January 2016 – Maggie Sadler

One Remains

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

As I found myself gazing out the rain-spattered window at Edinburgh Airport awaiting my departing flight back home yesterday morning, I found it difficult to believe that my penultimate semester at St Andrews had ended. While I am certainly relieved to have finished all of my coursework, I find the emotions I am currently feeling difficult to articulate. “Seven down, one to go,” has been pinging around in my skull like a trapped fly, insistently reminding me that I really do only have one more semester left at St Andrews. Odd, considering as I recall the moment I first set foot in St Salvator’s Quad as clearly as the droplets I saw cascading down the glass.

As I am now sitting by the Christmas tree at home, hoping desperately for snow (instead of this rain I seemingly can’t escape), for the first time in my life I feel more like a guest in my parents’ home rather than it being myhome too. Over the past few years my family has moved around quite a bit back in the Midwest. In my Bilbo way, as a comfortable home is one of the things I treasure most, this has been a rather difficult period in my life. Yet while these difficulties unfolded back home, I always had St Andrews to return to. Now when I walk around the too-square city blocks and look at all the cookie-cutter homes, it doesn’t feel right somehow, and I cannot escape the feeling that I am really just visiting. Perhaps this feeling has arisen because of another thought simmering at the back of my mind while I contemplate post-St Andrews life: the fear of returning to the Midwest. I cannot help but feel that returning after making such a hoopla about adventure and living abroad would be anti-climactic somehow. And for someone who admittedly indulges in the dramatic here and there, there’s nothing I do indeed fear more than an anti-climax.

Such feelings, combined with the simple beauty of Scotland and the kindness of its people, has made St Andrews truly feel like home for me. The little river burbling along Lade Braes, the whiskey sun flowing over the farm hills in the evening, and the haar tiptoeing through the cathedral ruins: I have fallen irrevocably in love with all that St Andrews is over the past four years. Even looking beyond the St Andrews town limits to the craggy Highlands or the quiet lap of the waves near the cliffs of the Isle of Skye, I can see parts of my soul tucked away in all these bits of Scotland. While I am excited to see where my next step takes me, the thought of leaving these things behind has opened a small fissure in my heart.

Making the decision to attend St Andrews seems like a lifetime ago, at a time when I think I was a completely different person than I am today, yet it threw my life into a strong current that has completely swept me away. As I wrote in my previous post, I once thought that my time at St Andrews was the “big moment,” that it would be my defining feature as I returned to the U.S. and settled into a routine existence. Yet now I find routine confining, as all I really want to spend my days doing is moseying about, seeing things and talking to all the different kinds of people I encounter along my way. Rather than St Andrews being the entirety of my story, I now find myself hoping that it really will be merely one chapter in a great many. Indeed, “adventure” has become the word that I want to define who I am and the course my life has taken.

I also think that this idea, “adventure,” is what is making my attempt to plan a life after university so difficult. While going to graduate school and working towards a Master’s or Doctorate sounds interesting, and at my heart I do really love to learn, I am almost wary to spend another substantial part of my life trapped in the comings and goings of an academic routine, confined to the library and married to my work. A small voice deep within my heart keeps whispering to me as I ponder these things that I can still satisfy my love of learning out there, out in the world and amongst its people. Instead of Googling viable postgraduate universities I wander off in my searches, punching “Norwegian lighthouse jobs” or “horseback safari tour guide South Africa” into the search bar rather than what I should be looking for. Yet deep down, I think this is what I am looking for.

Lately I have been saying that my life ambition is to be an old, old lady with plenty of stories to tell. You know the type: the eccentric great aunt at family parties who occasionally comes out with true zingers, of the wild times in her youth and the amazing things she has seen. This is the heart of where this word “adventure” truly comes in. It is my hope that I will live a completely full life, that I never once regretted a single thing that I did and instead took every opportunity to learn about myself, the world around me, and the people who join me for the ride. Recently I stumbled across this quote:

“For what it’s worth … it’s never too late, or in my case too early, to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit. Start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people who have a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of…”

As I will be celebrating twenty-two in a few days, I find these words to be rather poignant for this transitional period of my life: a new age, a new year, and new possibilities as I graduate from St Andrews in June. I have no idea who I am or who I want to be, only that I want to be startled and to feel as deeply as I can, as these words suggest. And I am beginning to learn what it means to take pride in myself. This is where I think “seven down, one to go” becomes important. I have very nearly completed my degree combined with the small challenges that come with living abroad. At times I cannot believe that I, small and Midwestern, could have possibly achieved something like that. Yet not only have I merely “done” it, but done so while taking the time to explore, to challenge myself outside of the classroom, and to live in a way that I once thought was only a fantasy from my books. While I have my reservations about actually completing my degree in June, and all these speculations becoming a reality, I am slowly starting to realize that perhaps there will truly be another great adventure awaiting. What I am beginning to take pride in is the fact that I do not think that I will settle for a path that my heart is not truly invested in, and that I will work as hard as I can to do all it is that I hope to do to become that old, old lady with all the stories. Perhaps all I need to do then is relax, and let the answer to the riddle of where I will be this time next semester startle me indeed.

For now, though, I will settle into my armchair with a good book and Bear tucked by my side. After a very long semester with essays on mermaids and Sleeping Beauty, many stories written, and even a wedding attended back in October, I think I owe it to myself to stop and soak it all in. Wishing the best of the holiday season to all those who read this, and may your days be merry and bright.

Originally written 21 December 2015

The Story of my Life

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

I have been putting off this blog post for a rather long while now, so much so that I did not even take the time to reflect and write about completing my penultimate year at university. Time has consequently passed, and I now find myself in the thick of buying books, frequenting the library, and donning scarves against the oncoming chill for what very well could be the last time. As I saunter dreamily down what should be the familiar cobblestoned streets, I find that a new wind is blowing through this sleepy Scottish town.

For instance, I took great comfort as an underclassman seeing certain student faces around town. These were people I was not intimately acquainted with, but I somehow always saw them in passing for several years. They made me feel safe, comfortable, and like I was still at home. Yet such people, who held a special place for me as “friendly faces,” are gone, replaced by more doe-eyed and milk-skinned subjects. Rather suddenly I realized today that I have now come to fill this void left by my predecessors. It may be expressed by all manner of clichés: I’ve been around the block a few times, I know the drill, the wizened old sage, etcetera. In essence, I have reached my fourth and final year here at St Andrews and I’m left standing in a rather befuddled state trying to work out just how in the heck that happened.

While most of the sights remain the same – my beloved North Sea, the wee trinkets bedazzling my favorite coffee shop on North Street, the cascade of the river on Lade Braes – just as the faces I’m surrounded by have changed, I feel as though something inside me has altered too. Seeing the troupes of first years eagerly bounce down the medieval streets serves as a poignant reminder to what my first few weeks in this strange new world were actually like. I spent the better part of first year wondering if I truly had made a grave mistake. I religiously scoured social media, seeing all those I had left behind seemingly have the time of their lives without me. Yet I also desperately wished to fit in with my new peers who had had such illustrious educations at British private schools, who seemed so cultured and refined compared to my corn-fed and quaint Midwestern ways. If I happened to let slip some of my more absurd imaginings or opinions I would experience the occasional backlash, yet in this environment the barbs seemed a lot more painful because I was so eager to be just like everyone else: a cool, cultured, and collected St Andrews student. Consequently, I felt more isolated and alone than I have thus far ever felt. I ruthlessly told myself that I would never be able to make friends or build a life here. Even well into my second year, doubts plagued my mind and I truly questioned whether Scotland was where I was meant to be. I couldn’t wait to return to where I thought my home truly was.

These attitudes may have improved over the course of my third year, but the most radical shift in my mentality came this summer in which I spent the entire duration of May 26th to September 6th at home. While my life was quiet (how I usually prefer it to be), I was with my dog and my parents (whom I declare my best friends), and had not a care in the world (except whether Jamie Fraser would escape his latest peril in the Outlander series), I felt a wanting; nay, a yearning for something else. And finally I realized what that really was.

