Scotland /redux

When my oldest child was seven, we took her on a trip to Scotland. My parents came along, and my wife and I. We drove up from London on the A1, the fastest route, if not the most scenic. The British love their motorsports, and drive accordingly, fast and aggressive. And on the wrong side of the road no less. But I like that, the big rented Mercedes was more than willing, and we crossed the Scottish border in good time.

We traveled out to the western coastal islands, Mull and Skye. Of all the spectacular scenery I’ve ever seen anywhere, these islands are on the short list. Not many places compare to their unique beauty, stark and expansive.

Then back to the mainland, across and up to the Highlands, mystical, mysterious, timeless. Seems nothing has changed here in centuries. The long horned, shaggy cattle look primordial. To have crested a hill and seen Bilbo Baggins crossing the road would not have felt out of the ordinary. 

Near the head of Loch Katrine it began to snow, a spring blizzard out of nowhere. Stopping at a historical marker, we were surprised to find the grave of Rob Roy MacGregor. Considered both a bandit and a hero in his time, I had always thought of him as a mythical character, akin to Robin Hood or King Arthur. We detoured up a winding one lane road and there he was, the snow covered grave alongside the stone remains of his home, burned to the ground by his arch enemy Duke of Montrose. We wandered about for a few minutes, just us, our footprints the only blemish in the April snow.

Edinburgh was a joy. The majestic old medieval city, spread out below the castle. Walking the narrow alleyways, climbing the ancient steps up to the fortress, we savored a cup of tea and shortbread beneath the battlements. Through it all, Casey was the uncomplaining little traveler, quiet and curious, taking it all in.

We arrived at our last stop, the small scenic coastal town of North Berwick. This had always been the destination. This was where we lived when we relocated from rural Georgia to the Scotland of my childhood. Built around a small, stone walled harbor of fishing boats, North Berwick hasn’t really changed much since then. We walk around town, to my old elementary school, the train station where my father caught the train every day to Edinburgh. Ate the best fish and chips I have had since….the last time I was in North Berwick. Still wrapped in newspaper, as it should be.

Going out for breakfast in the spitting rain, we meet our innkeepers, raingear on, carrying their golf clubs. If there is one thing most Scots agree on, it is the sanctity of golf, preferably played in the rain. They are cheerful and typically Scottish about the weather. 

“It’s only a wee bit.” “Hardly noticeable.”

As the wind picks up, rain pelting into our faces. 

We drive out a few miles, to the family home, and the rain begins to subside. Casey is fascinated by the white house perched above the sea cliffs, and Tantallon castle, a ruined fourteenth century fortress, across the pasture. Sheep dot the slopes leading down to the water. My friend Ian and I roamed this beach every day after school, climbing the rocks, studying the tidal pools.

While everyone else tours the old home, graciously welcomed by the new owners, Casey and I walk the familiar path down to the beach. The tide is out, and I show her the cold water sea life living in the estuary – crabs, urchin, small octopus. The rain has stopped and we wade in the sheltered water. Up the beach we search for, and find, a small cave that was a secret hiding place for Ian and I. Blackbeard’s Cave, we called it. Still there after all these years, as it was for hundreds of years before us.

We climb in as the rain begins again. She is spellbound, as I was at her same age forty years ago. Waves rolling in from the Channel, we sit in the raised shelter of the cave. A place of our own, out of the weather, a clear view of the sea. Waiting out the storm, mostly in silence. Casey reaches over and takes my hand. Salt air, fog, rain, and sea spray splash off the rocks and over the sand.

It occurs to me she might bring a child of her own here someday.

Then, after a short while, as it does here, the rain stops, we emerge into the afternoon sun, and walk back down the beach, where the adults are waiting.