Fàilte gu Oban

Fàilte is the Scots Gaelic word for “welcome” and, having no idea of pronunciation, we’ve ungracefully been articulating it as FAIL with a “t” at the end. This has come in handy for every mistake and wrong turn we’ve made along the way. “Fàilte!” we shout and then laugh at each other. Lest ye make the same mistake, fàilte is pronounced “FALL-cha.”

We knew we must be nearing the end of our travels when we finished off our 12-pack of car crumpets. We’d purchased the crumpets over a week ago and had been eating them with peanut butter—basically a sacrilege—for makeshift car lunches. Kirsty-the-Irish-lass had informed us of our folly: everybody knows they must be toasted and covered in butter. I suppose we’ll have to save the proper crumpet experience for our next trip abroad.

On our way to Oban, we drove by the Glenfinnan railway bridge—the 21-arched bridge over which Harry Potter and his wizarding friends ride the magical Hogwarts Express. Everything begins with “Glen” in this region because glen means valley, and this terrain is covered with them. The next glen we hit was Glencoe, also known as “The Weeping Glen,” named so because of the 1692 Campbell/MacDonald showdown. The MacDonald clan chief was late in swearing his oath to the British monarch, and the local Campbells led the British Redcoats into the glen, where they were sheltered and fed by the MacDonalds for twelve days. On February 13, the soldiers were ordered to rise early and kill their hosts. The stunning glen still weeps with cliffside streams when it rains.

The nearer we got to the bustling town of Oban (that’s OH-bin), the more people we saw out and about, clad mostly in summer shorts and sandals. Now, we were just as stoked as the Scots about this seemingly endless warm sun, but let’s not forget that that this “warm” is upper 50s, Fahrenheit style. We were quite comfortable in our jeans, long sleeves, and North Face jackets. But that kid we passed on our way into town was quite comfortable in his swim trunks and bare feet, splashing in a kiddie pool.

[Passing a sign for A’Chonghail]

Hayl: The Gaelic sure needs a lot of letters to say “Connell.”
(Seriously, "Connell" is how you say A'Chonghail.)

After winding up very narrow one-lane hillside streets and getting thoroughly lost, we finally found and checked into The Old Manse Bed and Breakfast, where the windows overlooked the whole town and the tea tray contained a tiny glass-stoppered bottle of sherry. From there our first stop was the Oban Distillery. The late afternoon hour prevented us from going on the tour, but we were able to read some information about the brothers who founded the distillery in 1794 and the town that was built around it.

We grabbed a tasty dinner at Cuan Mor, Gaelic for “the ocean,” and then set out to find a pub and meet some locals. Enter Donald MacFarlane.

Donald was lugging an enormous duffel bag from pub to pub, as he had just returned from four weeks at sea—old hat to a 32-years fisherman, such as he was. Our American accents are a beacon in some of these towns, and Donald chimed in as soon as he heard us order our respective cider and whisky.

Two gents nearby were joking about fighting one another, and Donald informed us that bar fights were common, as any old thing might set a couple of inebriated Scots to fighting for their honor. “Like the clans,” I ventured. Donald stared at me in stunned silence until his face broke into a grin. “Like the clans!” he agreed, laughing.

We had heard (from Rick Steves) that “the ‘45”—that is, the 1745 campaign of Bonnie Prince Charlie of Scotland to retake the British throne—and the subsequent 1746 Battle of Culloden are still rather immediate to some Scots, and with Donald we learned that was true. He fired right up as he talked about it, this 250-year-old event. By the end, we learned that the MacFarlanes—his kin—and the MacGregors were the only two clans never to have surrendered to the British monarch. “Never have, never will,” he said, utterly solemn.

We shared stories about driving around our respective countries, and he told us of his youthful drive from Oban down to the south of England to see his then-girlfriend. The harrowing 120-mile-per-hour drive took him nine hours and, naturally, required him to hit “every bloody stop for bloody petrol!” We told him a drive of the same length might get him across one American state in some instances and he, horrified, declared that when he takes his wife traveling stateside in a few years, they will stick to exploring Utah on horseback. He really, really wants to see Utah.

Later he begged our forgiveness for “so rudely” having neglected to offer us his home to stay the night. We told him we’d already secured our lodging, but that we’d be sure to look him up the next time we visited Scotland. “And you will be truly welcome,” he replied, never breaking eye contact. The old clan hospitality is alive and well.

We awoke—a bit worse for the wear—early next morning and had our “full Scottish” breakfast, differing from the full English by the absence of beans and the presence of a potato pancake. After briefly chatting with the Old Manse host Simon about the similarities between Scotland and Seattle weather, we headed out on our last drive to our last stop in the UK: Edinburgh.

Until next time!

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