Scotland.

I’ve begun my final year at St Andrews rather dreamily, ambling along Lade Braes with a smile dancing upon my lips and my eyes fixated upon that wild Scottish sky. I walk through the rain blissfully, all c’est la vie rather than slouching along in my heathered trench coat with eyes trained to the pavement. Now more than ever I take the time to stop and appreciate each petal, each fleck of sea foam that belongs to Scotland, as silly and romantic such attentions may seem. In fact, I find that I am rather more romantic of heart than logical of mind as of late. While most of my peers are fretting about dissertations and postgraduate plans, this riptide they have all got swept up in has somehow passed me by. And yet I am quite alright with it, for such means I am truly plunging my hands deep into the combs of this place called Scotland so I may taste its richest and most ambrosial nectar. Simply put: I am in no hurry and all I really would like to do is stop.

While to some this may not be the wisest attitude for a soon-to-be university graduate, I think this is the most significant thing I could have learned in all my time here at St Andrews: to take the time to appreciate the now, the where I am rather than the where I am going, and to soak in through every single one of my senses the essence of that place. Most of my life has been a tour-de-force of wild ambition. Though I still retain many dreams that others would deem grand, the speed at which they are accomplished is no longer a priority. Scotland has radically altered my system of values, in which I esteem adventure and living thoroughly above all else.

I recall a conversation I had with my mother this summer which I think would be relevant to this musing. Obviously I am not immune to the pressures of considering postgraduate life; and indeed, my Type-A personality still rears its ugly head to send me into panicked attempts at planning the upcoming years. However, I remember wildly attempting to vocalize this feeling that developed deep in my heart over the course of this summer, and what I finally arrived at was this:

I desire to live an extraordinary life.

By extraordinary I do not mean “better than” your average Sally, Susan, or Sam. Nor do I need anything particularly outlandish to happen, such as being entrusted with a rather queer piece of jewelry that could alter the fortunes of men. Rather, my current life ambition is to have stories to tell, particularly when I am grey and a good deal shorter than I currently am.

I want nothing more for my life than to talk wistfully about the time I sat drinking in the whiskey-soaked sunshine on the Isle of Skye. I may or may not remember all the names or faces who existed with me there, but I will know deep in my heart they were kindred spirits. I want nothing more than to smell the tang of sea brine when I so much as hear the word “Scotland,” and be able to have a similar experience about other places in the world because I was brave enough to start here. And while I think going to Scotland in the very first place was the catalyst for this, that single step in no way made it completely so. Rather, I had to endeavor and indeed struggle to find my footing here in St Andrews. But ultimately, by really taking the time to let the essence of Scotland seep down into the marrow of my soul, I have become infected with this need to continue what I started.

So these are my thoughts on the final chapter of this great adventure called St Andrews. However, I have begun to think that maybe St Andrews shouldn’t be the entire book itself. Rather, my time in Scotland is a chapter wholly unto itself, with the rest of the pages of this story of myself waiting to be smudged, tattered, and messily covered in all the inks of life. I begin the year not counting down the days until I can return to my armchair, my books, and my Bear, but quite literally bursting out of the plane to run amok amongst the heather and the hills once more. I am most certainly not the same Maggie who wandered out her door that September day three years ago; I’m a little wilder, a little freer.

So much the better for it.

Originally written 14 September 2015

The Lass That is Gone

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

To many, I have not gone back in time, fallen in love with a Scottish warrior, or embarked on a great quest this semester: the year is 2015, I am perpetually single, and spent most of my time in my wee flat in St Andrews. Yet I beg to differ. It is my firm belief that when one travels to Scotland, they step into a world that straddles some inexplicable disjoint in time, both a part of the modern world and the last refuge for the ancient and mysterious. Furthermore, I have gone on more adventures this semester than I have in three years at St Andrews: to Brighton, the Highlands, and Northern Ireland have I thus far roamed, all for the purpose of learning about this great wide world we live in and hearing the stories people have to tell. And I most certainly have fallen in love; maybe not with a someone who can hold my hand and kiss me on the forehead, but with the gnarled trees of Highland forests, with the waves crashing thunderously upon the Fife coast, and with the crumbling ruins of days gone by. I have also fallen in love with all the weird and wonderful people that have accompanied me through it all, “kindred spirits” as Anne of Green Gables would say. And thus I begin my account of my final voyage of my third year at St Andrews: the annual cross country away trip, this year to the Isle of Skye.

I think one of the main elements that made this trip so enjoyable, and a significant leap above previous cross country away trips, was the fact that no one was in any great hurry to get to our various destinations. Every one of us had been feeling the pressure of this year, oppressed under deadlines and the simple demand of what it takes to be a St Andrews student. And as we slowly bid “The Bubble” adieu, one could see our shoulders straightening and smiles brightening at the chance to forget it all, even if only for the weekend. We were now free to explore, to play, and to do things without purpose. Not only did this attitude agree with everyone in attendance, I found it especially rewarding as it meant everyone was keen to make a stop at Eilean Donan Castle. Drenched in the whiskey sun of evening did we happen upon Eilean Donan, and with no other tourists in sight, it seemed as if a higher power orchestrated the wonderment of it all. This encounter with Eilean Donan, I think, not only served as a portent for the simple joy of the weekend to come, but also marked that we may have crossed into another world, leaving the humdrum behind for something a little wilder, and little more magical.

The deeper we plunged into the Isle, it became apparent that it is a place of contradictions: isolated, yet not desolate, quiet, yet teeming with life. Skye is a refuge for a simple way of life, in which coos and sheep roam free and everyone in the village knows everyone else’s name. I realized I had known so little about Skye before I made up my mind I had wanted to travel there, relying on a complete imaginative Romanticization of the land to inform my desire. This could be dangerous, as it can lead to disappointment. For example, I naively though Skye was completely protected land, that no one could actually live on Skye like they lived in Fife or Edinburgh. Yet the wee houses and villages seemed just as natural to the landscape as the heather and rolling hills. The more we drove, the more I became aware that the Isle of Skye is a place that you belonged to. So was I disappointed? Quite the contrary, for this realization has now made me wish I too could belong to such a wonderful way of life.

Our biggest agenda was to spend as much time outdoors as possible. Many people I told I was going to Skye for the weekend looked at me as though I had spoken in tongues, for the Isle of Skye in April is more fickle than a fussy child, so a Scot told me. Yet somehow we were given the gift of supernaturally good weather, enough to make one believe we weren’t in Scotland at all. After a sunny ten mile run through a forest path, we decided the best way to cool off was a dip in the famed Fairy Pools near Glenbrittle. The bravest of our company took “dip” to the extreme, as we leapt off a rock to plunge into the icy pools below. Never before have I swam in waters as cold as this, which may be saying a lot since I was the type of child who swam in Lake Superior for fun. Not satisfied just with the leap, though, some of us even stood under the picturesque water fall spilling into the pool. Though it was bracing, and I lost feeling in my extremities for a while, I am glad I did it, for if I were on my own I most likely would not have. Once again, the cross country team challenged me to step outside the normal realm of my behavior, to dive headfirst into the cold waters of life and try something new.

After our swim we headed to the Trotternish Peninsula to see the Old Man of Storr, another famous sight on Skye. And not an hour after literally jumping out of my comfort zone we were at it again, this time scrambling on hands and knees up the side of the Storr. Instead of leading us on the normal walking path, the “mountain man” of the group and our guide, Skylar, decided it would be better to crawl up the side of the steep hill atop loose stones and scree. Quite simply, I was terrified, but the fear of missing out on the experience is what drove me forward. That, and the lovely helping hand of my flatmate Daniel, who made sure I didn’t tumble off the side of the rock face. As we finally reached the summit, we look up to see a tiny red dot that had climbed onto one of the spiky rock formations. Living up to his name, Skylar had climbed sans ropes and any regard to safety up the jagged rock, which Daniel thought was a splendid idea. So, I watched my flatmate rush to join him as I sat back feeling my stomach drop. While I am all for trying new things, and knew my limits could be pushed beyond what I thought they were, this was definitely not in my range. Luckily, Kate and a few others had stayed behind and went with me to more level ground at the top of Trotternish Ridge.

