How cool is that?

One overlooked the charming village of Doune. Another crowned the bustling town of Stirling. The final one soared above the grand city of Edinburgh.  By the end of each trip, my legs and lower back burned and grumbled from the steep hills and countless stairs. Was it worth it?

Of course.

I’ve seen palacios and palazzos before, in Spain and Italy. I’ve even visited the Iolani Palace, residence of Hawaiian kings, in Honolulu.

But there’s still something wondrous about a castle. Even now that I’ve outgrown (mostly) my Disney princess phase. Even now that I can clearheadedly critique the materialistic and regressive “princess phenomenon” in contemporary culture.

Perhaps it’s because, as an American who never grew up with a royal institution, I have an unrealized desire for majesty. Certainly, there was enough of that to spare when I beheld the Crown Jewels of Scotland or the Stone of Scone for the first time.

The egalitarian in me noted the expense of keeping jewels that can pay for a social program or two. The monarchist, the one who loves a good, grand symbol, hushed that voice.

Because don’t a lot of people quietly yearn to see that kind of grandeur, even for just a moment? Isn’t that why all our eyes were trained on the Royal Wedding? Don’t we all sometimes just want the fairy tale, the illusion that it is possible to have Camelot in this day and age?

In my Order and Nature in Renaissance Writing class, we’ve been examining notions of order and control, divine right, in the Renaissance period through such cultural markers as masques, gardens, horseback-riding, dancing, etc. When it comes down to it, the castle is merely a symbol of power, of control, which is perhaps especially comforting to me and so many others in this uncertain time, in which economies flounder and revolution is in the air.

The castles I saw were each radically different, from the lonely harshness of Doune to the colorful vibrancy of Stirling to the glorious might of Edinburgh.

Yet, all were arresting, all were majestic, all were magical, each and every one.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail was shot here. I even got to run around with coconuts!

Stirling Castle was the childhood home of Mary, Queen of Scots, and was supposed to be the seat of the King of Scotland.

Me in front of grand Edinburgh Castle. It was like a city within a city!

There, I said it.

In general, I like school. I like school a lot. Hell, I’m even seriously considering getting a Ph.D. in English and becoming a full-time professional student to (sort of) support my pretentious creative writing habit. There is little better to me than reading great literary works and getting into loud, lusty arguments about them (or, ahem, cracking snide, innuendo-laced jokes).

So . . . why do I feel so unmotivated here at the University of Strathclyde?

It’s not that I despise the classes or anything. I’m taking Enlightenment to Romanticism, Order and Nature in Renaissance Writing, and Detective Fiction (which is pretty much my trying to address the part of literary history I’ve conveniently ignored in my Agnes Scott career, i.e. most literature before 1800). So far, I’ve found something(s) to like in each class, whether the literature (The Moonstone? Yay! The Rape of the Lock? Yay! ) or the professors/tutors (my Renaissance professor does something awesome-sounding called Animal Studies. Yeah, that exists.) or both.

I’m not even technically slacking off. I finish my readings before lectures, take notes for discussion, and during tutorials, talk. A lot.

(I actually fear I’m becoming the sterotypical loud American. Or the angry feminist/postcolonialist. Or what-have-you.)

But still— why do I feel like my brain is only half-turned-on all the time?

I’m sleepwalking through my classes:  rushing through my readings, scribbling down shallow answers to discussion questions the morning of my tutorials, and writing this blog post near midnight instead of taking notes on Ben Jonson’s masques.

Maybe it’s because I’m taking three classes as opposed to my usual four or five. Maybe it’s because I have only six papers and exams all semester as opposed to 20. Maybe it’s because I’m taking all these classes pass/fail. Maybe it’s because, as a local student in my Enlightenment/Romanticism class pointed out, “It’s like a holiday for [me].”

There’s a booming voice in my head that is shouting, “YOU ARE ON HOLIDAY. YOU ARE NOT AT AGONY SPOT (hahaha). YOU ARE IN EUROPE. PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY, etc.”

There’s also another, quieter voice in my head that is gently but persistently telling me that just because I am “on holiday” doesn’t mean that I should disrupt the classroom experience of my fellow students who are not there “on holiday,” who are not taking these classes pass/fail, by being woefully unprepared or downright contemptuous of the proceedings.

