Weekend Warrior
From Truly
My stepdad Tony wasn’t (and isn’t) a “you should” type of dad. He’s more a master of tickle torcher, a wintertime sled ramp builder, a street hockey player and a leaf pile jumper. Tony imparted his values of active living, honesty, and hard work through deed rather than words; he didn’t just tell us kids to play outside, he raced us to the door to play along with us. In my life, my stepdad has given me advice exactly twice. Both times the words of wisdom landed with such a curious thud that they are impossible for me to forget.
The first time I was six and he was showing me how to stuff rolls of coins to take to the bank. After we stuffed all the loose change in his jar, he tried to give me a roll of change for being a good helper. For some weird reason, I’ve never been good at accepting money or favors; I blushed and said, “No thank you.” Tony’s voice was grave, his face stern. “Never say no when someone wants to give you money. Always make sure to take what you earned.” Thusly I was introduced to capitalism and later the habit of scrutinizing my pay stubs for error.
The second time Tony gave me advice happened the day before my wedding. Many people feel the need to give advice to people engaged to be married. Especially when the bride is a 19-year old dreamer and the groom a lad just two weeks out of college with aspirations to be a fiction writer. By the eve of the wedding I thought I might explode if one more person said one more sentence to me that included the word “should.” But that night after dinner with my family, when a family member lightheartedly asked Tony if he had any words of wisdom for his daughter, I had to smile. In the same heavy tone he’d used when I was six, Tony blurted these awkward words in a forceful staccato: “Work hard. Play hard.” No shoulds. No doubts. Just his basic philosophy for me to take into adult life. And to some extent, I have.
Work has been manic. The Festival I’m marketing launches its main period on 17 May and dozens of exhibitions, workshops and talks have been trickling in since mid-April. It’s a kind of mania I thrive on; I can work with focus, dedication and relentless stamina on projects for the public. I like that I am serving my community here (six actually–the Festival is nationwide in six cities), and in a way, leaving this place better than I found it. The Festival I work for isn’t only aimed at cultivating cultural enthusiasm, but also contains a whole slew of initiatives geared at stimulating economic growth and making Scotland competitive in a global marketplace. I’ve had a blast discovering that Scotland is more than haggis, tartan, and bagpipes; it makes me happy to be able to share that with the world through the work I do. This country has treated us well, with so much kindness and generosity; it’s an honor to have a job that lets me give back to it.
So, in accordance to Tony’s advice: I’m working hard. But I’m playing hard too.
Last Saturday while Shaun was at work, I went with friends Dan, Bryony, and Susie to Ayr, a beachside town on the west coast of Scotland. We ate ice cream with flake, built sandcastles, played Frisbee and mini golf, and walked along the shore. (Bryony had the camera for the day, so we have no pictures of her, which is a shame.)
The shore of Ayr contains a curious creature that lives beneath the sand in the wet pools left behind on the beach after the tide goes out. At first glance, it looks like the bottom of these shallow beach pools are covered in coils of slithery worms; I jumped and splashed like a mad woman when I first realized that I was surrounded by them. But my friends explained to me that they weren’t worms, but rather evidence of wormy creatures wiggling deep beneath the sand. When the earthworms move, air is pushed up and causes the coils that appear in the pools. Weird, huh?
Makin’ the Castle
Our Castle-o-Love
This weekend is a long one, as Monday is a bank holiday in Scotland. While Scotts can be as workaholic as Americans, they observe bank holidays with reverence; nobody works on a bank holiday.
On Friday Shaun and I went to a dinner party at our Icelandic friend Saulka’s house, where she dished up some of the best homemade pizza I’ve ever had and introduced us to the glorious world that is Icelandic rock music. We also played a few rounds of Jenga. I love it when the tower falls!
Early Saturday morning, Shaun hopped on a bus to attend a weeklong Writers Retreat in the Highlands and I hopped on a train to attend to my hankering for a good long mountain hike.
I took the train to Adrossan and then the ferry to the Isle of Arran. My colleagues have been recommending Arran to me for a while, calling it “Scotland in Miniature,” because the geography of this small island matches the geography of the mainland: monroes (Scotts for mountains) in the north and gentle plains in the south. I took a bus to the north to sweat it out on a 7-mile circuit to the highest peak on the island: Goatfell.
The guidebooks promote Goatfell hardcore, claiming that you can see the entire island from its peak. If it weren’t in Scotland, perhaps that would be true. As it stood, the only thing you could see at the peak was a thick wall of white mist. But the boulder scrambling was intense; it’s been a while since I pulled myself up over a boulder, gripping at cool moss to steady myself against the victorious wind. The trail was pretty busy, but I was kind of counting on that since the idea of hiking completely alone in the wilderness sort of freaks me out. I kept pace with a man and his Dalmatian. Both were friendly companions. It was a great climb.
The Atlantic from the Arran Shore
The Trailhead
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Looks like a deformed asparagus, dosn’t it?
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The fence is put up by the forestry service-something to do with maintaining biodiversity. The ladder was also put up by them; how fun and thoughtful!
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At a certain point, the climb was too intense to take photos; hauling yourself over boulders and adjusting apature is not a good idea.
At the top. Just look at the amazing veiw…of mist!
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The last leg of the trail, at the foot of the mountain, had some obligatory Scottish sheep. No walk in Scotland is complete without them.
End of Trail Self Portrait: Tired, sweaty, happy.
Near the end of the Goatfell trail is the Brodick Castle, where I took in a quick tour (which was the same as all the other castle interiors I’ve seen so far: stag heads, stag heads, stag heads) and some well-earned Arran-brewed beer.
If the weather holds, tomorrow I’m off to walk Ben Lomond. I’ve wanted to do this climb for a while, but I’ve had to wait for summer to come since that’s the only time the ferry runs. (Ben Lomond is on the opposite side of the loch than my bus stop, so I need a boat to get to it without a car.) I can’t wait to feel the wind in my hair, hear the crunch of rock underfoot, and breathe deep that delicious, mysterious Scottish mist.
I’m not sure if the “Work Hard, Play Hard” philosophy as a wholly sustainable principal for anyone to live by forever (I think Buddha called dibs on that one with the “Middle Way”), but I think it is a perfectly reasonable idea to guide us at this point in our lives, in this year abroad. We are discovering, exploring, and figuring out just what this green and blue spinning ball that we’re living on has to offer.
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What’s your favorite piece of advice and who gave it to you?
PS
Thanks to all who sent such loving feedback on Shaun’s BBC story. I’m so proud of him and I know you are to. He has been working so hard lately to hone his craft and your love and support go farther than you know. Special thanks to my brother Anthony for accidentally setting the fondue pot on fire that horrible Christmas not so long ago and inspiring Shaun to incororate flaming table cloths into his work. 
In case you missed the BBC link to the story while it was live, a perminent link to the radio reading is up on Shaun’s site: www.shaunmanning.com. Click on the “Publications” section. The story is Yuki and Cyrus Take on the World. Many thaks to Rick for his enthusiasm and talents with making temporary BBC links into magical MP3s. Enjoy ladies and gents!