After long hours of running, swimming, climbing, and hiking, we decided to end our day driving along the coast of Skye to Portree for a fish and chips supper. On the way we visited the Kilt Rock, another of Skye’s main sights.

I have this fantasy, born perhaps from reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader too many times, that the world is actually flat, and lying at its edge is just a great waterfall off into the cosmos. The desire that one could reach the ends of the earth is a naive and absolutely absurd notion, yet somehow I find it enticing that one really could sail it all. When I looked at the Kilt Rock, I really felt for a moment that I was standing on the edge of the world, as its falls looked exactly like this strange, otherworldly place I had been picturing in my head for so long. The sheer cliffs and sunlight glinting on the horizon added to this feeling that we had reached some border place, an access point to something else. Again, perhaps it is just me being fanciful, but having the chance to see things in real time, in reality, that seem born of my imagination do something to make me feel as though I am not as “crazy” as many would have me believe, that our world truly is a magical place if one cares to go looking.

On Sunday, after a leisurely morning run, it was unfortunately time to make our way back to St. Andrews. As I mentioned earlier, everyone in our company was in no great rush to go anywhere, which made the whole weekend a truly pleasant experience. So, as per Skylar’s suggestion, we packed up and went to the Spar Cave in order to see as much as Skye as we possibly could, for when would the chance next present itself? The water trickling down jagged cross slabs and small, vividly green shoots between the cracks of rock made the cave look something prehistoric. The braver bunch crawled deep within the cave, however, the threat of rising tide kept myself and Molly away from its depths, as if we were caught inside the cave when the tide was in, we could be stranded for twelve hours. This was alright by me, as I enjoyed myself picturing mermaids peeking out from the wee cave pools and chatting to Molly about how wonderful the trip had been.

Pleasantly wearied after a weekend of adventure and merriment, we all decided to take a rest on the cliff that presided over the Spar Cave, basking in both the warm glow of the waning sun and the pleasure of each other’s company. Conversation was intermittent, allowing mostly for the whispers of dry grass and gurgle of the sea to do the talking for us. As mentioned in an earlier post, I have a sort of “basket” of memories within my heart that I revisit from time to time to remind me of what I love most about life, particularly my life in Scotland. This moment, in the company of the weird and wonderful people that make up the cross country team, is one more piece of my experiences in Scotland that has made its way into this basket. If you were to ask me where I want to be right at this moment, it would be to be back on this cliff, amongst the peace of the Isle of Skye, and bereft of cares.

While a majority of the experiences I have at university remind me of how fortunate I am to be able to complete my undergraduate degree abroad, the simplest and purest form of the reason why I decided to embark on this journey in the first place was never as clear to me as it was on that cliff. This time three years ago I decided I wanted to study in Scotland, not really knowing that would mean in terms of the person I would grow to be. All I knew was that I had an insatiable desire to explore and to be free, to “sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world” and know what it was like to truly live. This moment on the Isle of Skye reaffirmed for me that basic, almost primal instinct that drove me to Scotland in the first place, as I was surrounded by one of the most peaceful and magical slices of the world. Not only that, but having the chance to share the experience with people who, despite varying interests, senses of humor, hopes, dreams, at their core share this same love of adventure and living as I do.

This weekend trip to the Isle of Skye was perhaps one of, if not the best, times of my life. While that may be a silly statement considering I am only twenty-one years old, there is something truly remarkable in seeing the things you only once thought were dreams or fantasies unfold before your very eyes, and being able to share that with people who are dreamers at heart, just like you.

As the theme song of Outlander trills, “Sing me a song of a lass that is gone. Say, could that lass be I? Merry of soul she sailed on a day over the sea to Skye…” While I may not have met a brawny Scottish warrior or gone back in time this semester, I have embarked on many a great adventure. As this year is drawing to a close, it is safe to say that the lass is indeed gone. My heart is now tucked safely within the streams and hills of Skye, and I shall find it difficult to reclaim it.

Originally written 2 May 2015

Across the Irish Sea

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

For as long as I can remember, Ireland has been the locus of all my Romantic ideas of travel. Even before I had heard of St Andrews, I was hoping that whatever university I went to in the States would have a study abroad program in Ireland so that I may finally get the chance to visit the land of rolling green hills and castle ruins that had consumed my imagination.

Myself and two friends from the cross country team, Kate and Kim, traveled to Northern Ireland to spend the week with our friend Lauren as the second part of my spring holiday. With the North Sea to the front and the Mourne Mountains behind, I cannot even put into words how incredible Lauren’s home was. I am always so awed by the places my peers call home, me being from such a humble town whose most scenic feature is a corn field. My younger self would perhaps be terribly envious of the lives my friends lead when they go home from university. Yet now, I think I am okay with the fact that I have had such a humble upbringing, because it makes me appreciate the fact that I do get to travel to such incredible places, ultimately lending to this immense aura of magic and majesty I see when I have the fortune to travel to places such as Northern Ireland.

One of the main sights on our agenda was the famed Giant’s Causeway in County Antrim. According to legend, a giant (or a hero with magical abilities, depending on the myth) named Fionn mac Cumhaill built the causeway out of these columns of stone. The causeway would take Fionn to Scotland in order to answer the challenge of a Scottish giant named Benandonner. The formation we see today is the remnant of that causeway, a thread to a mystical past so tightly bound to the British Isles. For my part, I have never seen a rock formation as distinctive as the causeway; and how the stones have formed, as if they simply slip off into the sea, was certainly an impressive sight. With the sea dashing madly against the stones, I felt as though a giant would suddenly rise up from the sea and stride off into the distance before our eyes. Once again I felt as though I could feel the ancient magic of such a place coming to life.

Further along the road from the causeway was our second destination, Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. While Kim and Kate crossed with trepidation, I eagerly tramped across, hanging over the side to glimpse the mysterious caves below. The bridge led to a small rocky island used by salmon fisherman over 300 years ago. In fact, still standing on the wee island is a small cottage and rowboat, perhaps a remnant of this past. My companions joked that they could see me living in such a remote and sea-battered place. It seems as though I am finding so many potential housing situations in these two weeks of travel! From the island one is met with an impressive sight as well: not only can you see the Causeway Coast, but Rathlin Island and, on a clear day, Scotland itself.

While we were exhausted from our hike to the causeway and Carrick-a-Rede, Lauren kindly made sure we stop at Dunluce Castle, just for me. All of my friends are well aware of my “Castle Bucket List,” as one of my primary objectives in my four years at university is to visit as many castles on the British Isles as possible. Fully functioning, crumbling slightly, or in complete ruins makes no difference to me: a castle is a castle, and I never tire of the history that permeates the stones. Dunluce Castle, like Urquhart Castle and St Andrews Castle, is located right on the very edge of the land, exposed to the harsh spray of the sea and swirling winds. First built in the 13th century, rumor has it that this ancient ruin was used as inspiration for C.S. Lewis’s Cair Paravel in The Chronicles of Narnia. Predictably, this bit of trivia delights me immensely, and the memory of Dunluce may inspire many of my fanciful writings, much like C.S. Lewis.