Then again, the last sentence I just wrote is unnecessarily judgmental. Who am I to say what works best for individual students studying abroad? Who am I to deem all local students as necessarily more “serious” than exchange students?

Not to mention, even though I am an aspiring academic, the whole point of studying “abroad” is to have the whole experience of living in a foreign country, not just lock myself in the library.  There’s a new country and continent for me to explore and frolic about on. If I shut myself in, I might as well have stayed home.

In the end, I really just need to find my happy medium, between getting off intellectual autopilot and having fun on holiday and to have both the “study” and the “abroad.”

Look how much work I've done since tutorial ended at 11 AM! What time is it now? Uh, midnight. . .

In Edinburgh, I saw Harry Potter’s birthplace.

Sort of.

When two friends, Bekah and Aubrey, and I decided to visit Edinburgh last Sunday, we put The Elephant House, the café where Rowling wrote the early Harry Potter books, on the list.

Of course, we got lost.

Our map was not forthcoming about when streets turned into bridges. Also, some streets were simply unnamed, forcing us to puzzle out when and where to turn.

After several minutes of wandering around, occasionally stopping to furrow our brows at the map, we stopped near the National Museum of Scotland, to consult it yet again. Casually, I glanced at the business next to us and caught a few telltale words:  ”Harry Potter.  . .Rowling. . .Elephant.”

“Guys!” I exclaimed. “I think this is it.”

We looked up, and lo and behold, it was The Elephant House.

I was afraid to see a tourist trap, like the Royal Mile turned out to be — some kind of overpriced Harry Potter shrine with ridiculously long lines and gimmicky house-elf-shaped cookies and other gaudy memorabilia.

Instead, we walked into a brightly lit and bustling café festooned with elephants of all shapes and sizes:  elephant figurines, elephant prints, an elephant chair, elephant-ear-shaped shortbread,  a poster asking for donations to elephant care and rescue organizations,

The line was  somewhat lengthy but took us no more than ten minutes to get through. There was a special of a small pot of tea plus a blueberry muffin for 3.25 pounds. No more than usual for a drink and pastry at your typical cute, indie café.

Of course, it was still packed; and when I attempted to go to the back room overlooking Edinburgh Castle, where Rowling had sat and written her first manuscripts, all the seats were taken or reserved; and a staff-member kindly but firmly informed me I had to order first before sitting down.

Still, we had no trouble finding three seats at the bar and settled in nicely, I with my rooibos tea, Bekah with her peppermint, and Aubrey with her chai.

Verdict?

Rowling’s preference was very understandable. The tea service was wonderful:   there were loose leaves instead of bags and a nifty strainer that sat over the cup. All the niceties, milk, sugar, butter and jam, were duly offered. As for the muffin, it was perfectly moist and just-sweet-enough with a surprisingly juicy center that burst like a real blueberry when I bit into it.

Not to say that The Elephant House doesn’t puff itself up with Rowling and Harry Potter with its pamphlets and very noticeable sign. But, it clearly hasn’t let itself become too bigheaded and ignore the most important parts of a café experience: delicious food and a convivial atmosphere.

One of the many vigorous dances at the cèilidh.

2.  Dancing at the cèilidh (Gaelic social gathering) requires the most amazing stamina and speed. And, kilts look so pretty with their pleats swirling about.

3.  Strongbow is a cider not a beer.

Australian flag for Australia Day.

4.  The Gallery of Modern Art, the Glasgow Cathedral, Provand’s Lordship,  and the St. Mungo Museum for Religious Life and Art are all free. Museums throughout the UK are free (Hear that, Art Institute and High Museum of Art and Field Museum and your $15-25 fees?).

5.  Australia Day is on Jan. 26 (and celebrates, you guessed it, Australia). Also, that Australians like beetroot. A lot.

6.  Always wear cheap shoes when going to a club.

Glasgow Cathedral.

