Take Two -- Axe Murderers, Sheep Farms and,Yes, More Hiking

When we last left our hero she was walking through Rackwick Glen on the Isle of Hoy, 10 miles off the northern tip of Scotland, with an ex-Oxford Medieval literature don, ex-Bhagwan following-possible axe murderer. OK, all that but nix the axe murderer part

The not-actually-an-axe-murder-now-a-Stomness-Hostel-Minder man and I parted after exiting the Glen. He was taking the western trail back to the dock and the early afternoon and only ferry back to the Orkney Mainland. I was headed to St John’s Head -- 1,150 foot cliffs, the highest in Britain—and the great rock stack, The Old Man of Hoy.

I met up with a couple of young Australian women (the charged up types from the ferry ride over) who were aiming for the same destination. I attempted to tag along. They dashed up the side of the mountain (OK, not a mountain but a VERY large hill) at a heart attack pace (mine, not theirs). I coughed out to their rapidly vanishing backsides “no, no, I'm fine -- don’t wait. I’m just going to rest a bit. See you up there…” Of course, it might have helped had I worn real hiking shoes instead of my darling cowboy style mules. They were insanely comfortable for walking down Mass Ave or Queen Street but maybe not so much intended for hillwalking and cliff climbing.

 When I finally made it up I collapsed in the meadow near the edge of the cliff for bird watching, sketching and daydreaming. Oh yeah and I took off my damn shoes.

On the way back I stopped at that sheep farm (the one I mentioned earlier) and a comfy room. The farmers were exceptionally nice and had a young, lively  8 year old daughter. As I was reading in my room, attempting to recover from my mountain goat in heels impersonation, there was a knock at the door. It was the daughter wanting to know if I’d come watch some television with her.

Had this been a hotel I could have said “no, I’m beat – go away kid” but I couldn’t possibly be so rude in these gracious people’s home. So out I went to their living room, trying not to seem as misanthropic as I felt. We sit down, I’m expecting a BBC Scotland produced soap or even something Norwegian. The opening credits for The Golden Girls start rolling as the 8 year old tells me that it’s her favorite show and she’s excited to watch it with an American.

All of a sudden, I was surreally back in America.