A Quick Story about Running to the Castle

On one of my first visits to Edinburgh, I woke up one morning and thought it would be lovely to run to the Edinburgh Castle. It was a Sunday morning and relatively early. Edinburgh is rather quiet on Sunday Mornings. Anyway, I ran to the castle. The castle has a moat around it, although today the moat is free of water and the draw bridge has been replaced by a permanent bridge. If you look at this picture from my run the other day, you can make out the depth of the bridge by looking at the person in pink just to the right of center. This person is standing to the left of the bridge next to a wall from which you can look down into the moat.



Now there are some people on the bridge, for example the person in white pants next to another person in pink. They look to be about half way across. The other side is the large opening to the castle. This opening has two full sized wooden doors that meet in the middle. In this picture the doors are open inviting people inside.

Prior to my run in 2008, I had walked to the Castle and seen that you could enter when the doors were open. So that morning, I ran a pretty good distance by several other landmarks before running up the hill to the castle. As I approached the castle, I was happy to see that one of the two doors was open. The door on the right was open, although the door on the left was closed. Nonetheless, I ran across the bridge, through the door, and into the castle grounds.

I was startled by an unconvincing Scottish yelp that was probably “HEY!” I was a good twenty feet inside when I turned back to see a soldier armed with a machine gun, probably an SA80 slung as only the Brits sling a weapon. He jumped up off his stool and yelled something at me. Apparently, an open door is not an invitation when half of the door is closed. Behind that closed half just might be a young Scottish soldier looking to win a medal.

Anytime someone jumps out from behind a door you just passed through it’s startling. When they are heavily armed, it’s especially startling. I simply ran out of the castle with a big “Sorry, thought it was open!” I have not run back into the castle again. Even on the run in the picture above, I just touched the moat wall and headed for the Heatherlea.

When I told my friend Jared I had run to the castle he said, "I'm guessing you didn't run in this time." (I later learned that these castles are still considered military posts, although technology has nullified the defense effects of the moat and stone wall.)

Fettercairn 1824 12yr, Highland

For the second whisky, we move to the Highlands. I had never heard of this distillery which is precisely why I ordered it.

Fettercairn 1824 12yr
Highland
40% abv

Color: Amber and very oily, at times it seemed you could see portions of perfectly clear liquid with beads of amber.

Nose: sweet and high pitched, conflicted, almost wrong; this smelled the same throughout, best described as conflicted. By high pitched, I mean that if I tried to sing a note just out of my range and translated the strained sound to a smell, it would be the aroma of this whisky. By almost wrong, it is like something rotted, but now it has been so long that it isn’t revolting, but a sweet smell that still tells you something isn’t quite right.

Palate: sweet and oily; deceiving: it almost seems vacant but simultaneously tastes like a smooth whisky. It’s so oily that the sensation in my mouth made me think of water beading up on a newly finished table.

Finish: super smooth but a delayed warmth; it lingers but subtly

Overall: this whisky was nice to drink, but I wouldn’t order it again. It just doesn’t smell good enough. Also, I’m not a huge fan of the whisky being so oily that it stays in your mouth after you swallow. It’s the whisky version of getting meat stuck in your teeth, but you can’t get it out with a toothpick. Anyway, it was fine, but it simply doesn’t smell good enough to buy again.

A Castle Run & The Radical Road

Okay, so I got a bit busy and didn’t post anything. You see, that’s the problem with blogs. They’re like dogs in that they end in the same three letters. Oh wait, no … my point was that they require daily attention and if you ignore them for too long, they’ll die. Well, blogs and dogs are different in many ways like the last three letters might be the same but they don’t rhyme and no one cares when a blog dies.

So, what if you can’t think of something witty to post? Like I mentioned in the immigration briefing, I’ll post about running. I love running. My job is such that if I wanted to, I could work while running. (Well, my current research job … for the teaching portion of my job, this would require my students to be running, and I think some would object to this method of teaching.)

Edinburgh is a great place to run. Here is a cons and pros list (switched up to keep our brains fresh):

Cons:

• There is an intersection every twenty feet.
  
• You never know where the cars are coming from because they’re on the wrong side of the street.
  
• The city is very pedestrian active, cluttering the sidewalks with non-runners.
  
• It’s probably raining.
  
• It smells like fish.

Pros:

• It’s a town in Europe.
  
• They managed the park system nicely. (See above bullet.)
  
• It’s hilly.
  
• There are castles within a reasonable distance.
  