7.  Always remember cars drive on the left side of the road.

8.  Wear sturdy shoes when walking up the steep, steep hills of Glasgow.

9. St. Mungo is the patron saint of Scotland and Glasgow. Yes, J. K. Rowling did not make him up.

10.  The Glasgow Necropolis, full of the city’s most illustrious dead, finally made me see the appeal of graveyards, certain-person-who-will-not-be-named.

Necropolis, i.e., "City of the Dead."

11.  Toting your passport  to the pub if it sounds like the most remotely good idea is usually a good idea.

12.  Siri apparently can’t understand the Scottish accent. 

13.  People from Manchester are called Mancunians.

14.  Tie cloth around clootie trees for healing.

15.  Shopping in Glasgow is amazing (6 pounds for a new dress at Select!) but Primark is the best of all. For a pair of basic black flats, a laundry basket, a tote bag, a fitted sheet, two pillowcases, two towels and three washclothes? Twenty-seven pounds.

16.  ”Okay” (with a strong emphasis on the “o”) is a very common slang word here.

17.  One heck of a cliché but you do learn something new everyday when you’re studying abroad.

Bagpipes and kilts in the street.

Besides the jet lag and the scurrying around to get registered for class and stuff, I have been slowly adjusting to life here at the University of Strathclyde. Still, getting here wasn’t so easy.

Replacement suitcase. I hardly knew ya, blue suitcase.

Thus, today, I will extol the importance of one thing while traveling:  the sturdy suitcase.

Not just one but both my carry-on and checked bag destroyed themselves during the journey. How?

When I made it to Memphis International Airport for the first leg of my approximately 16-hour journey, I was happily carrying a small blue rolling suitcase and a big green duffle on wheels.

Before I even got through security, my blue suitcase handle suddenly got stuck and refused to move up, no matter who was pulling at it, me, Mom, or Dad.

And so, I was forced to buy a new suitcase at the airport shop. At least it was cute and red and built out of solid plastic.

Last American meal in America (in Dallas, y'all).

The rest of my journey was surprisingly stress-free, or so I thought. All my flights were on-time; once, we even arrived a few minutes early. Since I was traveling to an English-speaking country, I could understand all the signs in each airport (Dallas-Ft. Worth, London Heathrow, and Glasgow International). No one on my flights was unduly annoying

First caramel latte in the UK (in London-town. . .erm, airport).

except that I was on the aisle, so I had to get up frequently to allow a woman to go to the bathroom. My trip through British immigration took all of ten minutes and a single stamp in my passport for student visitor; I even had enough time between flights to get fast food and

coffee, which isn’t always possible.

However, when I made it to Glasgow, I was incredibly excited to be there after such a long trip. After bundling myself up in a proper scarf, I tramped over to the baggage claim, eager to claim my bag and meet my fellow international students. . .

. . .And then I saw my suitcase.

NOOOOooooo!

And so, the first thing I ever said to people at Strathclyde was, “Does anyone have any tape?”

I was lucky enough that nothing valuable (or anything, really) seems to have been lost. Still, who expects their suitcase to split mid-flight?

Thus, keep in mind, one and all:  Always have a sturdy suitcase!

Since my cooking skills are mediocre at best, desserts were the way to go. The easy choice, then, was Scotch shortbread.

According to the English Tea Store:

Scottish shortbread evolved from medieval biscuit bread, which was a twice-baked, enriched bread roll dusted with sugar and spices and hardened into a Rusk (soft, sweetened biscuit). Eventually butter was substituted for yeast, and shortbread was born. Since butter was such an important ingredient, the word “shortbread” derived from shortening. Shortbread may have been made as early as the 12th Century, however its invention is often attributed to Mary, Queen of Scots in the 16th Century.

It is also associated with various customs:  In Shetland, it was broken over the head of brides before they entered their homes, and it was eaten in Scotland on New Year’s Eve, possibly derived from an ancient tradition of eating Yule Cakes which symbolized the sun.

January 6 is also Shortbread Day. 

Scotch shortbread has been called the “jewel in the crown” of Scottish baking by Chef John Quigley of Red Onion in Glasgow. It was also chosen to be the representative sweet of the United Kingdom during Café Europe, the cultural initiative of the European Union on Europe Day ( May 9, 2006) in 27 cafés in capitals across the EU to promote the member states’ desserts. 

