The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.
George Eliot
If – on our recent expedition to Scotland – the eagerly anticipated prospect of the spectres of my ancestors queuing up to welcome us as we crossed the Tay at Perth and headed north into the foothills of the Grampians proved to be a touch quixotic – then much the same might be said of The Girl’s hope that she might re-experience the sense of wonder with which she had been so captivated two decades before on the unexpected discovery of such treasures as the Rosslyn Chapel and Kilmartin Glen.
It is not that these inspiring attractions are any the less worth seeing a second time around (with perhaps, for The Girl, the added bonus of being able to introduce them to me!) but more that the magical, mystical manner in which they were encountered on the previous visit could itself never truly be replicated. It is also the case, of course, that the monuments themselves have evolved. The renovations at the Rosslyn Chapel have moved on many a mile, whilst there is now a splendidly refurbished and extended museum at Kilmartin Glen.
So – where does that leave us? The Girl and I have both waxed lyrical to family, friends and acquaintances regarding the gratifyingly fulfilling nature of the trip; but what was it then that so captivated us?
Well – my ancestors may have been coy but that did not prevent me from revisiting the more recent past. It was quite a shock to realise (somewhat belatedly, truth be told) that though I am familiar with many of the places that we chose to visit (from our family holidays there in the 60s and 70s) it had been fifty years and more since last I saw most of them.
Fifty years? How is that even possible!?
I quickly found myself revisiting in my mind anew these Caledonian vacations that had constituted such a formative element of my teenage years – reminiscing unexpectedly about the very details of what had been such an important part of my upbringing. Sharing these memories with The Girl proved to be a surprisingly sweet experience – she learning things about me that she had not previously known, at the same time that something similar was happening to me. I took great pleasure in introducing her to the area in which our clan originated (the valley of the river Garry; Pitlochry, Blair Athol and Calvine) and it was a great delight to walk once again through the pass of Killiecrankie down towards the Linn of Tummel.
Asked about her highlight of the trip The Girl thought for a while and then pronounced that for her that would be our brief sojourn on Orkney. She had been determined from the start to work the Orkneys into the itinerary and she was not disappointed. She struck gold in finding our host, Nicky Bichan, in Kirkwall, who not only runs a splendid B&B – Shorelands – but also gives full-day guided tours of all of the historical and archeological sites. Nicky and his wife, Kirsten, are genuine and thoughtful people, perfectly placed to effect an introduction to the tight-knit community that is the Orcadians.
Should you ever find yourself in Kirkwall we would also strongly recommend the Storehouse Restaurant. We ate there on both nights of our visit, the second because we enjoyed it so much the first time.
The other element of the trip that had a big impact on us both was that of the making of connections. The Scots have a well-earned reputation of being a particularly friendly and welcoming race. Clearly this must also rub off on those who move to Scotland – or perhaps even just pay a visit. The other day The Girl and I composed a healthy list of those with whom we had had fascinating conversations on our travels. These are just a few examples:
- The lunch-time waitress in the Edinburgh bistro who grew up in the circus – because her mother was a trapeze artist
- The young man at the Thistle Stop Cafe – adjacent to our splendid National Trust apartment on the Royal Mile – who had spent time with his relatives in Kelowna here in BC
- The Georgian gentleman who runs a whisky shop in half of the building that still houses our small but fascinating clan museum at Calvine
- The unexpected Romanian couple who run the restaurant at the golf course in Blair Athol
- The indomitable elderly Texan ladies with whom we shared our tour on Orkney (we avoided conversations about politics and guns!)
- The Californian couple on the ferry back to Thurso – and the kind eastern European gentlemen who volunteered to help them to recover their hire car that had suffered a puncture as they hurried to catch the outbound ferry
- The lovely couple who ran the AirBnB on Skye. He was from Yorkshire – she from Edinburgh. On the day we arrived, he had just put his fishing boat in the water for the summer season. He offered to catch us some fish the next day and – true to his word – appeared bearing three splendidly fresh mackerel – the which we cooked for our supper. Yum!
- The theatrical house manager and chef at the excellent Lime Tree restaurant in Fort William. I thought I had lost The Girl after dinner but found her lost instead – in shared theatrical anecdotage with this enthusiastic brace of thespists
One more item of reminiscence – and in a quiet way one of my top highlights of the journey. The photo at the top of this post is of our clan chapel in the tiny Perthshire village of Struan. In the small graveyard that surrounds the chapel may be found many memorials to important members and officers of the clan. If you examine the sign affixed to the chapel door you will see that the building is owned by a trust on behalf of the clan – and can be used for ceremonies and gatherings by members of the clan. My brother was married there all those years ago – and now, standing in that quiet and isolated churchyard in the heart of clan country, I really did feel a connection to something ancient and good.
“Because children grow up, we think a child’s purpose is to grow up. But a child’s purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn’t disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don’t value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life’s bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where is the song when it’s been sung? The dance when it’s been danced? It’s only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature’s highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and wilfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we’re expected! But there is no such place, that’s why it’s called utopia. The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. If we can’t arrange our own happiness, it’s a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us.”