• From the right hills, you can see the sea.
  
• If you ever get tired of running, there’s certain to be a pub close by.

I can run for two miles in a loop without having to cross a major road but that’s boring. Here are two interesting runs I’ve taken.

The first, I ran to the Edinburgh Castle in the center of the city.




Here’s me with the castle (to show that I didn’t simply take this off the internet?).


Here are some views of Edinburgh from the Castle, well, right in front of the castle.


In this one, the amazing building in the middle is a high school. That's got to be the coolest looking high school anywhere.







In this one, at the horizon, you can see the North Sea (as in many of the following.)



I didn’t run in the Castle this time. I’ll post the story of the time I ran into the castle.


One morning last week, I decided to run over to Holyrod park. Then I decided to go over the very tall “mountain” in the middle, Arthur’s Seat, along a trail called The Radical Road. This was unplanned, a last second decision when I saw it. The run immediately turned into a hike, for the radical road is one of the steepest inclines I have ever been on. In great shape, I could not have run up the beginning hill. Since I have returned to regular running only after my arrival here 15 days ago, I’m not in great shape. Anyway, the hike was enjoyable and led to me getting the displayed views of the city.

In this last picture, if you look sort of dead center and squint, you should be able to see the back of the Heatherlea.


I plan a run to the sea in about two weeks when I think I can make it. It’s not so far in one direction, but then I’d have to run home.

-Tomorrow, Fettercairn 1824 12yr, Highland.

-Saturday, the castle story.

-The layout of the pictures with text looked much better when I previewed it. I simply don't have the time or energy to make it pretty again. I also realize that the text along the side in this post is not awesome and I'll go with simple centered photos in the future. Mea culpa.

Ardbeg 17yr, Islay

For my first review, I started off strong. Maybe too strong, but here’s the reasoning: if Amy puts the kibosh on this whisky adventure, I will already have tasted some serious whisky. The downside, I’ll probably get better at noticing many of the intricacies, but I probably won’t return to some of these. So, anyway, I decided to hit Islay first, knowing that these whiskies are often the most extreme. There’s lots of talk about Islay whiskies and tasting the sea. Prior to this one, I thought this was rubbish (as they’d say here). (Although, come to think of it, I may have only had one Islay whisky prior this one and that was the ultra bold Lagavulin. Maybe I had an Islay with Matt, but if so, I don’t remember tasting the sea. Anyway, let’s just say that Lagavulin is smoky enough that when you leave your empty glass on the table and step out of the room, you can still smell it in the hall.) So, here’s my first whisky, the Ardbeg 17yr (from the same part of Islay as Lagavulin I believe; I should have brought Matt’s book with me and will bring it back in March… I guess I could look crap up on the internet, but that’s not what the NSF is paying me to do here and I don’t want to taint my own reviews with others).


Ardbeg 17yr
Islay
40% abv

Color: a vanishing yet burnt gold

Nose: first salty, second molasses, later sweet but dangerous. (After a few sips, the aroma is consistently like candy - sweet, salty, and not too strong.)

Palate: gentle, warm, and reasonably smoky

Finish: at first, it is immediately intense, mild burning on the lips, and gets high in your nostrils clearing them, but then it’s gone, leaving a tingling throughout and a sweet aftertaste where you want some more. Unfortunately, it’s expensive and you’ll have to be satisfied with your 35ml.

Overall: Maybe I was just psyched up for number one, but this whisky was fun and intriguing; I'd say even fantastic. I couldn’t taste the sea exactly, but I could certainly smell it. It is certainly worth ordering at a bar. If you like whisky and want to try a fun one, don’t look at the prices and order this one. If you buy a bottle for your home, it’s probably used for serious celebrations or impressing guests. I don’t think it’s an everyday bottle (although I also don’t condone drinking whisky every day, both physically and fiscally).


I want to inform you that my favorite part of drinking whisky is smelling it. So there was certainly a time in my life when I thought the goal was to consume more of the whisky than your “mates.” After a few unfortunate episodes and the wise guidance of a certain woman, I realized this was stupid. Now I like to drink it very slowly, most of the time spent smelling it. If you are like me, you’ll agree that the whisky smells very different after you have had a few sips; my understanding is that your nose is now used to the alcohol. Anyway, I plan to comment on both sets of “Nose” as I would prefer to drink a wonderful smelling whisky that isn’t perfect to drink, than a perfect drinking whisky that smells weird.

So that’s my first review!