So, knowing all this about shortbread, is it worth the fuss?

The first surprise was the list of ingredients.

Ta da!

Yup, that’s it:  one part sugar, two parts butter, three parts flour. Want proof?

Thank you, Betty Crocker's Cookbook, 40th Anniversary Edition!

It was nice baking with so few ingredients and utensils; normally, I take out all these bowls and tools and a dozen ingredients. Here, I used a single bowl, a mixer, a small spatula, two cups, and a rolling pin. Shortest clean-up ever!

Mixing it up.

I did intend to be awesome and mix it entirely by hand, but my puny arms couldn’t make the butter and flour and sugar stick properly together, so I resorted to the mixer.

Then came the most fearsome part:  rolling it out. 

Now, you may wonder what’s so terrible about rolling out dough. Let’s put it this way, I have avoided all recipes involving a rolling pin for about seven years.  Why? To make a long story short, one Christmas, my siblings, cousins, and I decided to make sugar cookies, and it ended with flour everywhere and yelling children and dough sticking to the counter and floor and misshapen floury-tasting cookies (which probably also explains my aversion to sugar cookies).

Nevertheless, I steeled myself and carefully floured the counter and rolling pin.

And you know what? It turned out fine.

Now, why was I so nervous again?

Alas, I realized that most of my household’s cookie-cutters were Christmas-and-Valentine’s-Day-related, so I was forced to resort to a generic star and a small glass. Still, they came out quite well.

Stars and circles.

Then, I popped them into the oven for twenty minutes.

Two-decker oven.

Usually, it’s easy for me to figure out when cookies are ready, since they turn brown and sweet-smelling and enlarge nicely. Shortbread cookies, however, hold their shapes and sizes well and don’t really change color, as I discovered. They do begin to smell warm and delicious, but that’s about it. Thus, I checked the time carefully.

Finally, they were finished!

Hurray!

So, what’s the verdict?

The flavor surprised me; the store-bought cookies (Girl Scouts’ Trefoils, anyone?) I’m used to are much sweeter. These cookies tasted like moderately sweetened Flying Biscuit biscuits, as a matter of fact.

As a big fan of Flying Biscuit biscuits, though, that wasn’t a strike against them; on the contrary, once I adjusted, they became quite addicting. I also managed to mentally convince myself that I could eat more of them because of their small size and  relative lack of sweetness (never mind the high butter content).

I also like the tininess and sturdiness of them. They came off the ungreased baking sheet in one piece (always a plus) and could be packed tightly in a little container.

My one complaint is that my sweet tooth did yearn for more sugar in the flavor, and my always unsatisfied palate wanted more complexity. Also, when they cooled, while still yummy, they did become a bit bland.

But there are millions of variations on the classic recipe, so I can keep experimenting. And everyone in my family enjoyed them!

Lorenz as Odysseus enjoying a cookie.

Pauline, not baking for once.

Scotch shortbread.

So, what’s exactly happening? On Jan. 10, Scotland’s First Minister Alex Salmond of the Scottish National Party (SNP) called for a referendum on Scottish secession in 2014.

Of course, I’m not nearly acquainted enough with its nuances to feel comfortable commenting on it, but here’s some articles I’ve found!

Why are England and Scotland Weighing a Break-Up? — Heather Horn, The Atlantic 

The end of the union is coming sooner rather than later — Allan Massie, The Telegraph 

The New Braveheart? Scotland’s Salmond Eyes Independence from the U.K. — Catherine Mayer, Time 

Massie, in particular, is convinced that Scotland will soon secede:

Scotland is drifting away from England and consequently will someday sail out of the United Kingdom. As I have argued in the Telegraph before, this isn’t because Scots are now more different from the English than they used to be. On the contrary it’s because they are more alike, because there are fewer differences in the way people live either side of the old Border. It is precisely because of the greater uniformity that so many Scots feel the need to assert that we are distinct and different.

This should surprise nobody. After all, isn’t it because national distinctions are everywhere being elided or blurred that many elsewhere too feel a similar need to assert their own individuality? Opposition to the European Union has grown in England even as English life becomes more like life as it is lived in Continental Europe. The English have become a nation of wine-drinkers, and the result is the emergence of UKIP [UK Independence Party, who seek the end of British involvement in the European Union].

