Rob Roy

Rob Roy.  The name rings a bell.  As well it might, since I'll be hiking the "Rob Roy Way" in Scotland in another month.

But what do I know about Rob Roy.  And why is the Scotland trail named after him?  I've done a little research, just enough so that I have some idea of who the gentleman was.  But it all still seems somewhat nebulous.

Rob Roy was a member of the MacGregor clan.  He was born in 1671, and was named Robert Roy MacGregor.  Or, as the Scots put it in Gaelic, Raibeart Ruadh MacGriogair.  "Ruadh" means "red" in Gaelic, and Rob Roy had reddish hair, so I'm not sure whether "Roy" was his name from birth, or whether it was a later descriptive.  

Rob Roy and his family were quite wealthy.  He had at least seven houses scattered throughout the area east of Loch Lomond.  He was a cattle drover (or dealer), and also ran a protection racket with respect to the herds of his neighbors.  This was like insurance, except that if the insurance premium wasn't paid the "insurable event" mysteriously occurred and cattle "disappeared."  This racket was apparently quite common, and was no more frowned upon than were smuggling and shipwreck salvage among the coastal residents of Cornwall.

The MacGregors were Jacobins -- supporters of first the "Old Pretender" and then Bonnie Prince Charlie as kings of Scotland, in opposition to the successors of James II of England who had also ruled as James VI of Scotland.  After the MacGregors participated in a losing battle with England in 1689, they were banned from using the MacGregor surname, and any legal documents using that name were void.

The proscription of the MacGregor name was an outrage, of course, but Rob Roy's troubles appear to have arisen from more local problems.  His own cattle ran afoul of someone else's cattle rustling, and he became bankrupt in 1712.  His creditor had him outlawed as a result, and his property was seized and many of his houses were destroyed.

As an outlaw, Rob Roy wandered through "Rob Roy country," evading capture.  He was captured twice and escaped custody twice.  Eventually, he was pardoned by King George I in 1725, and apparently lived out the remaining nine years of his life in peace, dying at the age of 61.

He is considered a folk hero in Scotland, and the story of his life was popularized by a number of authors, arousing romantic sentiments that resulted in increased nineteenth century tourism from England to the Rob Roy country.  The very country through which I'm about to hike next month.

The most famous of the accounts of Rob Roy's life is Sir Walter Scott's fictionalized novel Rob Roy (1817).  I've somehow spent my life avoiding any attempt to read any of Sir Walter's novels or poetry, and I don't have the stamina to begin now.  (I have watched Donizetti's opera Lucia di Lammermoor, based on Sir Walter Scott's The Bride of Lammermoor.  Beautiful opera, but I don't think that counts.)

More accessible, perhaps, is Disney's 1953 movie Rob Roy, the Highland Rogue.  Maybe before I fly off to Glasgow, I'll check and see whether that film is available on Amazon.  I'm traveling with friends (fellow Americans), and I don't want my ignorance of the history of Rob Roy country to appear complete!

The spirit's willing, but ...

A few months ago -- I can't be more precise -- I tried rising from the floor with my legs crossed.  A maneuver that I've performed easily since childhood.  A sudden pain in my left leg startled me, but it seemed to ease off.  Nothing to be concerned about.

Or so I thought.  The pain became more and more frequent, centered on the inside of my thigh.  After a while, I developed a separate pain in my left lower abdomen.  I didn't connect the two problems; I instead was concerned that I had some problem -- hopefully not cancer -- in my bowels.  

Eventually, however, I realized that the two pains were connected, and seemed to merge. 

Some of us would have immediately seen a doctor, or a physical therapist.  I have my own way of handling such problems, which is to ignore them -- confident that the pain will go away if I think happy thoughts.  This time, my confidence was misplaced.  Continuing to walk daily between four and six miles did not solve my problems.  Arguably, it intensified them.

Walking itself -- for a long time -- remained painless; it was only other motions of my body that were painful.  Such as, significantly, touching my knees together.  Which is, of course, a characteristic, almost diagnostic symptom of ....

Groin muscle strain or injury!

In 31 days, I fly to Scotland for a week's hike, joining four friends with whom I've done similar hikes in the past.  At the conclusion of the hike, I fly to Milan, and thence to Lake Como for two weeks. This will be my third consecutive year hanging out at Lake Como with friends and relatives, the third year staying at the same rental house on the western lakeshore.  A significant activity during such visits to Lake Como has been day hikes -- along the lake shore and into the hills behind the lake.  

Beginning yesterday, I ceased my daily walks, in the hope that increased rest would hasten signs of improvement, signs that so far have been sorely [sic] absent.  Even if successful, this strategy will have the unfortunate side effect of weakening the leg muscles that I need for hikes in Scotland, hikes averaging ten miles a day.  