NFL @ the Grey Horse Inn, part deux

Tonight’s AFC championship was later by two hours than last week's early game, so I knew I was likely headed to a bar that was reasonably full of patrons, aka working men. I went close to the end of the second half, may 2+ minutes remaining in the half. Anyway, I walked (it was colder than I had anticipated and I wished I were wearing a hat) to the Grey horse. It had a good twenty people inside. I entered and surveyed the scene.

Of the two old guys, only one was present. Of the louder crew that had come about this time the week before, half were there, with equal total numbers but a new other half. The barmaid was new (to me) and the guy whose dog had responded to me when I entered in my running gear was there and so was his dog. Some who had not been there the week before occupied various positions in the bar. I noticed that a good many of them were trained on the TVs watching a football game. Unfortunately, it was their version of football. Now I love a good soccer game, but honestly I’d watch the AFC championship game over the US National team playing in the World Cup (prior to the semis). Suddenly many were leaving and I simply asked the young lady behind behind the bar, “How many people are watching this game?”

“None,” she told me. “Nobody’s watching this, what do you want to see?”
I was skeptical, but I told her I wanted to watch American football on Sky Sports HD 3 (I had looked it up online before going over). Then, as she looked for the remote I asked a few gents at the bar if they were watching the game and one loudly proclaimed, “No, we’re looking at it, but we don’t care at all. Watch what you want!”

This response put me at ease and when she changed the channel, no one objected. I got to watch the game in relative peace. At one point, one of the guys from last week bought every single patron in the bar a drink, except for the stupid American. Then he laid into me about something. The bartender, Kim, laughed a bit and told him something. I hadn’t understood a single syllable. Then he laid into me again and Kim says, “Oh, he’s just puttin’ ya on.” And then she said to this guy with the hoop earring, “He doesn’t understand ya!”

So he says very slowly and loudly, “Why aren’t you [going home with the bartender]?”

“Ah,” I said. “That I understand. I don’t think my wife would approve and I just wanted some beer and to watch the game.”

At this point he asked me something about why I was out if I had a wife (he was wearing a wedding band) and added some bar only commentary about poor 21-year-old, Kim. I’m thinking 20-25 years ago in the USA, this would have been funny, but I just felt bad for Kim (and was a bit concerned that I might get brutalized by this very large Scotsman). Anyway, throughout the night when he would pass by, he would say something and make weird faces. I assumed it was about the bartender. I tell you what, it is literally impossible to understand these people after they have a few cocktails.

The game was fantastic. Manning was pure excellence in the second half. It wasn’t nearly as close as the 13 point victory. I’m not sure if I’ll be heading back to the Grey Horse since they won’t be open for the Super Bowl. But if anyone comes in town and wants a brew, we can head to the Grey Horse.

By the way, I drank (both weeks) McEwan’s 70/-. It’s like a creamy amber, reaching for stout status. I found it superb and if you want to try a beer brewed in Edinburgh, I highly recommend it. Also, Terry wasn’t there this week and the second old guy (whom the police were looking for last Sunday) showed up during the third quarter. I deciphered that his name was Tom and the other old guy was Joe. I asked the bartender how long those two had been coming to the bar. All she could muster was, “Longer than we’ve been alive.”

Tomorrow – a whisky

Whisky Reviews

Whisky reviews are vast and done by educated connoisseurs or complete fakes. I am a fake, but I aspire to not be a complete fake. I won't be faking the terminology and telling about what type of cask I think the liquid lived in for the past decade. Whisky should be tasted and commented on according to a standard set of categories (with my overly simplified category description):

Color: what does it look like?

Nose: how does it smell?

Palate: how does it taste?

Finish: how is the aftertaste?

Overall: does this need a description?

For example of a review by a trained connoisseur, here is a copied review from last week on the Edinburgh Whisky Blog.
------------------------------------------------

Mortlach 1993 (11yo)
Bottled by: Murray McDavid
Speyside
Bourbon cask, finished in Graham’s Port casks
1800 bottles, 46% abv

Mortlach means ‘duck massacre’ apparently…

Colour: 1970s brown leather sofa

Nose: Apples, berries and peaches. Blackcurrants and nail varnish, lemony and sour. Finally White chocolate and nutmeg.

Palate: Grapey blackcurrants oaky and very clean

Finish: Very short

Overall: Easy drinking, clean and quite sweet. Not as big as other Mortlachs. Expected more on the palate after the nose, but still enjoyable.