As Kate, Kim, and Lauren are keen outdoors-women (almost a given since they are cross country mainstays), our holiday would not be complete without a nice and vigorous hike. While I enjoy the hill walking I have done since coming to Scotland, I certainly find them challenging as the Midwest has no comparison. In fact, many Scottish and British folks laugh at me when I call the Scottish hills “mountains,” yet I call them that simply because to me, anything higher than a gentle incline is mountainous. However, the Mourne Mountains, much like my Ben Nevis adventure last spring, proved a whole different ball game than the kind of hill walking I have grown (semi) used to.

Over the course of about six hours we trudged up peak after peak in the Mourne Mountain range that backs up to Lauren’s house. After this venture, I have come to believe that Lauren herself is part mountain goat, as she bounded up the inclines with ease. I envy the fact that she walked these mountains nearly every day since the spring holiday began, for being a successful hill walker is a whole new level of fitness I hadn’t seen until I came to Scotland. I think I found this hike particularly difficult because I was feeling slightly ill, but I was determined to not be left behind as each peak we ascended was followed immediately followed by a “Let’s climb that one too!” uttered by either Kim, Kate, or Lauren. While I was tiring quickly, I am glad I stuck with it and kept up fairly well. The vistas we beheld as we climbed each new peak were even more majestic than the last. I felt as though I needed some ancient and weatherbeaten map in my hand and a desperate purpose in my heart, for these are some mountains that could most definitely harbor a quest or two!

On one of our last full days in Northern Ireland Lauren brought us to Belfast to take in the sights. Unfortunately, I was not entirely impressed with Dublin when we arrived there days earlier. While I am not much of a city person in general, I have come to really enjoy the city of Edinburgh; visiting Dublin after being so familiar Edinburgh is a bit of a letdown. Yet Belfast proved the contrary, and definitely makes its way onto my “Favorite Cities” list. With quaint wee alleys strung with fairy lights between the streets and an incredible botanical garden, Belfast certainly has some hidden gems that lend it its own unique brand of charm. Pictured above is Queen’s University, whose architecture is absolutely stunning. I found myself saying, “How cool would that building be as your home?” as Queen’s certainly looks like one of the austere and enigmatic mansions of my imagination.

Our main destination in Belfast was the Titanic Center, as the infamous White Star ocean liner was built at its docks beginning in 1909. The Titanic Center was incredibly informative, as it detailed the social and economic conditions in Belfast leading up to the 20th century that made it an ideal place to house such a great industry as ship building. What also made the Titanic Center so intriguing were the accounts of Titanic survivors scattered throughout the exhibits, from humble heroes to the figures, like “Unsinkable” Molly Brown, that have become pop culture mainstays. While I confess to being slightly in love with the Hollywood film, which spurred my desire to visit the center, it was really interesting to see all that went into not just Titanic itself, but shipbuilding in general. A final aspect of the center that made it one of the most unique and informative museums I have been to was a giant theatre with actual footage of exploring the Titanic shipwreck. To see all of those long-forgotten relics lying on the ocean floor, blanketed by darkness and over one hundred years of history, was both fascinating and haunting.

What could possibly be left to tie together all of these great threads of adventure and memory, not only on the quest that was my spring holiday, but on this great narrative that is my time abroad? I admit that some of the dreams I want to fulfill are a bit whimsical, as the actions or aesthetics of them seem more fitting in a novel or film. Yet to me, what is life if not your own great story? So even if my little dreams seem silly or fanciful, I chase them anyway, for I want to live a life with as many stories as possible. One thing I have always promised myself I would do when I went to Ireland was visit a tiny, local pub (preferably the haunt of fishermen) and have a pint. So, much to my delight, we did just that!

Going to this pub was definitely like a scene out of a movie: the four of us young women entered the pub and all the merry conversation skipped a beat as the old men stared at us. Upon hearing our accents (Scottish Kim, British Kate, and American me) they grew even more confused, for what a motley little bunch we made! Yet as we settled in to the corner booth with our pints, the atmosphere turned merry once again. The patrons of this pub were so welcoming, and the nautical theme of the pub definitely made my heart sing with the kitsch of it all. Yes, it may sound a little P.S. I Love You, four young women of different backgrounds on holiday trying to get the “local flavor” in the pub, but the warm glow of the fire and simply the happiness of the place did much to make me smile.

While I have fallen pretty firmly in love with Scotland, this time spent in Northern Ireland has made me hungry to explore even more of the “Emerald Isle” and see what secrets it has to tell. I think perhaps because I have seen much more of Scotland I have seen its heart, whereas Ireland still remains a bit of a mystery waiting to be discovered. It is my hope that this trip was but the prelude to many more grand adventures to be had in Ireland, and I can only hope that one day I get to share such a beautiful place with my family. So as I boarded the ferry to return back to Scotland, I looked back at the Irish coast in anticipation of when I would see it again.

Originally written 2 May 2015

Highlands Reflections

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

Since its premiere last summer, I have been a bit obsessed with the new Outlander television show, as well as the series of novels it is based on. Well, maybe more than a bit: so much so that a little part of me has been dreaming that a sword wielding, red haired Highlander will appear outside my window and whisk me off on some great adventure. While this is obviously absurd, I still sometimes struggle to distinguish between fantasy and reality; I firmly believe all the magic and wonder that inspires fictional narratives like Outlander must exist somewhere in this world. Perhaps that is just my inner Romantic wailing, but I cling to these beliefs precisely because I have the opportunity to travel through the landscapes that should really be just a fantasy. Thus begins the first installment of my spring semester adventures, as I was fortunate enough to spend the week of March 17th in a quaint village just outside Inverness, in the very heart ofOutlander territory.

Thanks to the kindness of one of my closest friends Miranda, another good friend and I were able to spend the first week of our spring holiday at her gorgeous home in the Scottish Highlands. After a stressful few weeks of deadlines and, in my case, serious illness, this respite was just what I needed to restore my spirits. With birds trilling outside my window to herald the coming mornings and hearty, home cooked meals every evening, Miranda’s home made me feel a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Yet these wee comforts were only the beginning to what has become one of the best weeks of my life in all my time here in Scotland.

With the help of Mrs. Strachan’s quite extensive local knowledge of the area, Miranda, Catriona, and myself were able to visit some of the most magical and mystical sites of the surrounding area. First on our itinerary was a small walk up Cnoc Fyrish to visit the crumbling yet majestic monument at its summit.

Built in 1782 by Sir Hector Munro, the monument is inspired by the Gate of Negapatam in Madras, India that Munro had captured for the British. Though slightly cloudy and a bit windy, we were fortunate enough to have a clear view to what seemed like across the world. While this was only the first stop on our week-long adventure, this hike was almost enough to completely relax me after such a stressful return to university. In the company of my two closest university friends, a relic from a past I so exalt, the Cromarty Firth to our front and snow-capped Ben Wyvis to our back, I felt as though I could finally just be. To get away from a daily routine of library, class, and training, away from stressed and caffeine-hyped students and to sit atop the world was the perfect way to remind me why I am in Scotland in the first place: adventure.

Our second major voyage was to the village of Rosemarkie to see its famed Fairy Glen. Rosemarkie was definitely a place I could see myself pattering about in 50 years time, clad in oversized Wellington boots and barn coat.

As we moseyed our way through the streets, I was reminded of one of the main reasons I have fallen in love with Scotland: elderly folk coming and going with their shopping, dogs trotting happily down the beaten paths, and quiet. The pace of life in Scotland, especially in these small Highland villages, is something I’ve definitely come to appreciate, because they serve as a reminder to cherish simplicity. So, onwards we went down the quaint forest path to discover the hidden wonder that is Rosemarkie’s Fairy Glen.

As we walked amongst the delicate spring Snowdrops and bubbling creeks, Miranda was regaling Catriona and I with a tale of how she and her family would visit the Rosemarkie Fairy Glen when she was a little girl. I think perhaps my eyes were sparkling as she was speaking, as this was exactly the kind of place my childhood self would have loved. The sunlight streaming through the vivid emerald tree buds and secret hollows nestled in the hills seem to be read into life from all of my favorite story books. As we were walking, I could see the phantom of my younger self flitting amongst the trees, barefoot and a new tale of magic and adventure on my lips. To be honest, though, that was probably how I looked to Catriona and Miranda, as “Urchin of the Woodland” is I think what they christened me as I frolicked away to find the fairies….

