Braveheart

Planning an excursion for a Sunday is always risky. Proper university etiquette dictates that Saturday night is for drinking and carrying on and so fourth. Scottish university etiquette dictates that Saturday night is for drinking and drinking and drinking and maybe some carrying on if you don't feel like drinking anymore. Being the sophisticated lady that I am I do not partake... much. I had my heart set on returning to Stirling, actually seeing the city and making it back to Edinburgh sans stab wounds. Also I desperately wanted to visit the William Wallace Monument, which looks a bit like something ripped from the pages of J.R.R. Tolkin. Nearly half of my party dropped out of our adventure before it even began early that Sunday but the jolly remaining three musketeers ventured forth.
We hopped on the train and arrived in Stirling without much incident. After finding coffee and breakfast on the main street we began to explore. We didn't have a plan, which incidentally usually leads to the best stories. Whether or not that is true for this story is up for you to decide. After walking up an unfairly steep hill and passing by the irrevocably haunted Highland Hotel we found ourselves in a graveyard that was, for lack of a better phrase, hauntingly beautiful. We exchanged pleasantries with a potentially intoxicated local and began pursuing the gravestones that made the Boston Tea Party look like a current event. It was a quiet and serene place that didn't seem to bothered by the passage of time. There was a hill in the far corner that offered us a picturesque views no matter which way we turned. The castle, the countryside, the entire church yard and beyond. We explored the city a bit more before deciding that it was time to take on the Wallace Monument.

William Wallace Monument

Athos, Prothos and Aramis... Not in that order.

After locating the bus stop we set off for Wallace Monument. I discovered all too late that I wore the wrong shoes for full on mountain climbing, which seems to be a running theme within my adventures. Scotland is chock full of absurd hills that make me feel comically out of shape. If I don't return to the flatness of Florida with the legs of a mythical champion there is no justice. A trail wound up the side of the hill and after shedding my jacket and cursing my sweater we arrived at the top to a lovely view of Stirling, some very patriotic Scottish flags, and one of the coolest monuments I have ever seen. Upon entering said monument we discovered, much to our horror, a narrow spiral staircase. The tower contained five parts; the foyer and gift shop, a three part museum, and the viewing platform at the very top. Also a 246 step spiral staircase. The museum bit was a bit anticlimactic, the only truly interesting part was the horrifying display in the first room. An actor's face was projected onto a featureless dummy for the sake of reenacting William Wallace's trial. Truly nightmare material, you had to be there. We visited the other rooms which were probably fascinating but the last stop put them to shame. The very top of a monument set on the top of a hill overlooking a small city in the middle of the Scottish countryside has a view some would die for. Again I'm failed by my limited vocabulary, another running theme. Stirling sat tucked in the hills and fields looking impossibly small, neat gold and green fields blanketed the ground like a quilt, massive grey hills rose up on all sides, and a sunlit river weaved through it all. My hair did violent battle with the wind as my friend and I stood in the middle of the unreal surroundings talking about how insane and wonderful everything is. I still find myself wondering how this is all real.

I can see my flat from here! I kid, my eyesight is rubbish.

FREEDOM!

Going down the stairs was like something out of a Hitchcock film, but once back on Earth we decided that the best way down the hill was the longest and least populated trail. I almost gave up on my plan escape Stirling unscathed. The trail went deep into the surrounding forest over hills and far far away. 10 years later we finally emerged stronger and wiser for the experience and proceeded to take the tourist center by force. We decided to end our journey in the best and most Scottish way possible at Baker Street pub with fish and chips, haggis neeps and tatties, and beer. Stirling is a truly beautiful city and as we raced home I was a bit distraught at the thought of that trip being my last visit. Oh how wrong can one be.

Here it goes again....