-----------------------------------------------

Now close your eyes, slowly breathe in through your nose and think “Apples, berries and peaches. Blackcurrants and nail varnish, lemony and sour….” Then think of “Grapey blackcurrants oaky and very clean” as a flavor. To be honest, that’s not so helpful to me. I don’t know what blackcurrants smell and taste like. I’m not going to review whisky like this; that would be like me trying to dance: AWKWARD!

I’ve had a few whiskies in my day and I like the idea of looking at these categories. These are the things you would tell a friend about a whisky. I think I will be more down to earth. Suppose I just got the well whisky at Mueller’s in Atchison, Kansas. Fictional Whisky Review:

Mueller’s Well Whisky 4yr:

Color: light and cloudy

Nose: strong and unsettling: smells like it is going to hurt

Palate: intense alcohol flavor, like it should have waited 8 more years before bottling

Finish: serious kick causing one eye to shut and a bit of chills and shakes

Overall: an unfortunate purchase, stay away. This should only be used for mixing and only with the intent of inebriating college aged people.

See, that review makes sense. We can relate to that. I didn’t have to say anything about blackcurrants or peaches. If you really want to read reviews like that, I suggest the aforementioned Edinburgh Whisky Blog. For the most part, I can’t afford the whisky they review.

I did find that not so far from the Heatherlea is a bar they recommended, Leslies. The whisky list is here. I would like my loyal followers to suggest which whiskies I should taste. Make a few selections and put them in the comments if you’re interested. Make more than one in case they are out, but list them in order. Some whisky tasting will begin in the near future.


Quick Updates:

- I finally responded to some questions posed over the past few posts. Sorry, I've been busy.

Coffee @ the Heatherlea

When introduced to the workings of the kitchen, I was shown a cabinet filled with teas and coffees. “Just add some to it and help yourself for any of it; it’s the community tea and coffee cupboard,” I was told. Unfortunately, all the coffee was instant. That wasn’t so surprising, but I wasn’t excited about instant coffee. I bought some instant coffee I had here on a previous trip and it is okay. It tastes like pretty good instant coffee.

A few days ago, I saw real coffee on the counter and asked how one might brew such a fine thing. Al (Heatherlea owner) shows me this interesting contraption where the water is placed in the bottom, the coffee in a filter area, that is screwed to the bottom of a tiny pot, and the entire thing placed directly on the stove burning at a constant temperature of hellfire. This turns the water in the bottom into steam, sends the steam through the coffee grounds and up through a tube and into the empty reservoir on top. This sounded fascinating. Cora, a colleague at work, warned me it would be like espresso if I filled it up completely. Anyway, I made some this morning. The coffee was Starbucks, house blend medium. I put in about two-thirds of the coffee it would have taken to fill it. It was amazing how fast it made the product. Unfortunately, the product is awful. It doesn't taste like coffee exactly. In fact, it is so weird it doesn't taste like espresso either. It simply tastes like something went wrong.

I said to Lina (German, 20ish) and Claire (English, 40ish), "At home, you can just set my coffee maker to start the coffee before you get up so that when you walk down stairs the coffee is hot and ready."

They laugh, then Lina says, "That is exactly how I dream of America."

Claire says, "He's not serious.... wait, are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious," I tell them. "You just set the time you want the coffee maker to start. It's not a big deal, we could buy one of these at Sainsbury's."

"NO!" Claire yells. "You can't buy that at Sainsbury's; you live in the future!" And she walked out the back door to have a cigarette.

I almost died laughing, a bit at her response, but mostly that they still aren't sure if I am kidding about a crazy coffee maker that starts when you tell it to.

I'm still drank my yucky coffee after bringing it to work with me. Actually by then it was cold AND bad, a winning combination. Jared and Cora, my two main collaborators here, have since given me a French coffee press. I'll try that. I bought some coffee tonight, but it wasn’t specifically marked for a French press. I’ll update you if it comes out like coffee or like Turkish coffee.

Quick Updates:

-turns out Al’s partner’s parents actually own the Heatherlea.

-it was a B&B pretty much since the end of WWII when the US confiscated it. Al says four years ago, there was a knock at the door, and three old men asked if they could come in a sit around for a while; they had been stationed in the house during WWII.

-whisky (or whiskey in our language) is expensive; I’ll get there. I did one and I’ll post something about it soon.

-spending too much time getting you acquainted with Edinburgh to tell you about math; I’m not sure if you care. Maybe I’ll write about math when I have nothing else to say.