Horn, while somewhat agreeing with Massie’s analysis of the situation, points out the opposition’s arguments against secession:

Scotland’s a mess in other ways, it would have more international clout as a member of the UK, it’s not actually clear how the energy resources would be divided up or that Scotland would be all that financially successful on its own, and nothing seems to be going horribly wrong with the union, so if it ain’t broke, why fix it?

On a lighter note, the satirical website The Daily Mash came up with a third option — nothing will change if Scotland secedes. If Scotland leaves the UK:

It will still be damp, windy and miles from everywhere.

]]> http://annaadventuresabroad.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/the-push-for-scottish-independence/feed/ 0 annaisabe http://annaadventuresabroad.wordpress.com/2012/01/11/scottish-arts-and-culture-reviews-a-look-at-the-film-trainspotting/ http://annaadventuresabroad.wordpress.com/2012/01/11/scottish-arts-and-culture-reviews-a-look-at-the-film-trainspotting/#comments Wed, 11 Jan 2012 19:25:56 +0000 annaisabe http://annaadventuresabroad.wordpress.com/?p=501 Continue reading »]]>

courtesy of Wikipedia

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin? — Mark “Rent Boy” Renton, Trainspotting

I was reading my trusty Lonely Planet guide to Scotland and naturally, gravitated to the section on Scottish arts and culture. In the section on essential Scottish films, Trainspotting popped out as a title I vaguely recognized. Finding it on Netflix Instant Play, I decided to check it out.

Trainspotting was voted the most favorite Scottish film of all time by the British public in a poll by The List and was seen as Britain’s answer to Hollywood when it was released in 1996. It also is considered the 10th best British film of all time by the British Film Institute.

Based on the novel of the same name by Irvine Welsh (who is in a cameo in the film as Mikey Forrester)  and directed by Danny Boyle, Trainspotting takes place in an impoverished section of Edinburgh in the economically distressed 80’s (but was primarily filmed in my eventual destination of Glasgow). The movie follows a group of “mates” who live in constrained circumstances, most of them being heroin addicts. Their bitterness at their peripheral place in the United Kingdom in these hard times is perfectly reflected in this rant by Mark “Rent Boy” Renton:

It’s SHITE being Scottish! We’re the lowest of the low. The scum of the fucking Earth! The most wretched, miserable, servile, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization. Some hate the English. I don’t. They’re just wankers. We, on the other hand, are COLONIZED by wankers. Can’t even find a decent culture to be colonized BY. We’re ruled by effete assholes. It’s a SHITE state of affairs to be in, Tommy, and ALL the fresh air in the world won’t make any fucking difference!

Trainspotting focuses primarily on Renton, played by a shockingly emaciated and bitter Ewan McGregor, whom I associate with such charming, pretty-boy roles as in Moulin Rouge and Big Fish or heroic, muscular ones like Obi-Wan Kenobi in the Star Wars prequel trilogy. His voice opens the movie musing on how he has not chosen a normal life because he has chosen (or rather become addicted to) the life of a junkie. McGregor’s harsh, deliberately unattractive performance definitely made me consider picking up some of his less slick work.

Trainspotting is not marked by a really linear narrative structure. It’s heavily focused on Renton’s inner life as he struggles to keep clean and choose a life in motion as opposed to the standstill life of his so-called “mates.” In keeping with that perspective, the movie is both sharply funny and queasily ugly in a way that reminds me of the 1999 film Fight Club (I wonder if it was knowingly influenced by Trainspotting).

For the first third of the movie, I had a hard time keeping track of who was who in the fairly sizeable cast (and the movie is definitely androcentric, although a young Kelly Macdonald is memorable due to one hell of a put-down/come-on) and the only character I really empathized with was Renton (partially since the film was almost entirely through his eyes). I do wonder, however, if it was a conscious directorial choice to show how empty and aimless the lives of the cast were. Still, especially after a horrifying event halfway through the movie, the characters become darker, especially Jonny Lee Miller as callous, movie-obsessed Sick Boy, Kevin McKidd as clean, honest jock Tommy whose life goes awry due to a seemingly minor theft by Renton, and Robert Carlyle as the living embodiment of the Violent Glaswegian Begbie. Only dim Spud, played by Ewen Bremner, remains relatively sweet in these horrific circumstances. Still even when bad things happen to the characters, since I didn’t have as much internal access to them as Renton, I sometimes had a difficult time feeling appropriately shocked or haunted by certain events, such as one of the pivotal scenes in the middle regarding the baby Dawn.