Though the path was only two miles in length, it probably took quite a considerable portion of our day because of my dilly-dallying. To those of you who have nae been to Bonny Scotland, the Fairy Glen is probably exactly what you would picture the whole of Scotland to look like: all I can say is that it is magic, and on this venture, I wanted to be immersed in it all. Yet what lay at the end of the path is perhaps what was best of all.

A true place of magic indeed, this waterfall is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I have ever beheld. To add to this mystical atmosphere, Miranda told us of a tree that had fallen near the waterfall whose skin is scaled with hundreds of pence coins. If one is to wedge their coin into the tree and make a wish, the power of the fairies will make that wish come true. Armed with a two pence coin for double the luck, I approached the tree with my deepest, most passionate wish in my heart. While many would say that is all blather and flimflam, there is something about these enigmatic glens of Scotland that could turn even the most bitter cynic into a believer, methinks.

For our final adventure in the Scottish Highlands, Miranda endeavored to sate my desire to travel back in time and find my very own Jamie Fraser to love. This set us on the path of the Pictish Trail, a route that meanders through the countryside and is marked by a series of ancient stones.

Carved by the ancient peoples of Northern Britain and Scotland, the Picts, these stones are a testament to an artistry and craftsmanship most people would not associate with “The Dark Ages.” While the stone pictured above is a replica, in order to preserve the original, some of the stones we did see are in fact the real thing, whose carvings are clearly visible despite hundreds of years of weather and age. The sheer amount of history Scotland possesses, history that is still standing and very clearly discernible, is awe-inspiring to someone whose own nation is infantile in comparison. The ability of the Scottish people to physically trace their history with these monuments, all the way back to Early Medieval times, is another one of the things I have come to love about this nation. The ties Scotland has with a past that seems more like myth than reality not only does wonders for my imagination, but also stirs me to admiration for this nation and its people.

In my three years at St Andrews, I have created a list of what I like to call the Unforgettable, a sort of basket wedged deep within the storeroom of my memory filled with the memories of my time here that make my heart simply ache. This ache is not something terrible, as these memories are usually the times I felt most at peace here in Scotland: moseying the garden paths of Beatrix Potter’s home in the Lakes, sitting on a bench in Crail with my mother, enjoying the atmosphere of the Fiddler’s Inn with my father, gazing out at St Andrews from atop Drumcarrow Craig. When my coursework seems to great a burden to bear or loneliness eats away at me, I unearth this “basket” and muse over these images to set myself aright.

At one point on this trip, Catriona, Miranda, and I sat with delicious homemade Highland ice cream looking out to the Cromarty Firth in the afternoon sun. While I absolutely loved the whispered magic of the Fairy Glen or the grave majesty of Fyrish Monument, I think perhaps this small moment with Catriona and Miranda is the ultimate moment that will be gently placed in my basket with my other precious Scotland memories. All in all, I am so fortunate that I have a friend like Miranda who is generous enough to welcome me into her home and show me her world. As silly as it may sound, this journey was one that made a lot of my childhood dreams come true, as I had the chance to frolic in a wild place with two people I feel such a kinship with. Surrounded by the beauty of a place I have fallen so desperately in love with and in the company of the two that, I think, may be called my favorite, and the simplicity of it all are what make this time I had in the Highlands the most special and keep me yearning for it.

Originally written 2 May 2015

By the Seaside

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

Upon returning to St Andrews at the close of my Christmas holiday, it seems that I have spent nearly every waking moment with the people in the above photo. In many ways, these people are very different from myself. Each of them hails from various corners of the United Kingdom, have been on wonderful adventures, and believe in things that really challenge me. Yet like a window made from pieces of stained glass, each one of these people possesses their own unique color, design, and opacity to create a vivid and remarkable whole. I find that each one of these people are beautiful and special in their own unique ways, and while they contrast with each other and myself, by putting them together you create something truly wonderful.

Such are the feelings that can appropriately sum my experience traveling down to Brighton the weekend of January 30th for the British Universities and Colleges Sports (BUCS) cross country event. Initially I was a bit hesitant for the 20+ hour car ride (roundtrip) following so soon after my wearying flight back to Scotland. Yet the Taylor Swift jam sessions, quality banter, and getting to look out the window and see the whole of Britain pass me by actually made the car journey rather pleasant, as I got to see things I had never seen before and was in the company of people as enjoyable as the cross country team.

While my time in St Andrews has made looking upon the sea a rather commonplace experience, being able to see the sea at nearly the opposite end of the country was something I found rather special as well. This trip marks the first time I had ever been truly south in the United Kingdom, truly in the thick of English culture. In St Andrews, you at times lose perspective on where you actually are since this wee town is so incredibly international. That, paired with the multitudes of old American golfers I hear under my window, at times make me forget that I am 3,000 miles away from home. This in many ways has become a bit of a comfort to me, the Bilbo-esque homebody, as the familiar sights and sounds of St Andrews have slowly but surely become my second home. Yet, as I said before, I am beginning to forget that I am abroad, that I need to be drinking in as much of a new and different culture as I can before I graduate in a year and a half. Thus, this jaunt to Brighton was perhaps just what I needed to remind me of this incredible opportunity I have to be in the United Kingdom, to see a land and meet a people that, while similar to my home in some ways, are still beautifully different.

The actual cross country race, our main objective of the trip, took place on the Saturday following our long drive. As this race was just after the Christmas holiday, many in our company were worried as to how well this race would actually unfold. While cake, wine, and movie marathons seemlike a good idea for the entirety of December, they become your worst enemy when attempting to race some of the most competitive people in the country a few weeks later. The women’s event, 6.4 kilometers of punishing hills, pits of peanut buttery mud, and a field of nearly 500 runners made this race one of the hardest and most competitive I have ever participated in. While I used to be considered quite tough, cross country wise, in high school, that girl would not have stood a chance against the elite women participating in this race. With that in mind I started my race with the objective of having fun, knowing full well that I was not in any kind of superstar shape. Yet the mud, the hills, and the large field proved to my advantage as I finished in a respectable time of 33:25; I was able to use my strength to charge the hills, and the mind-boggling number of racers only meant that there was always someone to chase down and pass. I even shocked myself by out-sprinting four girls in the finishing strait, something I am never usually able to do. Thus, this race served to prove to me that I am actually in a bit better shape than I thought I was. Not only this, but the BUCS cross country race was simply good, muddy fun!

The hosting team, the University of Sussex, threw a great big after party for all the universities competing as a way for all the various British university cross country teams to celebrate together. This weekend in Brighton, for me, was full of new experiences not limited to being so far south in the country, for this after party marked my very first club experience. As I turned twenty-one back in December and anticipating the start of a new year and new semester, lately I have been saying how much I’ve been wanting to do something crazy, to carpe diem and keep adding to the list of all the things I have experienced since moving to Scotland three years ago. So, while a club is not really my kind of scene (and by “not really” I mean “not in one million years…”), I decided to give it a try as part of my New Year’s Resolution to abandon my reservations and simply dothings. As my friend Sam was telling me before we went out, “A club is really all in what you make it,” advice I really took to heart. Thus, I looked at the evening as simply a fun night of dancing and singing to grand ol’ tunes like “Don’t Stop Believin’” with some of my favorite people.