-when shopping this evening, I checked at Sainsbury's and you can NOT in fact purchase a drip coffee maker with a digital clock, let alone one that is programmable. How much more would that cost, 94 pence? (where pence are like our cents)

The Heatherlea

One especially quaint aspect of living in Edinburgh is that all of the houses are named. At this point, the preponderance of these very large houses have been split up into flats, but still the names remain, usually etched on the glass above the main entrance. It’s pretty amazing actually that these names have carried on through the years.

I live in the Heatherlea. The Heatherlea has not been divided into flats, rather the Heatherlea served for a long time as a bed and breakfast. A few years back, the owner decided on a new business model as there are roughly as many B&Bs as people in Edinburgh. It is now a B&make-your-own-B. He rents the rooms long term. According to Al, he runs an "English school." He seeks international residents who come to study or work in Edinburgh for an extended period of time. This way, no one knows English and they can all learn English from each other? The English School isn’t exactly accurate. Yesterday, while I ate dinner in the rather small kitchen, there were two conversations going on, one in Polish, the other Korean. There were two people in a different room speaking English, but that was their native tongue.

I chose to live in the Heatherlea for a few reasons. It was convenient to already have internet set up and such. I would have access to the kitchen and nothing to worry about when traveling. It would give me time to find a nice place for the family. It would save me money in a variety of ways, not the least of which is rent. In Edinburgh, rent is the same in magnitude, or possibly a bit higher, than in say St. Louis. Unfortunately, the scale is different as the Pound Sterling is (today) 1.63 times the US Dollar. So, a rent of £700 per month is unfortunately $1141 per month. Plus, you have to pay a zillion taxes to the council, which is apparently an elected trash collection agency as I see no other services provided by this piece of government.

Anyway, the Heatherlea has the added benefit of being, well, very international and often entertaining. The current occupants are mostly between 19 and 23 years old I would guess:
Elodie – a French woman
Lina – a German woman
Claire – an English woman (probably about 40)
Jenny – a Korean woman
Yumi – another Korean woman
Edit - a Hungarian woman
Raddick – a Polish guy
Jeff – a fantastically handsome American (probably not yet 35)

Then there is the owner Al and his partner, who might be named Amanda. She’s nice, but was the first person I met. When she told me her name, I was more concerned with if I had found the right home. She made me pasta and I forgot my own name, let alone hers.

Oh, the Heatherlea has a flat in the basement which is rented to two Aussies, probably around 25; I think they’re married. They appear at random in the kitchen. Jaime and Gwen I think.

I argued for and received a clean, small mini-fridge, got some cupboard space, and have cooked for myself precisely once. That lasted two meals. Otherwise it has been the three S’s: sandwiches, salads, and cereal. This taking care of yourself is not all it’s cracked up to be. It is fantastically time consuming. I’m not that experienced on this front as you might already know since I married Amy six weeks after moving out of the dorms. Since then either Amy, the Army, or a restaurant has fed me. Okay, not exactly, but pretty much.

Tonight I decided I would cook some stir fry, chicken and prepackaged veggies. Then I went into the kitchen, saw that I still had lettuce, cut up some cheese and lunch meat, and drizzled on some oil and vinegar. Salad two nights in a row.

So that’s where I live. I hope the Heatherlea is a source of entertainment to my two blog followers and the occasional passer by.

Here is a the ad for a room to rent which I post if want to see pictures of the Heatherlea. A few notes, that’s not my room and I can’t see Arthur’s seat from my room (i.e. the view shown is not what’s out my window).


Tomorrow, coffee @ the Heatherlea!

The NFL @ the Grey Horse Inn

Trying to watch a football game in Edinburgh is harder than you might think. First of all, you must remember to precede “football” with “American.” Second, you must be willing to listen to complaints about how long the game takes to play and defend the “incessant starting and stopping.” Finally, when dropping in a bar to ask if they might show the American football game, “It’s the playoffs you see,” it might be wise to not be in running shorts (33° F out) with running shirt, camel pack, hat, and wool gloves. Entering a bar in this outfit in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday immediately labels you an outsider.

