Hobbling from Stonehaven to Donnattar Castle part three of three

November 6, 1:53 PMLafayette Political Buzz ExaminerKen LaRive

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Donnottar Castle, Scotland

Photo by Ken LaRive

The story so far: With a developed taste for single malt scotch I explored Stonehaven, and with a torn ligament in my leg hobbled down the cliff trail to explore Donnattar Castle. I found a passageway to the northern beach that few take, and decided to explore it, looking for those elusive pictures…

Hobbling from Stonehaven to Dunnottar Castle (Part Two)

Hobbling from Stonehaven to Dunnattar part one

Keeping to the high and dry smaller stones I made my way to the base of the cliff where further access across the beach was blocked. Thousands of birds lifted from the rocks and circled overhead, apparently not used to humans going this far into their territory. Every so often a white dropping would plop close to me, but I was lucky. With sunglasses I looked up to study the stratification of ledges, islet, and weathered outcroppings where both tenacious plants and nesting birds made their homes…

In order to get a proper photo I had to find a way to get out over the huge slivers of rock that had fallen in the way so long ago. I found passage under a leaning boulder, where waves would recede enough to get past, and by timing them made it through dry. Clambering up and over the highest one, all of the adult birds quickly took off squawking in anger overhead. The babies that could not yet fly moved as far from me as possible on this little rock island. I hobbled slowly and stayed in one place so as not to scare them into jumping into the sea…

The cliff loomed high above, nearly three hundred feet, and from this vantagepoint I could now take some pictures. Setting up my tripod I fit my camera on top with its 210mm zoom, and began scanning.

I noticed right off that each species of bird took up a particular level of the cliff, as each nesting habit prescribed. There, high above the rest, directly under the grassy earthen slope was a hand-full of puffins standing next to their holes. Deep inside they had burrowed, probably maintained after many generations, a safe nest for their young.

Right below this topsoil level, began the levels of rock face where the fulmars made nests in thick carpets of sea thrift, a hardy plant that can take salt air, wind, and biting cold. Below these, on rocky ledges, protected by overhangs, were the kittiwakes. They have been given that name for the cry they make sounds like the name, and “Kittiwake, kittywake, kittywake,” echoed high overhead.

The razorbill took up their space next, clustering together on the little nooks and crevices like centennials. Below them, and becoming more apparent to my eye, was the common gullemont, who lay their eggs directly onto the rock ledges without a nest. I couldn’t see them clearly but have read they lay eggs that are a conical shape, helping to prevent rolling, to me another amazing example of natural selection. Indeed, I can see even on this rock cliff the workings of both evolution and the divine hand of creation, as the world’s niches fit it too perfectly to be otherwise. A guiding hand and a niche to fill, just as the multitude of levels found here…

An hour is like a minute in a place like this, and when finally I returned to the little hole where I had entered, it had already begun to fill up by the coming tide. I had no choice but to get wet, and glad that I hadn’t stayed longer or I’d have had to swim for it! The icy water, kelp, eelgrass, and the rock keys that cling inside the little trapped bowls of seawater at low tide remind me of the cliffs of Southern California, and their beautiful tide pools. They needed to be refreshed, and I could see that this area had a tide of over ten feet!

Hobbling, wet to the knees, I made my way again up to the castle walls. The day was waning, old and cool, and I was glad I had brought my jacket. Like a snail named Igor I made my way up the cliff then downward on the lonely road to Stonehaven. In about an hour I was standing high above the town, and decided to take a shortcut down a well-worn footpath. My pulled and twisted ligament was far more painful going down then up, and I looked forward to propping up my feet to dry before the pubs hearth.

As I made my way down the narrow rocky path I met two older gentlemen, just a bit older then myself. One was carrying groceries balanced with plastic sacks in both hands. His greeting was both enthusiastic and contagious, and even though I was tired and in pain, we talked for nearly an hour. We looked over the harbor as he explained that a man named George Keith founded the city, and I subsequently found out that he was the 5th Earl-Marischal of Scotland.

He pointed to a place near the port called the TOLEBOOTH where Episcopalian ministers were imprisoned in the 1700’s, and how they still baptized their followers and converts from their cells. In the speed of the conversation he said that on New Year’s Eve there is a spectacular fireworks display in the harbor, and in the same breath that there had been all kinds of strongman competitions going on in the village that day, throwing huge rocks, logs, and such. Guess I just couldn’t see it all…

Another man came up from behind me as I continued my way down and scolded his dog, a Scottish Terrier, for barking at me. As the trail forked and we parted I yelled to him, “You take the high road, and I’ll take the low!” I heard his laughter and he yelled back, “Aye!”, as they both disappeared beyond the flowering grass…

I spent the rest of the day exploring the seafront, and taking pictures…

With one last scotch, bought for me by a young man named Steve who wanted to welcome me to Scotland with a drink... I took the bluebird bus back to Aberdeen, glad to be sitting down. This time it wasn’t an express, and made twenty stops along the way. Young people filled the bus from every small village along the way, all dressed up to do Aberdeen proper, walking the mat, on a Saturday night. These kids looked no different from any group of American kids, and with as much diversity and stratification as what I found on the pudding stone cliffs! But then, after all, Saturday night is Saturday night, even in Scotland…

Doffing your cap to 1000 Years of Scottish Serfdom