Have you seen Glamis Castle? Because I haven't.

So here's the thing about adventures.

Sometimes, when you head out on a Saturday morning with a vague understanding of public transportation systems and a tour-guide-quality map, you end up at Edinburgh Castle.

Sometimes, though, you discover that the 22A bus to Glamis Castle no longer runs, although the bus company continues to display the schedule on the website. So, because you're already in Dundee and now have a day-long bus pass for two people that cost about $35, you consider a trip to Forfar and then Glamis which would put you there at around 2:30 but because the last bus leaves from there at 4:00 and there's a 15-minute walk from the bus station to the castle, you ultimately realize that Glamis Castle is clearly off the table for the day.

Instead, you decide to go and see Edzell Castle, which you've never heard of but are still willing to believe that it's better than any house you've ever lived in. It's in Montrose. You board a double-decker bus and take a beautiful hour-and-a-half long bus trip up the eastern coast of Scotland to Montrose, a medieval city where the townspeople have clearly and deliberately decided to confuse tourists by setting up signs to "tourist information" first at the train station, then at the museum, then, because as it turns out the museum is closed, at the library which has vanished like Brigadoon. You finally locate a map in front of the WH Smith's, thank god.

However, because it's absolutely freezing, you decide have lunch first at a lovely pub and then try to catch a bus to Edzell Castle. Doesn't look hard -- bus 30 clearly goes to Edzell. And how big can Edzell be, anyway? So you try one bus station. Then you try another. You find bus 30 and when it arrives, the driver tells you that it does NOT go to Edzell because it's Saturday afternoon. The bus only goes to Edzell on Saturday mornings. Naturally. Why bother to put that critical information in writing?

It's getting dark. The snow has hardened into frozen spit, which is literally taking flesh off your cheeks. Montrose has myriad second-hand stores and one decent pub, but not much else, so you get back on the bus to Dundee, then to St Andrews. At this point, you have been literally freezing for eight hours and have not seen a single castle.

But here's the thing I want to say about about adventures. You go back to your flat, cook up some curry lentil soup, crawl under the blankets and realize that you had a beautiful, awesome day. You saw stunning coastline. You had a great lunch. You wandered all over an ancient city, and finished with your mother-in-law's fantastic recipe. It's important to recognize that adventures are not about where you end up (although I really wanted to see Glamis Castle). They're about getting there, and getting home, and learning something new in the process. They're about finding something strange and fantastic about the world -- like the fact that Montrose has an RAF base and museum that I would like to visit -- and spending time talking and laughing with someone you love. And they're about appreciating the warmth and joy at home . . . whether home is a castle, a modest house in Salem, or a studio flat in St Andrews.

So, because I feel obligated to make this blog reflective, if not actually educational, here's what we learned from yesterday's adventure:

• Don't trust the online bus schedule. Call first.
• On the other hand, when the museum website says it's closed, it's closed.
• People who own earmuffs are geniuses. Plus they'll still have ears in the morning.
• Scottish weatherpeople are often right about the weather. They are often wrong about the time weather will begin.
• When you see a pub that looks good, stop. Do not wander around looking in the windows of disreputable-looking Chinese restaurants.
• Consider rephrasing the question, "Are there any castles around here?" when speaking to a Scottish person. As there are many castles around here (no matter where you are), the question is as tedious as, "You're from the US? I know someone in New York! Is that near where you live?"

The long and the short of it is this. Come visit -- we'll go to Glamis Castle. We now know how to get there.

Christmas in St Andrews

After a week and a half in Scotland, I am tempted to write about the thousand small moments each day when I feel I am in a foreign place -- the weird predominance of perfume ads on television, the times when I have to ask for translations of words that are, in fact, already in English ("Whole. Whole? Sorry -- are you saying 'whole'? Oh -- hall. Got it."), the fact that you can't order your Starbucks coffee (or any drink, actually) in ounces and are forced to use Starbuck's ridiculous pseudo-Italian language.

Instead, I'd like to share one of those tremendous moments that makes the Scotland-by-the-sea fantasy all very real.

Last night, we attended the Christmas service at St. Salvator's Chapel, a soaring 550-yr-old hall used weekly for worship services but especially decked-out for the holiday season (really, if you don't read the rest of this post, click on the link and read about the Chapel). The choir, sharing the mezzanine level with the organ and dressed in red robes, led the ancient and tightly-wrapped St Andrews alumni through the old carols, between which administrators of the college and the church of Scotland read verses of the Christmas parable.

JFG and I were spellbound. The dripping candles, the somber adults and beaming children, the soprano's voice bouncing around the stone pillars, the feeling that you are so near to history that you are sitting where John Knox once preached . . . this is why we stumble through the small daily embarrassments of new jobs, new food, new currency.

The service was followed by mulled wine and mince pies in the hall across the green (upon which, I am assured, you can walk regardless of gender).

Our iPhone pictures don't do it justice, but they're below.

P.S. Fantasy somewhat diminished by yet another of those moments that yank us back to our outsider status -- as it turns out, there are multiple tunes to use when singing Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Oh Little Town of Bethlehem. And they sing O Come All Ye Faithful in Latin here. So there you are.

