Jane McKibben

Bittersweet, Beautiful and eerie are the words that come to mind to describe this place.  At times you can feel so alone but at peace with yourself. 

The runs I have found myself on have left me always with the same resulting feeling.  This feeling that I wish I could share but at the same time hold within.  Along the coast I ran towards the setting of the sun.  It was only around 45 minutes but it was endless and breathe-taking. Yesterday 1 August 2012 was the date of this run in which I began to fall in love with this place.  It was on the shore road that travels around the island and used by the tourist and islanders of this place.  However when running on the shore road I had only encounter a total of 3 cars all driving on the left side of the road. 

I kept a decent pace and could feel ever bit of my heart pounding as well as the tremendous amount of breaths I was taking.  My running shoes pounded against the pavement as my arms pierce the air around me.  I became well aware of not only what was going on within the interworkings of my body but also the effect of the coast and the bodies of water had on it.  The sound of the water touched every nerve in my ear leaving a settled easement on my mind.  I pushed on.  The sound of the rushing of the miniature streams in hopes to find its path to the ocean kept me motivated to run further.  I pushed on.  The bugs, that were alive and well, continued on with their evening routine as I ran pasted the grasses in which they buzzed.  Not a soul in sight but the soul trapped yet free within me.  I pushed on. Traveling with no ideals or dreams but of the reality that had just fallen, settled into place in my mind and in my surroundings. 

This place, this miniature version of Scotland is every bit unique.  Gloomy, dark, cheerful and bright is the description of all that this place is and can be.  This place called Isle of Arran can become a home, a visit, a getaway or a place never to return.  It remains as it is with few changes and still has those whom cherish it for what it will always be: honest.

Julia Gabbert

            I spent the majority of my summer thinking about Scotland. The expense of the trip—a major concern—mostly revolved around the cost of the plane ticket that would fly me across the pond. And so for weeks I checked several different websites, taking note of prices as they fluctuated further away and closer again to $1000. When the price finally dipped low enough that I felt I was getting the best deal, I quickly booked. From then on, the plane ride was mostly what I wondered about when daydreaming about my first overseas adventure.

            St. Louis to Chicago. Chicago to London-Heathrow. London-Gatwick to Glasgow. I knew where to go and what to do—in theory. I had never left the country, let alone by myself, so naturally the first time I tried I had to go by myself, without any help from anyone I knew.

            The first bump in the road occurred before I even left St. Louis. My flight was being delayed for some unknown reason—it was raining (for the first time in weeks), but not enough to hinder a plane, I wouldn’t think. Regardless of the reason, an hour in St. Louis would make me an hour late to Chicago. I would miss my flight out of Chicago, so I would have to rush between airports in London. It would be close, but I was hopeful.

            Fast-forward nine hours. I got off the plane in London feeling great. I had only slept about three hours, but I was in London! By myself! I was in the land of Harry Potter and the 2012 Olympics. But I had to act fast, because I had a semi-long bus ride to the London Gatwick airport and not a lot of time to get there. So I headed to the baggage claim area. I found my terminal and waited for my bag. Then I kept waiting. And after I had already seen the same bags three times, I waited some more. No sign of the purple suitcase I borrowed from my sister-in-law. When I came to terms with the fact that I was going to miss my connecting flight and that my luggage wasn’t coming, I asked for help.

            The employees at the airport were very helpful. They were confused as to why my luggage wasn’t there—their computers were reading that the bag had arrived on schedule—but they rearranged my flight so I could catch one out of London-Heathrow instead of Gatwick, so I wouldn’t have to travel across the city. One employee assured me that my bag probably just couldn’t be transferred between flights because of the delay, and it would probably be on the next flight. Probably. So I got on my next flight to Glasgow without only a backpack full of books and my baby blankie.

            Once in Glasgow (only an hour later than originally scheduled), the employees at the airport told me a similar story: ‘we’re not sure why your bag isn’t here, but it will probably come in on the next flight.’

            Long story short, I wore the same outfit three days in a row. I had to borrow shower supplies from the ladies I’m sharing this trip with. And I had to toss and turn at night questioning the fate of my new Merrell hiking shoes. As a reward for my stress, though, I am officially a world traveler. So I guess it was all worth it.

Photo Linda Williams
Jane McKibben

Day 3 in Scotland on the Isle of Arran


Before I lay myself down to rest, I can hear the sounds of the ocean and sheep.  The waves make their way to the coast and wash up against the rocks.  The sheep baa every so often during the day and during the night.

Before I lay myself down to rest, I can imagine the sheep taking the eeriness and beauty of the evening sky along with the moon that hangs above us all. 

The sound they make, make it that much more realistic to count sheep.

Counting sheep… 1, 2, 3… Counting sheep.  What used to be a remedy to go to sleep has transformed itself into a realistic method to use before bed here on the Isle of Arran.  Could you imagine?  Before bed the sound of the evening shore along with the sheep outside this miniature pasture outside our home. 

Our home that we have claimed for this week is where I have chosen to count sheep before I fall asleep. The bed is so small in which I lay myself down to rest but it is just enough to suit my needs. 

The stillness of the night is something that only can be imagined back home or even in a city.  This place this island has a unique flavor of surroundings and sounds.  Never have I ever experience such a place.  The beauty and eeriness of it amazes me and wonders me.

The sheep take in all that this island has to offer.  They seem to always be around, ready to be counted.  During my runs they are near.  During the drives around the island they are by.  Before bedtime they sound off their nature way of communication. 

We wonder why they baa so loudly and for what reason.  But to me it is what makes this island so unique and interesting. These sheep are part of everything that make-up this place, the Isle of Arran.

Counting sheep… 1, 2, 3… counting sheep until I fall fast asleep. 

Julia Gabbert

            I’m a road trip kind of person; I won’t even flinch at the prospect of driving cross-country for 24 hours or longer. And because my whole family is the same way, it wasn’t until high school that I had the chance to fly in an airplane. I was very active in my high school journalism program (which sparked the love of journalism I have today), and the program was successful enough that it allowed us to travel for journalism competitions. My junior year I flew to Phoenix, then the following year I went to Washington, D.C. On both of those trips, along with my most recent trip, I’ve had the same unavoidable and slightly existential feeling of being very, very small.

            In Lambert airport, but also all the other ones, people are constantly scrambling around everywhere. People from all around the world. People with their own individual problems. People I will never, ever see again. They’re all heading to different destinations and the five seconds in passing is (most likely) the first and last time I will ever see that person as long as I live. What if we could have been best friends? What if together we could have changed the world? Neither of us will ever know. It’s a strange feeling to realize just how big the world is and how many people there are on this planet. (Of course my environmental studies background wants to think about overpopulation and how we’re beyond 7 billion on Earth and how that can’t possibly be sustainable at our current rate of consumption, but I digress…)

            Okay, when I referred to this feeling as “slightly existential” I was selling myself short. This is big, people! We are small and insignificant, et cetera.

            The positive side of airports, I guess, is that even for a short time, they can bring people together who would not have otherwise met. On my plane to London, I sat next to a woman from New Zealand. Later in the Heathrow airport, I recognized a family from the airport in St. Louis, who apparently shared two plane rides with me. We exchanged subtle smiles and nods of acknowledgement. It was almost a moment from a flashback (/sideways) in ‘Lost.’ Almost.

            My point in all of this is that airports are weird. That’s not a good weird or a bad weird, it’s just a for-lack-of-a-better-word weird. It’s a weird worth thinking about.