While it was a wild experience, one I will most likely not repeat, I am glad I did it, for it now occupies a space in my list of “Things I Have Done.” When I started university three years ago, I promised myself that I would say yes to as many new experiences as possible, for if I had the gall to agree to move 3,000 miles away from home at eighteen years of age, there really is no limit to what I can do. So, while going to a club in a place like Brighton completely defies who I thought “Maggie” was, I am beginning to be okay with the fact that I am multi-faceted, that I can enjoy a variety of experiences, and that I am willing to try new things even if they aren’t necessarily what I envision myself doing. In the end, this night out was actually quite fun, just being goofy and celebrating with some of my best friends before knuckling down for another semester. So while my introverted self may need to do lots of this for a few weeks to recover:

Bilbo: “I just need to sit quietly for a moment.”

I am starting to appreciate coming out of my shell more and more, and becoming more willing to abandon my reservations and simply live.

All in all, this weekend I had in Brighton with the cross country team will make it into my official list of “Favorite Times at St Andrews” that I will look back on fondly as I age. Though I am proud of myself for stepping outside my comfort zone for a little while, which makes this trip more memorable, but I think what I will mostly smile at when I recall this trip is simply the wonderful company I was traveling with. This weekend in Brighton was such a strong bonding moment with the core of the cross country team, and I feel as though we have come out of the weekend not sick of one another, but even closer friends. I feel as though I have finally found “my tribe” here at St Andrews, and I love being part of such a diverse group of people. Yet while each and every one of us brings something new, or quirky, or unique to the group, we are all united on a few basic principles: a fondness for the outdoors, a passion for adventure, and simply the love of a run. These tenets, methinks, are the foundations for the meaningful and strong bonds I have forged with these people, bonds I wouldn’t trade for the world. Now St Andrews, once that “brave new world” of the unknown and the intimidating, has truly become my second home.

I apologize for the lack of posting as of late, as well as the tardiness of this post after my travels to Brighton actually occurred. This semester has kicked off with nearly 400 pages of reading a week; and that, combined with training twice a week and riding once a week, has seemingly eaten what time I have to continue my reflections on being here at St Andrews. However, as spring break and the cross country away trip are in the not-too distant future, I will have many exciting adventures to report, so I will do my best to keep this blog fresh and up to date. There are still many adventures to be had, and the sunset time of my St Andrews life is nearly on the horizon. And so, “I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)”

Originally written 11 February 2015

For My Mother

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

Today is my mother’s fifty-fourth birthday. For the past three years, I have been unable to celebrate with her, something that greatly saddens me. Though I am so fortunate to be in Scotland, and my mother would not have it any other way, I still wish I could be with her on her birthday to show her just how much she means to me.

Inspired by other writers, I have decided to write the life lessons my mother has taught me to show her just how much I value her wisdom and companionship. It is my hope that one day I can be half as selfless and good as she is, and I find her guidance more valuable than any material thing as I navigate this great unknown of “Twenty Something.” So, for future reference and in tribute to my favorite person, here are twenty lessons for living that have stuck with me throughout my privileged time with my mother.

1. Pay attention to the tiniest bug, ripples on a still lake, or a stray wildflower. Make up stories and personalities for them.

2. When reading aloud, always make sure each character has its own special voice.

3. If you aren’t going to snort, why even laugh?

4. Don’t be afraid to get a little sweaty and dirty, for the confidence that comes with physical strength is a thing of beauty.

5. Never seek vengeance for the hurt others have caused you. Instead, keep showing them kindness. Maybe then they will realize just how foolishly they have acted.

6. Never underestimate the value of a new pair of socks.

7. Spirituality lives in the things that make you happy, whether it be in the garden, out on a run, or being with family.

8. Always order dessert. It’s good for the soul.

9. If a writer can make you shiver with the raw power of their words, hunt down everything they’ve ever written and read voraciously.

10. Sometimes children have more wisdom than grownups do, so make sure you listen to what they have to say with interest and questions at the ready.

11. Be as wild as a hunyak (don’t ask me what it means…), even if that means chasing your dreams to the furthest reaches of the globe. Those that love you will always follow.

12. Fluff your clothes in the dryer after they’ve been hanging for maximum coziness.

13. Be prepared for the criticism that comes with being yourself. Most often those people are too scared to do what you do, so don’t let them bring you down.

14. It’s okay to let others show their appreciation for you. You would be surprised how good people can be if you let them in.

15. Invest in quality baking products like a well made wooden spoon and a Kitchen Aid.

16. Channel your passion into doing things completely and fully: love until you feel as though you will burst, demand the best version of yourself, and always follow through with whatever you start. Perhaps this passion will inspire others, so never hide it.

17. Marry your best friend. Intelligent conversation, a twisted sense of humor, and a passion for living are the foundations for everlasting love.

18. Cultivate a passion for nature. Our world is a beautiful place, so always make time to sit by the sea and soak it all in.

19. Simplify your life. If even the smallest thing can bring you overwhelming joy, your life will be fuller because of it.

20. March to the beat of your own drum. Forever and always.

Originally written 25 November 2014

Dorothy Charlton (1920-2014)

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

I often use this space to wax poetic about my grandmother, whose memory I use as inspiration for my adventures. However, in light of recent events I have come to realize the important influence of my family’s other matriarch. Dorothy Charlton, more affectionately known as Aunt Dot, was my grandmother’s older sister. Yesterday, after a sunny morning spent riding, I was informed that she had finally passed away.

I remember the year I left my home for Scotland as vividly as if it had just occurred. Perhaps one of my greatest memories is the cool May morning I spent with my Aunt Dot to tell her that I would be moving to Scotland in the fall. When I told most people about my plans for the fall, their faces would screw up in criticism, wondering why on earth I would commit to such a wild fantasy. In her old age Aunt Dot had become a consummate worrier, always trying to keep track of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and I as we grew and acquired families of our own. As I began to say the words, “I will be going to college in Scotland,” her reaction was something I did not expect. Her face lit up: our family had bred yet another adventurer. She then began to regale me with nearly ninety years of experiences, travels, and sights stored in the archive of her memory.

In my family, one could say that my Grandma Sue is the star of all the family lore. Yet as I sat listening to Aunt Dot on this day, I realized how full of a life she had also led. Though quieter and more demure than my grandmother, my Aunt Dot was a well-traveled and cultured woman. Road trips across the continental United States, floating in the Dead Sea, and the glamor of 1950’s Cuba constitute just some of her experiences. Aunt Dot had also spent time in my bonny Brittania, which explained her excitement at the thought of me moving there. Indeed, one of the motivations behind my travels to Newcastle in my first year was so that I could tell her I had been there, as Newcastle and its surrounding areas were where she had most often visited.

One of the things I find most special about Aunt Dot is just how much she had seen in her lifetime. Born in 1920, the scope of her firsthand experience is almost unfathomable. Aunt Dot had lived through the Great Depression, Civil Rights movements, and technological advances that are enough to make anyone’s head spin. Yet she was able to keep pace even into this year. On my last visit, I had pulled out my iPhone to show her a photo my brother and his fiancee. She quickly took it from my hand and mastered how to view more photos (by swiping right) in no time. Then she surprised me by saying, “These things have a good camera. I want one so I can take photos of you all.” At ninety four years old Aunt Dot wanted an iPhone. All I could do was stifle my laughter and say, “I’ll see what I can do.” While this does constitute a great “Aunt Dot Story,” looking back I realize just how, well, cool Aunt Dot was. She could never be classified as one of those elderly people disgruntled by technology, despite the fact that she had been born in an age whose ways are almost completely foreign to the modern generation. This is one of the things I have come to admire about my Aunt Dot: the ability to adapt to our changing world and to make the most out of present circumstances.

In many ways, Aunt Dot was the last piece to the beautiful mosaic that is our family’s past: of my mother and her siblings’ childhood, of times spent at Canada Creek with Grandma Sue, and when myself and all my cousins were just children ourselves. For Hannah, Rafe, Cole, Blaise, Jovie, and Sage, she became a link to this past so they too may share in our family history. She became the matriarch of our family, filling the hole and soothing the hurt that Grandma Sue’s loss caused. I do not think I am alone in saying that we are greatly indebted to her for this.

