. This is the kicker:
Glenturret’s Lalique restaurant wasn’t just the best meal of our trip; it was the best meal we’ve ever had. Ever. Anywhere in the world.
We’ve eaten at some of the greats, but nothing has surpassed Glenturret’s Lalique restaurant for sheer creativity, flavor, and absolute culinary artistry. I cried. I literally shed tears over this meal.
Want some examples? Of course you do. Let’s start with a lobster toddy, which was basically a lobster bisque hot toddy (with Glenturret Scotch) served as a soup course. Or a foivioli - a foie gras ravioli (which is I promise you even better than it sounds.) Langoustine and caviar in a buttermilk reduction - shouldn’t work; fucking did. Highland Wagyu. And a dozen other dishes that were each a little more surprising than the other, ending with a handmade puzzle box of secret drawers, all containing little desserts.
I genuinely don’t have the words to explain this single meal without making it a post all on its own. It was, in a word, exceptional. And so memorable. Singularly and without exception, the best meal of my life. We’ll be back. We have to go back.
(And on our way out of the restaurant we met - and got to pet - one of the distillery cats. Literally a perfect ending to the evening.)
The next morning, somewhat slightly hungthefuckover due to the sommelier’s … exuberance over the choices we’d allowed him to make (we let him pick our bottle instead of doing the wine pairing, but he still found several excuses to bring us a couple glasses here and there that paired “particularly well”) we made our way back to Glenturret. Not for another meal (unfortunately) but for a tour of the distillery and a tasting. Now, I’d already had a proper tasting of their various expressions the night before as a precursor to dinner, but given that Glenturret is purportedly the oldest distillery in Scotland, we couldn’t help but set up one last proper tour before we set off for the airport that afternoon.
After eight distillery tours, you’d think they’d all start to feel the same. And in a world where Scotch is nothing more than water, barley, yeast, and time, some parts do. However without needing to create an escape room experience, our tour guide Kenny somehow managed to make this one special too. An hour and a half’s worth of walking, talking and sipping later, we’d delved deeply not into the mechanics or logistics of producing Scotch, but into the science of Scotch. What effects a drop or two of water has on the oils in the pure liquid, and how to properly sniff a Scotch without overloading your olfactory senses. How to get all of those flavors you read on the back of the bottle. In many ways, it was the perfect compliment to our first tasting at the Scotch Whisky Experince, and the perfect tour to end our trip with.
So telling him as much, we stepped into the car to drive back to the Edinburgh airport to say goodbye to Scotland on our way to Dublin. The drive was uneventful, as we backtracked down many of the motorways that had terrified me the first day. It was impossible not to notice how much easier they seemed. But in that ease, it opened up space for us to reminisce. So we did. We were mere hours from leaving, so we spent those hours wistfully going over highlights and memories as if we’d already left. Maybe we’d hoped that keeping those memories fresh just a little longer let us would let us mentally linger just a bit.
“Fun" twist though. We must have been too loud when we said that we didn’t want to leave Scotland, because the gods (or fate) heard us. Be careful what you wish for, folks.
You may have read the headlines about how Aer Lingus’ entire IT infrastructure went down one day in September. And somehow, in the year of our lord 2022, an entire airline was left unable to do some of the things airlines commonly do these days such as checking people in, or checking baggage, or printing tickets, or having a list of their flights for that day - or knowing literally any flight they had, anywhere in the world.
Yeah, this was that day. The staff on the ground was put in a situation where they had to do everything by hand, memory, and trust. We found out later that no one in the entire company had access to any software or system anywhere internally, except twitter. It was as much of a shitshow as you’d expect. As much as we didn’t want to leave Scotland, we didn’t mean we didn’t want to leave the airport, or remain in perpetual “it’s been pushed back another hour” limbo. It sucked, but given that it was the single travel issue we had all trip, the less said of it the better. But as a result, we lost a day in Dublin because instead of getting in sometime in the early afternoon, we got in at 2:30am.
Dublin itself was … let’s just say that a very soggy day in Dublin isn’t enough to get any real sense of the city. And our activities for the single day we were there were more targeted than cultural. So having seen The Book of Kells in person, toured the Long Room at Trinity College Library, and gotten lost in the absolutely overwhelming sensory experience that is the Guinness Storehouse (seriously - it’s basically a seven story mall, and absolutely crammed with things to see, smell, touch, and taste) we sat down to dinner in an Irish pub older than the country I grew up in, and took stock of our trip.
It took almost five years to happen, but Scotland was so magical that it was worth the wait. We managed to do everything we wanted to do, and discovered so much more than we expected. We wandered freely and discovered joyfully and found ourselves wishing desperately that we could stay forever. Everywhere we went in Scotland - from central Edinburgh to the absolute edges of nowhere on Skye - was friendly, kind, and generally lovely. We made new friends and were treated like long lost family. The food ranged from great to exceptional, and the scenery seemed hellbent on surpassing itself in stunning beauty at every turn of the road.
It wasn’t the trip we’d originally planned. Or expected. Or wanted, back when any of us had first started considering it. It was so far from that in fact, due to life and death alike. But in many ways it was the trip we’d needed today. For so, so many reasons, ranging from touring Fraser castle on behalf of my mom’s memory, to celebrating newly discovered appreciations and personal change, to simply being able to travel internationally again after years of being locked down. It took on outsized meaning before we got there, but then created outsized memories the whole way.
It was very simply one of the most wonderful trips we’ve ever been on.
The next day, having navigated the absolute fifth circle of hell that is US Customs prescreening at the Dublin airport (give yourself four hours before your flight, even if you’re flying first class and have Global Entry) we slowly, almost sadly, settled in for our flight back home. We knew already that we’d be back, and our conversation on the flight kept coming back to ways in which we could do so.
Perhaps a couple weeks again; perhaps longer. We’ll revisit new old friends and towns and restaurants and museums and tiny roads and giant vistas. We’ll find a way. We almost have to. After all, despite covering 1100 kilometers and taking 1400 photos, there’s still the rest of the country to explore…