A castle, a hack and a warning

We bought our first Top Ten travel book in 2001, when we went to Paris for Thanksgiving. Top Ten books from Eyewitness Travel are brilliant for travelers like me, not content to wander around admiring the scenery but instead like to have a finite plan, a list of "to-dos."

So yesterday we started on our Top Ten Scotland and what better place to start than #1? According to this book, the best sight to see in Scotland is Edinburgh Castle. A bit cliche, certainly, but it's been 15 years since I was there, after which time the Stone of Destiny was returned to Scotland from London, and JFG has never been there.

We arrived in Edinburgh yesterday morning after a lovely train ride (supposedly . . . I slept virtually straight through). We emerged from the station blinking in the cold and bright Scottish morning and turned around to get our bearings. And there it was.

TopShop and H & M, on the same block.

No, I'm kidding. It's impossible to stand anywhere in Edinburgh and not be completely overwhelmed by Edinburgh Castle, which seems to rise organically and suddenly from the mountain plateau. Even in the sunlight it's dark and forbidding, so much so that you strain your eyes to see the hobbit, elf, magician and Peter Jackson trooping up the Royal Mile and dragons circling the turrets.

But first, lunch. Because of a blog posting about gluten-free Edinburgh we stopped at Cafe Andaluz on George Street which, true to the posting, clearly marks gluten-free menu items. JFG ordered olives (ugh). I countered with a big basket of white bread. We compromised on Manchego cheese, chorizo, artichokes, and roast sweet potatoes. Yum.

On to the castle. I was sad to learn from our tour guide, Robert (I'm not actually sure his name was Robert; it's possible that I'm so overcome by the romance of Robert the Bruce that every man in plaid pants looks like Robert to me) that none of the original, circa 1000 AD castle still exists (although heaven knows I don't even hang onto lipstick in last season's color) but was still overcome with the sheer scale and grandeur of the castle. We wandered through the war memorial, carved in part straight from the basalt cliff, the great hall and the prisoner dungeons. Since my last visit they've added Mary Queen of Scots living quarters, resuscitated from Victorian atrocity, and the Stone of Destiny -- which really needs some paint because, as stones go and sitting next to the crown jewels, it's a bit underwhelming. It's a rock, and rather dull even by those standards.

Here's what I don't understand about these castles on cliffs. I totally get that they're defensible -- in fact, Edinburgh Castle has never been lost through direct attack, only through siege and sneak-attack -- but they are SO COLD. How did people stand it in 1314? Even if you set my toes on fire I would never have been warm enough. I'd think you could get the whole army stationed there to surrender from sheer frostbite. We sat in front of a display of dragoon uniforms from 1881 or something for about ten minutes . . . not because we're fascinated with dragoon uniforms but because the display was right under the heater.

Then a train ride home and into bed.

Where, you might be asking, are the pictures? Well, now, that's a funny story. AT&T, that racket, makes it very difficult to transfer American iPhones to UK carriers. To accomplish this, you need to take your phone to someone called "the Phone-master" who will "jailbreak" your phone (seriously -- would I make this up?) after which it will work marginally on one of the UK networks. My iPhone, which I had not updated from the 3.1 version, was able to be hacked for about $35 and has been operating since. JFG, however, could not leave well-enough alone. He upgraded to the most recent operating system, which makes iPhones MUCH harder to hack. The Phone-master and his doubtlessly completely legal technical skills finally jailbroke JFG's phone, but now the battery has a life of about 30 seconds. He was out of juice before we got to the bus station in St. Andrews. So, no camera. We'll do better next time.

JFG will certainly have comments about the previous post. He should remember that one of us has a working phone and the other has an expensive paperweight.

A wee post about our grand adventure

Something strange has happened.

No -- it's not just that I wake up every morning in St. Andrews in the Kingdom of Fife (although that does strike me as peculiar). It's that the voices in my head have started sounding Scottish. You, know, the voices you hear when you play potential conversations through in your mind . . . they're starting to skip the final "t" at the end of words like "that" or "what," refer to "you" as "ye," and "yes" is sounding more and more like "ay." I used to dream in Spanish periodically, but this is far more invasive.

So JFG and I have landed in St. Andrews. Let me tell you a little about the town. Founded around the 12th century by monks, it comprises about 15,000 people and is virtually overrun by the university (or "uni," as the Scottish voices in my head say), which has made what seem to be strenuous efforts to fit contemporary facilities into 14-18th century buildings. Streets, paved with cobblestones and large pavers, twist and turn down narrow allies and pathways, which open suddenly into bustling streets (or into someone's garden, if you're not watching where you're going). And while there's a Tesco (a Safeway-like place where they leave the eggs on the shelf and sell unusual foods like stringless beans, canned potatoes and sqeezeable cheese) there are also small butchers shops, bakeries and cheesemongers.

You can hear every possible accent here, but the one I hear most frequently is American -- annoying, because it's ruining my medieval Scottish fantasy. Yes, for about $20,000 a year, American students can get an education at the third-best university in the UK after Oxbridge (and a B.S. in just three years) while drinking at age 18 and living in a residence hall built while Mad King George was still in charge. Oh -- and until recently, girls, the great education came with a chance to date the next king, although it appears he's now spoken for.

Anyway, the voices in my head go by the UK clock, and they tell me that it's time to get away from the computer. More later. Off to watch something called the X Factor, which seems to be American Idol with a smaller talent pool and stranger hair.