While I am deeply saddened at her loss, I take comfort knowing she is no longer suffering under the burden of old age. What pains me more, I think, is the fact that I cannot be with my family during this time. For my aunts and uncles, those who have known Aunt Dot the longest, my sorrow for what they must be feeling is indescribable.

However, the person’s grief who causes my heart to ache the most is my mother’s. In many ways Aunt Dot helped to raise my mother, always taking her on those adventures across the United States and instilling her with a deep love of Scrabble. Over the course of my life, I have taken it upon myself to be my mother’s “little warrior”: to be mighty and fierce when she cannot. I think this occurred the day my grandmother died. As she had spent most of her life taking care of others, I realized on that day that she finally needed someone to take care of her, and I have never stopped. While I am inexplicably grateful for this privilege to study in Scotland, it’s times like these that make a small part of me wish I had stayed at home. At the moment, all I want to do is wrap my small arms around my mother and tell her that it will be okay, that I am here and I will never go anywhere. But I can’t. This is what I think makes death so hard: not the actual death itself, but trying to piece yourself together afterwards. If you have nobody to help you, to tell you which pieces you missed, will you ever truly be whole? Tucked away in this wee corner of Fife, away from all those I love dearly and physically unable to help them, I am full of sorrow. However, I do believe that my family, full of so many strong individuals, will make it to happier days again.

In two days time it will be Thanksgiving. My heart breaks for my family even more, for they must deal with this loss at a time when people are expected to be jovial and light-hearted. Yet perhaps Thanksgiving will be just what they need to heal. For as long as I can remember, every Thanksgiving a small toast is given on behalf of my grandmother. Though Aunt Dot is now gone, a small part of me also hopes that somehow she has reunited with Grandma Sue, to regale her with tales of our accomplishments and to tell her about all these new faces and personalities she was sadly unable to know. Though these two incredible women, and their links to the past, are now gone, they are together, just as our family will be. And that, I believe, is something to give thanks for.

Originally written 25 November 2014

Meall a’Bhuachaille

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

In my days as a high school cross country runner I had earned the nickname “Bulldog,” the kind of creature every teenaged girl dreads being compared to. While it gave my teammates ample ammunition to tease me with, I learned to take it in stride, as it meant that my coach appreciated my ability to endure every challenge the sport had to offer with strength and ferocity. This bulldoggish personality means that I am also always looking for new and exciting running challenges to test whether toughness was what truly knit me together.

As it happens, moving to Scotland introduced to me a new caliber of running that I had previously never seen. While the kinds of Scots portrayed by the media may be just glorified stereotypes – fierce warriors who can be stuck by several arrows and still carry on as normal – my time in Scotland was beginning to demonstrate how much closer to reality these representations may be. For the truly intrepid on the Scottish running circuit, Scottish hill racing (known as “fell running”) is the chance to prove your make to your teammates and rivals. The idea is absurdly simple: run as fast as you can up a large, steep hill. For the more challenging fell races, the event is usually a combination of mountaineering and intense endurance racing, as both hands-and-knees scrambles up loose scree and marathon-caliber racing skills are required to finish. For my part, after a leisurely Sunday morning long run up Fife’s largest hill, West Lomond, I believed a fully-fledged fell race to be the most exciting prospect. And with the Meall a’Bhuachaille fell race in the Cairngorm National Park just a week away, it seemed that something in the universe was begging me to try it.

In the week leading up to the race, Scotland had been weathering winds up to seventy miles per hour in the after effects of a storm sweeping bombarding England. As race organizers were anticipating winds up to sixty miles per hour atop the peak of the hill, they rerouted the racecourse, which entailed adding distance, making the race closer to eleven miles rather than seven miles. As I had not really run more than seven miles lately, I was suddenly apprehensive. All of the other participants, seasoned fell runners, merely shrugged at the added distance. The cloud of “What have I gotten myself into” merely loomed over me as I feigned interest in pinning my number on.

It was fascinating to watch my fellow participants prepare for the run; what gear they were bringing on the course, how tightly they laced their worn trail shoes, and the various, and at times eccentric, warm-up rituals. I felt a bit out of place as perhaps one of the youngest participants and someone who had never done a fell race before. As this was a Category A fell race (ascent of at least fifty meters), I felt very naive in my choice of “first fell race.” And as I chirped merrily away with my teammates, I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious that maybe I didn’t belong here.

The first ascent began quite well for me. I tried running a majority of it and strategically chose the places I would walk in order to not fall behind the other participants. In hill racing, walking is acceptable if not crucial. There is an entire technique to it that my more seasoned teammate demonstrated prior to the start: hands on thighs, legs braced, and trudge. I managed to keep pace with one friend of mine for most of the ascent, that is, until we hit the wind. I think the strength of the wind is really what got to me throughout the race as a whole. As I’m not a very big person, each gust of wind nearly blew me from the side of the hill and even knocked me off my feet a few times. Other times I felt as though I was moving, until I realized that I was in fact being held back by these gale-force gusts. As I reached the top of the hill, marked by a cairn, I thought I was doing pretty well. Then came the descent.

When I was a child I used to be fearless: I could climb trees as nimbly as if I had been born amongst them and would run headlong down sand dunes without qualm. As I have gotten a bit older and realized the limits of the human body, however, that fearlessness has been replaced by over-caution. In the summer of 2013 I severely rolled my ankle on a trail run, which put me out of commission for months. I have never taken that amount of time off since I began running. Recovery involved physical therapy twice a week and absolute rest, easily one of the worst things I have experienced. I thought I would go mad. Never again do I want to experience an injury like that. Yet unfortunately, the nature of ankle rolls is just that: once you roll it, you can never go back to how you used to be, and it will always be weak and more susceptible to rolling. This has put a lot of fear into my physical activities than I would like: I’m constantly worried about my ankle, always taking my time to do things and gingerly completing whatever I am doing in order to protect it. Even with ankle supports, I am still haunted by the blue, swollen, deformed wreck my ankle had become. The fearlessness that once was so quintessentially Maggie has been replaced by caution and delicacy.

Descending Meall a’Bhuachaille was a reflection of this. I was picking my way gingerly down the scree, constantly worried my ankle would give at any second. At one point, I heard a sickening snap emanate from my right ankle, my bad ankle. Yet I was determined to keep going, since I was alone on the side of a mountain. All the other participants were either leagues ahead or behind me. Just the mountain and myself: I had to do this. I stumbled, I slipped, I tripped. The wind kept ripping at my eyes, making it harder for me to see where I was putting my feet. Yet for a split second I was able to take in my surroundings: a sunshine that seems almost endangered in the October season, majestic Scottish hills all around, and a loch in the distance. The Scottish highlands in this state are perfection. As I was alone with all these elements, I finally gained the small shred of confidence I needed to simply trust my body and hope for the best. So I began to run, faster and faster, down Meall a’Bhuachaille. For the first time in a long time, I felt free.

After this descent I made it back out onto the road, where I encountered a few other participants, the first people I had seen in about half an hour. I overtook them with ease, gaining confidence as the run progressed. I had no idea how far or how long I had been running, all I knew was that we were drawing closer to the campground where the race started. Little did I know that this was only halfway. Since the course had to be rerouted and distance added on, I was essentially running blind. I had no idea where the course was going next, and little did I know that this addition meant there would be a second ascent.

This is where my real struggle began. Again there was a “wee” hill on the road; to any from my hometown, this hill would seem mountain enough, similar to the “huge hills” we used to run at our Sault St Marie invitational in high school. To the other fell runners this was a flat road and the perfect time to rest for the upcoming ascent. They all ran up the road with ease. And while I pride myself in faring quite well on hilly runs, I needed to walk at a few points as I was slowly losing the ability to breathe. It was here that I encountered the teammate who suggested this race in the first place. Already ascended and descended the second peak, he was casually sprinting down this last hill towards the finish. This was when I realized I had quite a ways to go.