The movie is honestly disgusting and yet visually striking. I didn’t realize that surreal images were such a big part of the film, and they are used effectively to show the mental state of Renton. Yet, it never makes heroin addiction look cool; on the contrary, an early, visually brilliant but absolutely vile scene in a toilet and one in the middle involving drug withdrawal and one of the freakiest babies you’ll ever see permanently put me off the idea of ever doing drugs (even if former U.S. Senator Bob Dole thought it encouraged its use). At times, though, I did feel that some of the slick, innovative imagery did put something of a wall between me and the impoverished characters of the movie.

Sound-wise, due to my unfamiliarity with the Scottish accent, I had to put on subtitles, although I did get used to the vulgar musicality of Trainspotting’s language. As for the music, consisting of tracks from pop and punk, the soundtrack perfectly reflects the 80′s milieu and brilliantly enhances the film.

As for the unusual title? “Trainspotting” may be a reference to the injection of heroin, as it moves along the “tracks” or veins. The other may be a reference to a scene in the novel (not included in the film) where Begbie and Renton meet Begbie’s drunk father in a train station when he asks them if they are “trainspottin’,” reflecting overall themes of abandonment and stagnancy. 

Despite its flaws, though, the excellent performances, mindbending cinematography, fantastic sountrack, and the harrowing nature of the content make this a film well-worth seeing.

These are my feelings.

However, even though I’ve traveled a lot before, this will be the first time I will be almost entirely on my own in a foreign country. Except for another girl from Agnes with whom I’m only acquainted, I will know no one abroad.

And that’s terrifying.

Even though I know I could always run to the study abroad coordinator at Strathclyde if stuff goes wrong or at the last resort, contact the Agnes Scott Office of International Education or even home, I’m still, largely, alone for everyday things.

I know I’ll have an orientation when I get there, and that’s comforting. Still, it’s occurred to me that I will have to figure out where to buy food (don’t have a meal plan!) and budget that out, as well as learn how to get around an unfamiliar city and country and probably other things and expenses I can’t think of right now.

There will be neither friends nor family to help me in this far-off place.

But that’s what study abroad’s for, right? To learn how to handle myself in unfamiliar territory?

Even rationally knowing that, I’ve been feeling a nervousness I hadn’t felt as I was buying air tickets and filling out the dozens of forms ISEP and the University’s been throwing at me (my health insurance includes coverage for the “repatriation of remains?”). I guess school and exams had been cushioning me from that reality.

There’s not much I can do, though, except to prepare extensively  and hope for the best. I may not be able to control my fear, but I can control my response to it.

Knowledge is power!

Dear Anna,

ISEP has confirmed your placement at Strathclyde University for the spring 2012 semester. Please stop by the OIE on Monday to pick up an important acceptance packet and other materials.

I received the official acceptance on Nov. 19, but I haven’t announced it here until now (Agnes, as usual, is slinging a ton of work at me, and it’s only now I’ve gotten a breather).

But all in all, it seems appropriate to give thanks for this opportunity right after Thanksgiving.

And so, thank you to everyone without whose help I wouldn’t be able to go abroad next semester.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for trusting me enough to travel on my own to a different country (again) and for paying for the bulk of it.

Thank you, Agnes Scott, for the scholarships you’ve provided to help fund this trip.

Thank you, especially, the Office of International Education, for assisting me as I waded (and am still wading) through the options, forms, and hurdles.

Thank you, ISEP, for placing me in Glasgow.

Even though I have lots of petty complaints everyday, it’s a good exercise to remember how lucky I am to have all these people behind me.

After all, thanks to them, I finally get to see those highland cows!

courtesy of Wikipedia