However, persistence is the key! After stopping a few folks on the street (none of whom seemed happy about this) and interrupting the football matches (aka soccer games) in three bars, having all responses similarly “I jess dunt kneow, but gut luck,” you simply can not call this the end. When my run was finished and chances of seeing a divisional playoff game fading, I decided to lengthen my usual cool down walk to explore the area. I stumbled upon a place showing the soccer game and filled with loud Scotsmen. I thought, "Why not try one more," and went in. This time there were plenty of strange looks, the conversations died down, and the dog I had to step over seemed unimpressed with my Addidas SuperNovas. (At least the dog moved his head, the other two dogs in the bar hadn’t noticed that I entered.) This barmaid must have seen some strange things in her day, because all she said was, “What can I getcha?” I smirked and said I just had a question, can I come back later and watch the American football game. She picked up the remote and began searching for it, nearly starting a riot as the soccer game was shrunk to a corner while she searched the listing. After a small conference with some men at the other end of the bar, I was told, “Aye, come back at half five.”

Half five was a little early, I didn’t want to see the British pre-game report, so I went at about half 6, maybe closer to 7. Uh oh, different gal behind the bar. I told her of my previous conversation and she simply picked up the remote and changed the channel. This was followed by a loud objection from a few men watching a soccer game, very loud complaints that it was still the first quarter and the NFL garbage would take “two weeks” to finish, and finally an 18-year-old kid punching his Da and yelling “Let him watch his precious American football.” Ten minutes later, the bar was empty save me and two men no younger than 80 who probably had been in those seats for 50 years or longer.

Every ten minutes, a man, or two men, would come in, order a beer, drink it rapidly, turn around and walk home. It was like this is what was supposed to happen on the way home.

Around halftime, two police officers entered the bar. They were looking for the older of the two old guys as his nephew had sent the police because he hadn’t heard from the old man in several days. It was sad that the nephew sent the police to a bar to find his ancient, very intoxicated uncle with a giant bandage on his head from a druken fall a few days prior.

Nearing the middle of the fourth quarter (game was essentially over, Vikes dismantling the Cowgirls) a large contingent of drunk Scottish chaps busted on the scene. There was much yelling, some whistling, and their own bottle of 7up for mixing. They knew the old guys and the old guys knew them. One of them (at least) was very drunk. He told me his name repeatedly and my responses each time were

“Doddy?....oh, davey….sorry what….dillon……uh…….man, I don’t know…..oh wait, Terry?”

That was a four minute conversation.

Scottish accent - hard to understand

Drunk Scottish accent - unintelligible

When I said "Terry," he began dancing and twirling and stumbling, and then offered to buy me a drink. I had a drink, so I politely refused. He then ordered two pints, one for him and one for the lady behind the bar. She didn’t want it either. The most sober of the crew, came over and said, “Terry, you drunk fool, you already have a pint. What are you going to do with three pints?” Terry went into the bathroom. I went in a few minutes later and saw him “sleeping” on a throne! When a friend went in to get him, I decided to leave. Terry still had three full pints on the bar.

When I told the owner of this house I’m living in, he replied, “Oh my [Gosh], you went to the Grey Horse? That’s a working man’s pub.” Apparently, I don’t look like a working man. Next week for the AFC Championship, you can find me, two old guys, and probably Terry at the Grey Horse Inn.

Immigration: Welcome to my Midlothian musings

I sent an email to a friend regarding Scotch Whisky. He asked that I taste as many as possible and blog about it. I drank some whisky. It made me tired. I decided to blog about it anyway, but not limit myself to whisky.

This is my blog about my year in Edinburgh, Midlothian, Scotland, United Kingdom. It's essentially for family and friends to track what it is I am doing over here as "research" seems suspect to most of you.

As with most blogs, the first entry is the easiest. The first entry is frequently followed by a second, but rarely does a blogger make it to a fifteenth. I hope to avoid that pitfall by encouraging myself to post something possibly totally useless from time to time. The goal is to post three times a week in one of the following categories:

Scotch (Whisky) - obvious
Scotch (People) - mostly awkward culture clashes
Maths - better explained below
Random - things that don't fit into another category
Running - boring crap about running when I can't think of something else to post
Trips - if I take some
Going Broke - it's expensive over here

I have completed a second entry.

So what about the Maths category? I call it maths since it is only called math in the USA. It's like measuring temperature in Fahrenheit; we're the only ones. It is here that I will attempt to explain in short bursts what the heck I am doing. This will range from possibly telling you how I do research, to what I am researching, to why it is that someone would pay me to do this. I intend to write this so that you understand; that's the hard part. Not because I am already calling you dense, but because it took me 21 years of formal education and two years as a post-doc to understand what it is I do. Anyway, I'll try. If I'm not doing so hot, let me know or skip the maths posts!