The second ascent began on root-bidden trails slick with muck. I also had to keep diving into the verge to make way for leaders hurling themselves down the trail. I recall watching them in awe as their feet rolled over the roots and stones with ease, as if they themselves were a part the old Scottish forests. As I made my way out of the trees at last I caught sight of the second peak: the entire ascent was a gaping maw of deep, black mud, hungry to suck me down. With each step I sunk nearly up to my knees, not only fighting to free my legs but struggling against even stronger wind. These factors, along with already being exhausted from the first climb, made the second ascent one of the hardest things I had ever done. Then one of the racers I had so eagerly galloped past on the flat road shouldered ahead of me, and I realized how much of a greenhorn I truly was.

Suddenly I saw the cairn right before me. At last! Yet where did that runner who had passed me only moments before disappear to? As I reached the cairn, I recognized it as a false marker. There was an additional peak we needed to ascend before we could turn around. The stronger, older, and more experienced runners I had put so much distance on suddenly moved around me, as if the howling winds had no effect on them. The final push to the turn around point also took me by surprise: it was an all out, hands-and-knees scramble up loose slate stones. With the hood of my vest trying to break free from my neck and the wind fighting me, this was the moment I was almost certain I would be blown straight from the mountain face. Yet I stood up and I pushed on.

I was alone once more. Really alone. I was convinced I was the last participant out on the course, which nearly brought tears to my eyes. As a two time high school cross country MVP with race wins to my name, last is a position I thought I would never encounter in my lifetime. Yet here I was, alone in the gathering dark and speckling rain. This was probably one of the most humbling experiences of my life, yet it forced me to confront precisely why it is I run. I signed up for this race for myself, to test the limits of my body and to experience something new. I am always seeking new experiences and crave adventure, and this, mountain running, is the very heart of that. For the second time that day I mustered my courage and flung myself headlong down the hillside into the gathering dark.

After falling onto my backside twice, a shoe being claimed by the muck, fingers bloodied on the twisting bracken I reached the road. I could not feel my legs at this point, yet the sun had returned to welcome me back to the finish line. Faster and faster I ran, determined to put in a good effort for the completion of my fell race. I do not know what my finishing time actually was, I ended up not being the last one in but third to last, and I finished. I ran an eleven mile race that ascended two giant hills. I survived.

Meall a’Bhuachaille now constitutes the hardest physical challenge I have experienced to date. I still cannot believe I actually willingly participated in a fell race, and a rather difficult one at that. This race also reminded me of something very important: that I run for myself, because it is my passion, and how it is a gateway into the beautiful places of the world, such as the Scottish highlands. As a very competitive person, winning titles and being ahead of all my teammates used to be the only thing that mattered to me as a runner. While I achieved none of those things at Meall a’Bhuachaille, I realized how little those things constitute the sheer joy of running.

While I tend to be a very predictable person who is quite set in my ways, since moving to Scotland it has become my mission to infuse my life with as much spontaneity as possible. Though I love the comfort of routine, every so often I feel the insatiable urge to do something that is completely out of character, to test my body, mind, and will, and to see just how far I can go. Meall a’Bhuachaille constitutes one of these great spontaneous milestones that punctuate my life. I managed to complete something most people would never even dream of doing, and I surprised myself by being up to the physical challenge. Lately I have been telling myself that I will never be in as good of shape as I was in high school, that I’ve lost the mental edge I used to have as an athlete. Yet my participation in this race reminded me that I am indeed a strong person, both physically and mentally.

Following the race my legs were bruised and scraped from my fight with the highland bracken. I was not able to walk properly until the week after, and every time I stood up my bones protested. I was also forced to throw away the shoes that endured the wrath of the rain and mud, as “survived” was a rather loose way of describing their post-race state. The question remains: would I ever do something like this again? A better question might be “when is the next one?”

Originally written 26 October 2014

Another Beginning

Published on January 4, 2016December 29, 2020 by MaggieLeave a comment

“If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky, Demons

It was the third time my mother left me tucked away amongst the sea gnawed rocks and Scottish heather. As I awaited the loneliness to slither down my throat like a sour, medicinal draft, it was perhaps out of force of habit that I fled into the night, away from yet another new roof under which I must carve out my existence, away from yet another person whom I did not wish to see me cry.

Under the dripping light of the Corn Moon I sat, preparing to be my own shoulder to cry on yet again. However, the longer I sat, transfixed by the darkling sea, the emptier my mind became. The only thought my mind could grasp was not really a thought at all, but rather the felling that envelops the spirit as the body is physically embraced. I sat cradled in the arms of Fortune, for all I could say to myself in this moment was, “Gosh, am I lucky.”

Though trivial this may outwardly seem this moment signifies a personal victory. I had rushed out into the night seeking the darkness to hide my tears, lamenting yet again the absence of that world I love so. But the tears never came. I realized as I gazed back at the sleepy St Andrews that my heart had been swelled by all that this place is, that I am capable of making a home here as well. As a person who values a home above all else, I feel this may be the great leap into a more fulfilled life that I needed.

St Andrews has finally become my home too, though it lacks many of the qualities I convinced myself a home must possess. I am three thousand miles away from my family, the building in which I dwell is not a permanent situation, and I am without a Bear. Yet I can stare out at the North Sea and wonder what awaits just beyond the horizon line. I can run through forests I once only read about. I can simply be free. These are the components that truly build a home, for they are foundations that fortify the soul; and for the time being, St Andrews is where my soul belongs.

The mention of freedom brings to mind another though. For the first time in what seems a very long time, I feel free to simply be. The girl who began university nearly three years ago was a slave to organization: she believed life could be compartmentalized into her definitions of what home, success, and happiness entail. Yet she had not lived enough to realize that when you stop attempting to mold something as transmutable as Life into what you think it should be, it begins to take on its own form that is more beautiful and pure than what you could have ever conceived.

Three years ago I had a definite plan for my life, down to its minutiae, to last me until retirement. Now my plan doesn’t extend beyond the day’s tasks. I have no plan for myself beyond the immediate future, for I want everything and nothing for my long term. I want to sit on my couch and think all day, I want to compete in the Mongol Derby, I want to write a novel, I want to rub elbows with my favorite actors at Cannes as I discuss a movie I helped produce, I want to chop lumber for a living: all of these things are too absurd, too unrealistic, and too various for me to hone in on one and hunt it down. Thus I have no obligation to any of them, and that to me, who wasted so many years on planning the unpredictability of youth, is refreshing. I can focus on today, this hour, this one heartbeat: and I am happy.

All of these reflections culminate into a grand conclusion. Yet how can I conclude when I have not even had my first class yet? The conclusion is this: I have overcome myself. Though I pretend I am wiser than my seventeen year old self, I am taking a line from her chapter to begin my penultimate year here at St Andrews, the very line that began this whole journey in the first place. I am overcoming who I thought I was: a person who depended on her home for stability, a person who needed a plan to be satisfied, and a person who only played at strength but never bothered with any heavy lifting. For the first time, I finally feel ready and eager to overcome all of the challenges of university, for I have overcome the narrow definition I reserved for myself.

This semester I am taking classes, such as Literary Theory, which I have no idea what it entails or whether I will be successful at it. I am living with someone who is in many ways my direct opposite. I have and will be gregarious when it comes to meeting new people, whether they are potential academic children (I’ve got one so far!), potential new friends, or that elusive “Person.” I have rediscovered why I came to this university in the first place: to run so far from my comfort zone that I cannot see it from this new horizon.

I have also rediscovered what truly makes me happy in life, and it isn’t the safety of my home nor the comfort of routine. Challenges are what I live for, to test the limit of what my body, mind, and soul can do. So maybe I can overcome the whole world after all.

Originally written 14 September 2014