Luckily, however, this Scottish hike -- the "Rob Roy Way" -- will be one of the least demanding of the many British hikes I've undertaken over the past twelve years.  Also, it will be no pioneering expedition into the depths of wilderness.  As I've pointed out to my fellow hikers, at no point along the hike will we be far from taxi service.  If worse comes to worst, I can alternate hikes and taxi rides from inn to inn, still enjoying the evening meals and conversations in the company of my friends.

Still, after decades of hiking in foreign climes, I have to wonder whether my travels are now hexed.  Last year, a dislocated shoulder while -- humiliating to admit -- emerging from a Milan hotel bathtub.  This year, a groin strain before the hike even begins, while merely attempting to stand up.  Where does it all end?  Is my body offering pointed warnings that I should observe?  What next?  Will I be "hiking" by use of a walker?  Or merrily rolling down the trail in a wheelchair?

How can a young lad like myself end up so betrayed by his own well-conditioned body?  So I delude myself, ignoring my actual age.

The hike goes on.  The lakeshore stay remains scheduled.  More details as events warrant.

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Photo: Stock photo, not the author!

Progress on the Montlake lid

Tonight at 11 p.m., the Montlake Boulevard connection between the Montlake neighborhood (and neighborhoods to the south) with the area north of the ship canal will be severed.  

For me, this means that for ten days I'll be unable to drive north to University Village shopping center or to Burgermaster -- my go-to place for leisurely breakfasts and tasty lunches -- unless I make an absurdly long detour through congested traffic to cross the University Bridge and navigate the traffic of the University District..  I doubt that I'll bother.  As I complained on Facebook, going for breakfast or shopping for groceries at my usual venues over the next ten days would be like driving from Seattle to Chicago, by way of New Orleans.

So what's happening and why?  Unless you live in Seattle, you're really not interested in the details.  But the Montlake lid project is a portion of an on-going, multi-decade reconstruction of the State Highway 520 connection between I-5 in Seattle and the communities on the east side of Lake Washington.  

We in Montlake rose in outrage at the disturbance expected as this project plowed its way through our neighborhood.  To pacify us, the state agreed to a number of amenities, including a lid over a portion of the new 520, an extensive network of bicycle/pedestrian pathways, and attractive landscaping.

The Montlake lid work began in November 2018, and should be completed some time next year.  I drive and/or walk through the heart of the mess -- with traffic funneled through a contorted re-routing of Montlake Boulevard -- virtually every day.  Following the progress of the construction has been interesting, but its completion will be warmly welcomed.

The reason for the ten-day closing that begins tonight is primarily to restore Montlake Boulevard to its normal non-contorted route, and thus open the full extent of the lid space that will ultimately be landscaped as a park.

I've never quite figured out all the routings planned for the various lanes of SR 520's through traffic, for the surface streets in the neighborhood, including Montlake Boulevard and Lake Washington Boulevard, and for the much-welcomed pedestrian and bike paths.  Not even careful study of the map above fully satisfies me.  But, once completed, I know that all will become clear, and most of us in Montlake will happily welcome the changes.

I eagerly look forward even to simply the re-opening of Montlake Boulevard on July 24 -- not just for return to convenient access to  the north, but also to visualize more clearly -- on the ground, rather than just on maps -- where this project is heading.

Summer editing

I strolled across the University of Washington campus yesterday afternoon.  The temperature was in the low 80s, working its way up to 85.  The campus seemed relatively deserted for a Thursday -- it was either a slow time of day during summer quarter, or perhaps the university was still between quarters.

The heat, the quiet, the beauty of campus brought back student memories, memories that strengthened as I walked past Gowen Hall, standing across a walkway from the main library.  In the 1970s, the building was still called Condon Hall.  It then housed the law school.

I spent most of my days and many of my nights in and around Condon Hall the summer following my second year of law school.  Looking back, that may have been -- all things considered -- the happiest, most consistently enjoyable summer of my adult life.  

I was summer editor of the law review.  That sounds impressive, but it primarily meant that I was the only one of the incoming editors, now "3Ls" (third year law students), who hadn't bothered to seek out a summer internship downtown, and who was also attracted to the job of writing and editing.

My editorial duties consisted of editing the "case notes" prepared by hopeful applicants for law review membership from the class behind us (incoming 2Ls).  Invitation to membership on the review was based on both the quality of their case notes and their first year grades.  But the best case notes were also published in the review, once whipped into publishable form.  

Whipping them into shape -- that's where I came in.  Occasionally over the protests of their authors, with their inflated pride of authorship..

Interspersed with my editorial work, I was also researching and drafting a far lengthier student "comment" of my own for publication.  Work on my own comment probably took as much time as my formal editorial duties.  Between the two, I spent almost every day in my law review office, and in the law library for which I had a key for night time access, as well.

It sounds exhausting, but I was doing work that I enjoyed doing, and in which I felt confident in my ability to do well.  That's one recipe for daily happiness.

