On our way out of Haltwhistle--the geographical center of Great Britain, they like to say--we stopped at Hadrian’s Wall. This marked the northernmost part of the Roman Empire, as if to say “this is as far as we are going.” The remnants of the wall are about four feet thick and high, and go on for miles and miles. We had to climb up through sheep and cow herds, past some much younger walls, in order to get to the real thing.
After a quick stop at a lovely little doll house museum we headed north to Moffatt, where we stopped for the night. Right next to the campground was a woolen mill, where we discovered sweaters we hadn’t realized we needed--and on sale, too!
The next day we headed to New Lanark, about 20 miles off the main roads. This mill town was an experiment by Robert Owen, a social reformer intent on improving the lives of his mill workers and educating their children. Along the way, he instituted the first nursery school, initiated an eight-hour work day, banned child labor, and still made a profit for his investors. It is quite a village: some of it is now residences, but much is open to the public. Once again, when we visited the mill’s shop we were compelled to purchase wool sweaters we didn’t know we needed. We expect this pattern will continue.
On the way out we ignored the GPS (Geezer Positioning System) that told us to take a yellow road, opting instead for the (obviously better) red road. Wrong: it turned out to follow every turn of the Clyde River, throwing in a few extra frightening hills and turns. But we finally arrived safely at the M road and made our way to the Glasgow Campground, located in a large “country” park.
This campground has probably been our least favorite place so far, just because of its location. Glasgow offers very few choices when it comes to campgrounds, and this one was a good 10 miles from the city center. It was very easy to get to: about 200 yards off the M, a couple of left turns and we were there. The problem was how to get into the city without using Rover. The attendant at the reception gate told us of a bus stop at the other end of the park, about 2 miles away, and also, he seemed to remember, a possible Park and Ride. So the next day we rode our folding bikes the two miles--including three hills--toward the bus stop and found a gas station where we asked permission to lock them up for the day. A lady on the street told us which bus to catch: it proved to be an express that went directly to the city center on the M without stopping.
All in all, that first day it took us an hour and a half to get into the city. We repeated the trip the second day: this time, since we knew about parking the bikes and the bus schedule, it only took us an hour. At the last minute we decided to wear our raincoats again, and, indeed, the rain started to fall only five minutes into our twenty-five minute bike ride. It rained on and off both days: brilliant warm sun, rain and chilly wind ten minutes later, then sun again.
Glasgow is a big busy city: lots of traffic, lots of impressive Victorian sandstone buildings, lots of dirt deposited on the sandstone, and lots to see. The Kelvingrove Art Museum building is an incredible structure,
and the dirty old cathedral proved to be stunning--straight out of Harry Potter.
In the city center, the statue of King George III, who let the American colonies slip away, has been replaced with Walter Scott (although it still stands in what’s called George’s Square).
We had gone to the trouble of buying water hose adaptors in a variety of sizes, but Glasgow’s campground trumped us: unthreaded spiggots. So we used bleach to wipe down everything in sight, shoved our hose over their #!* faucet, and gave ourselves cold baths in the process of adding a few quarts of water to our tank. As if that weren’t enough, there was no WiFi at the campground; fortunately, though, both a pub and a Holiday Express just across the road had internet access. The pub’s was terribly slow, so we went to the Holiday Express; even when we told the clerk we were from the campground, he gave us the password for the day--as the hotel staff did each of the three days we were there. (However, not even the hotel could provide bus service to the city center.)
We have found the Scottish people to be very friendly, good humored, and helpful--often unintelligible, but helpful. One old lady told us she would tell us when to get off the bus: sure enough, twenty minutes later she stood up from her seat in front and waved to us in the back. Others hear us discussing bus routes on the street and ask us where we want to go. This afternoon a well dressed man walked us through a college construction site to help us find our way back to the campground. Invariably, natives we talk with ask us where we are from and wish us a continued “good holiday.”
We drove to Culzean Castle Estate today. It has a long history: first a fortress, then a hunting lodge, and finally a Victorian family home. After WWII, the third floor was given to General Eisenhower for his personal use: it's now a hotel with $500/night rooms.
After seeing the castle, we drove to a little campground in Ayr, a town on the shores of the Firth of Clyde, due east of the northernmost point of the island of Ireland. It is right in the middle of the town--just the sort of location we like, but have seldom found on this trip. Tomorrow we brave the traffic around Glasgow to get a little farther north for a couple of days to see more countryside. So far it reminds us of a green Wyoming: huge barren rolling hills and lots of sheep--lots and lots of sheep. And even here in southern Scotland, it’s still light at 10 p.m.