But back to the hot days and lightly populated campus.  Each morning I'd arrive early on the sunny campus.  The law review offices were in a "daylight basement" area with windows opening onto a walkway at ground level.  Across the walkway was the university's main library.  I'd enter my office, check the mail, open my window to let the office cool down in the morning air, and finally walk a hundred yards or so to the student union building.  

A cup of coffee and two maple bars.  I was a skinny kid who as yet had developed no concern with weight or cholesterol levels.  

Fortified and caffeinated, I'd return to the law school, enter my office through the open window, stepping lightly onto my desk and then jumping to the floor.  For some reason, this daily breach of professional dignity stands in my mind as a symbol of all of the pleasures of that summer.  Something that my law review classmates, clad in coats and ties in stuffy downtown offices, had neither the opportunity nor the desire to imitate.

All those hot summer days in my office, and all my long hours of research and writing, alone, bent over a desk in the darkened library at night, paid off.  We put out an excellent publication that year, including articles by faculty members from the UW and from other schools, comments (including my own, thank you) researched and written by us 3L editors, and well written and edited case notes from our incoming 2L members.

I have a bound copy of all our issues.  I sometimes take it out of my book case and admire it.  I sacrificed a summer when I could have been out hiking and camping, but there were many years in the future for those summer activities.

But only one summer in a lifetime as a summer editor.
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PHOTOS:
Top -- Condon Hall (now renamed Gowen Hall)
Botttom -- The magical windows into my office!

Making hay while the sun shines

The Fourth of July is upon me, and I'm unprepared.  No personal fireworks this year, although I may show up for the city's display tonight, viewed from the north shore of Lake Union.  No July 4 family gathering and picnic, although I just returned Sunday from a wonderful gathering of the clan in Idaho.  

Facebook pulled up a photo that I'd posted four years ago, reminding me of a highly entertaining Fourth with friends in San Diego, which leaves me feeling a bit alone and isolated.  Although the Fourth has never been that major of a holiday in my family -- not since the magnificent gunpowder explosions of my childhood.

No, this year the Fourth mainly serves to remind me that we're already edging past the half-way mark of 2023.  How did we ever get here so quickly?

It doesn't feel as though I've had that many adventures so far this year, although by the standards of most folks I've done pretty well.  January on Maui; February riding Amtrak from Los Angeles to Chicago; April out of season on a resort in the North Cascades; last week, hiking, rafting, and visiting with family in central Idaho.  

And, especially, two weeks in May in Italy -- the Cinque Terre, Florence, and Rome.

Enough for most of us -- including me, during most of my lifetime.  But not quite enough for me now, as the realization gradually creeps over me that the future is not inexhaustible.  My future.  If I want to do something, I'd better do it soon.  Despite my claim that I'll live to at least 110. 

All of which leads up to my revelation that the month of September will be spent outside the country, in something of a modified version of September 2022.

I depart for Scotland on August 27, where I'll meet up with my friends Jim and Dorothy, and with Jim's brother and sister, for another Scotland trek.  This time, we'll be  hiking the Rob Roy trail from Drymen (near Loch Lomond) to Pitlochry (in central Scotland).  This is another of a number of unguided hikes I've done in Britain, beginning with my hike along the entire length of Hadrian's Wall in 2010. 

As with all these British hikes, the same company has already reserved accommodations for us each night, and has arranged to have our baggage transported from one B&B or small inn to the next while we are on the trail, carrying only a light daypack.  It's a genteel way to backpack, traveling through a genteel countryside -- somewhat different from the more rugged hikes of my younger years, storming through wilderness and carrying our food and tents on our backs.  But then, I'm a more genteel sort than I was in younger years!

We'll be hiking for eight days, with nine nights accommodations reserved.  Hiking in Britain is always fun, the scenery and history are fascinating, and the diversity of the sleeping arrangements, with hearty breakfasts included, is always exciting.

At the conclusion of the hike in Pitlochry, Jim and Dorothy will return home, but their brother and sister and I will travel by train to London, where we'll stay a night and then catch a plane to Milan the next morning.  In Milan, we'll meet up with John and Anne's respective spouses, hang out for a couple of nights in the city, and then proceed north to Lake Como.

Yes, this will be my third consecutive year on Lake Como, staying each year at the same wonderful rental house, right on the western shore of the lake, about five miles north of Menaggio.  The five of us -- all of us repeating our Como stay together last year -- will stay for a week.  Then for the second week, I'll be joined by my sister and by my brother and his wife.  Just the four of us, for a Sibling Vacation on Lake Como.

These two experiences -- Scotland and Lake Como -- should make up for any supposed lack of excitement during the half of the year just completed.

If not, I may spend a week in Thailand in October, visiting a nephew and his family.  That's another story, a possibility not yet decided upon.  But, as Hillel the Elder famously asked, "If not now, when?"

Each day a leaf falls withered from the tree
Whose leaves make up the life of thee and me,
⁠The leaves are counted and the last is there—
Ready to fall before thy destiny.

--Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam