At
England's northern border, I indulged in a tourist's cliché photograph – me in my
yellow and white suit, resting my arm atop the orange tarp that covered the load on
Melawend, parked near a blue and white sign that read, "Welcome to SCOTLAND". Click.
I had four primary destinations in Scotland: Loch Lomond, Loch
Ness, Inverness and Edinburgh. To me, Scotland
was Lomond’s beauty, the monster Nessie, rugged shores, barren green hinterlands,
harsh wet weather, strong liquor, bagpipes and kilts.
It was the homeland of Sean Connery. My
image of Scots was of a people that were valiant, proud, tenacious, boisterous, brawling,
vigorous, weathered and hearty. They had a
throaty accent, and were resolute in their individuality.
I knew Scotland was a hell of a lot more than that. But what more could I say of it? I was an ignorant young guy.
I
was also cold and soaked. I wanted sunshine. But I loved what I was seeing – the land
rising up, becoming greener, more muscular, and more primeval. These were the Cumbrian Mountains. It seemed a robust land, but it also seemed
private. I had wanted to follow the
coast but reluctantly decided it would take too long to reach Glasgow. I wanted to make tracks so I headed for the highway
that would take Melawend and me to Carlisle and the A74 that would provide the straightest
path.
Beyond
Carlisle, I noticed that I was running low on fuel. Nestled
just off the main road, I saw a little town called Lockerbie. I thought about taking the exit, but the town
seemed too inactive and enclosed for a jittery foreigner.
It looked like a place that did not want to be disturbed.
(That would
happen at Christmas, three years from now – terrorism would rain down death and
unwanted notoriety upon Lockerbie in the form of flaming jet fuel, exploded pieces of
fuselage and dismembered human bodies from Pan Am Flight 103.)
About
thirty miles south of Glasgow, Melawend and I rode through a most unique landscape: no
trees or shrubs, no buildings, untouched by humans, just a land or rolling green hills.
The
sun came out when I reached Hamilton, just south of Glasgow, and it blessed my arrival at
a picnic area on the south shore of Loch Lomond. In
the gold light of early evening, I paused briefly in a parking area to take in the beauty
of this famous island-studded lake, the largest in Britain.
To the north, I saw the brooding summit of Ben Lomond.
I
stopped at Auchendennan Farm on the A82. The
owner reminded me of the actor Gert Frobe (Goldfinger). He glanced at my papers and approved my query while
his attractive wife made sure that I knew to camp out of view of the house.
"You
camp over there,” she said.
I
wrestled Melawend into a wet, trampled horse pasture but I lost my grip and we went down
into the mud. I set up in a shady spot and
washed in a nearby stream. I later saw a
beautiful girl in full equestrian regalia, with her lovely bum bumping up and down on the
saddle over a white horse as it trotted by. With
eyes looking straight ahead and her head tilted a tad skyward, she seemed oblivious to my
presence.
Near
Luss on the west shore of Loch Lomond the next day, I rode up a steep shady driveway that
was cut into the forested hills. I came upon a stucco cottage festooned with international
flags. It housed the Thistle Bagpipe Works. The dark shop was stocked with superb bagpipes,
kilts and accessories. I handled one of the
bagpipes gently in part because I noticed the price – £1,850. As an amateur woodworker, I admired the
craftsmanship and the dark wood. I asked Mr.
J. Kirkpatrick, the owner, about the wood.
"That's
blackwood from Tanzania,” he said.
"This
is a beautiful set of bagpipes. May I take a
photograph of it?"
"No,
I can't allow photographs," he said. "These
are custom designed. The Japanese make copies
of such things."
Green
treeless mountains loomed above tiny Loch Tulia. On
the east side of the loch, there were still standing some ancient pine trees, relics of
the ancient Caledonian Forest. There, you also
saw the cone of Ben Doran, a dominating symmetrical slope.
The Gaelic poet Duncan Ban MacIntyre wrote his masterpiece addressed to and
descriptive of Ben Doran.
Near
the loch, I saw a few cars parked by the side of the road.
Tourists were watching as a tall, trim, gray-haired Scot with Sean Connery
features, dressed in full Scottish regalia, was playing bagpipes. Having heard the mockingly asked question so many
times in my youth, it automatically popped into my head: What do they wear under their
kilts? – I thought, a hair-triggered kick for anyone who tried to look. When he finished a piece, the small gathering
clapped.
"That
was great," I said. Mr....?"
"Alex. Alexander Stewart's the name. And yours?"
"Tom
Smith. And who might this be?"
"This
is little Alexander."
Standing
beside Alexander Sr. was a husky blond-haired boy, about four years old, blowing hard on a
tot-sized set of bagpipes.
"That's
quite a load you have there Tom," Alex said. "And
where are you going with that?"
"Around
the world."
"Around
the world?" he said. "You don't say!"
He
looked Melawend over.
"Aye,"
he said. "If I were single, I'd be going
with you and be playing for food stakes."
"This
is a strange and beautiful area." I said.
"It
is. But just drive up the road aways, Tom. You'll come across Glencoe. Now that's a place you should see. The beauty is spectacular… and the area is
haunted."
Alex was
right; the area had an eerie splendor. Green-frocked muscular rocky mountains closed in on
the road and rose up sharply, creating a high spooky treeless U-shaped glen, made ethereal
under the misty, brooding clouds. But Glencoe
was much more than this scenery, which defied cliché descriptions. It might well have been haunted.
Glencoe
(or Glen Coe) was also called "The Glen of Weeping" – not for the massacre
that had occurred here, but because the annual rainfall here was 90 inches (229 cm). But the weepy climate within the glen did seem
fitting for the treachery it echoed.
As
a young boy plodding through mandatory piano lessons, one of the last pieces old Orpha
Teal taught me was, "The Campbell’s Are Coming". I was haunted by the transitions to and from minor
notes. This only hinted at the horror story
the piece was based on. In fact, the massacre
at Glencoe on February 13, 1692, was not truly based on the centuries-old feud between the
prosperous Campbell clan and their poorer, warring, cattle-rustling neighbors, the
Macdonald’s – it was a government-sponsored plot to exterminate the MacDonalds.
To
free up troops for his ambitions against the French, King William III demanded that all
Highland chiefs swear allegiance to him by a certain date, as a pardon for having fought
against him. Alistair MacDonald, the leader of
the MacDonalds was a few days late. He was
selected to set an example. Captain Robert
Campbell was ordered to lead government troops to Glencoe, seal off all escape routes and
kill all MacDonalds under age 70. The
unsuspecting MacDonalds wined and dined 120 government troops for ten days. In the early hours of February 13th, the feted
guests hacked men, women and children to death and burned their homes. Many others who escaped died of exposure and
starvation in the hills – these hard, gloomy hills.
I
reached Fort Augustus and began my race up the north side of the Loch Ness. Mine might have been one of the fastest runs by a
tourist along the 24-mile length of Loch Ness, which was the longest and most voluminous
lake in Great Britain.
It
was Thursday and it was cold and rainy. I had
been shivering virtually non-stop since I left the farm near Loch Lomond. I was determined to reach Inverness and arrange an
exchange at the "Capital of the Highlands".
I paused along the loch only long enough to park Melawend in a fenced
parking area along the narrow lake for a shot that would prove that I had brought Melawend
here. A man from Guelph, Ontario (50 miles
from my hometown) seemed puzzled by my haste. I
was chilled to the bone as I stood beside Loch Ness.
(The
lake itself has never been recorded as being frozen over.)
The
saga of Nessie, “the monster”, had started in 1932 when a man saw a strange
creature rising out of the loch. Scholars then
revived the legends that went way back to the 7th century when St. Admman,
abbot of Iona, was said to have reported an aquatilis
bestia in the loch. In 1975, American
scientists announced they had photo evidence of a living animal or family of plesiosaurs – oceanic creatures that had lived
between the Late Triassic Period, the time when the supercontinent of Pangaea was breaking
apart, until the end of the Cretaceous Period, when
dinosaurs became extinct; that is, between 220 and 65 million years ago. But the symposium in Edinburgh was cancelled and
the photos remained elusive. Still, no one
knew. Despite my anxiety to keep moving, it
was immediately obvious that you did not come to Loch Ness with the expectation of getting
out of your vehicle, raise up your camera and get a tourist shot of “the
monster”.
I
scanned the gray surface of the loch. I did
not see Nessie. It occurred to me that if a
species of dinosaur did survive the planet’s collision with an asteroid, or whatever
had wiped out the dinosaurs, that it would justly be the most successfully reclusive
inhabitant on earth. And perhaps the loneliest
and the most shy, which itself would be a reason for its evasiveness. Maybe some of the sightings had been real. Perhaps Nessie had sensed an incredible danger in
the presence of humans, a presence more deadly than any enemy it had known. Could anyone blame her for evading us? And what if irrefutable evidence of Nessie was
produced? What then of Nessie? Of this remote and pristine lake? Of Scotland?
That
is what struck me about Loch Ness – it was the beauty of Scotland. Here, you saw the blue-green waves of the Scottish
Highlands stretching to the horizon with this silver-blue swath of lake cutting through it
like an old wound in the land. The very
emptiness here suggested that there was far more to this country than its surface. Its remoteness spoke of an intense feeling of
privacy, pride and a brooding desire for independence.
After all, Scotland was still a conquered country.
Melawend
and I sped away and soon struck a poor bird. It
was the size of hen, and had gold with black flecks. I
saw it start to walk across the road. I was
doing the speed limit and thought that when it heard the roar of my oncoming scooter, it
would turn around. The hapless bird took
flight right in front of me and collided with Melawend's front grill. I felt a hard thud.
I pulled over. Me and my damned haste! There was no sign of the bird. The grill was broken loose. A few feathers were lodged in the molding. I rode on feeling guilty that I had not looked more
thoroughly for the bird and, if necessary, put it out of its misery.
It
was 4:45 when I reached Inverness – too late for any meetings. I backtracked, looking for a farm on which to camp. I found one and went up to a small manor. A brusque young girl answered the door. I told her of my journey.
"May
I camp on the farm?"
"There's
a caravan site just up the road."
I
thanked her but she must have thought I had ulterior plans.
"And
don't you be setting up just anywhere," she said.
"His Lordship doesn't take kindly to such things."
Since
I had camped at Iris Carter's place in Ropersole, this was the only other place in Britain
that I paid for a campsite. I shared a damp
open field at Dochgarroch Caravan and Camping Park (it was owned by his Lordship's estate)
with a noisy bunch of boy scouts who had just returned from an outing in nine canoes.
My
soggy saga of Scotland continued: it rained the next morning. I donned my banana and marshmallow suit and packed
up my soggy tent and gear. I loaded Melawend
while I stood under a plastic sheet draped over my head and the load. I was numbed by the cold and deafened by the
crackle of raindrops on the plastic. I
thought, What a unique form of torture.
I
slogged into the elegant gothic Town House of Inverness, dripping wet, and received a very
warm welcome by Mr. Tom E. MacKenzie, C.B.E, M.M., J.P., the Freeman of Inverness himself. Still dripping, I sat at a table with Mr. MacKenzie
in the council lounge, a richly paneled room with chandeliers and deep carpeting. Over tea and biscuits, he told me some of the
history of Inverness and that the district was eagerly awaiting the arrival of its new
earl, the newly married Prince Andrew. He
talked of his horses and of the Highland Games that were to begin in three days. He was a primary official.
"Would
you like to come to the Games as my guest?"
I
felt embarrassed sitting there, dripping on the expensive carpeting, now invited to be a
guest at Scotland's famous Highland Games. I
was overwhelmed. I mentioned that I was
camping – fishing for an invitation for accommodation.
I took his patient listening as a cue to continue, and added that I didn't
have much time and that I was on my way to Edinburgh.
(I had been shivering virtually non-stop since I left northern England and I
just wanted to get south as soon as possible.) I
declined Mr. MacKenzie's invitation. He nodded
politely.
(This was one
of the most regretted times of the odyssey. It
would have added tremendously to my experience and understanding of Scotland. My thoughts were focused on getting south, but in
retrospect, I should have found a way to stay. As
John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you are making other plans.")
He
introduced me to Peter White, a council officer, and then accompanied us for a while on a
tour of the Town House. We passed a photograph
of Mr. MacKenzie dressed in thick ceremonial robes and adorned with many medals. Peter led us into the vaulted Council Chamber where
Mr. MacKenzie took his leave, extending an invitation to stop back should I return to
Inverness. Peter showed me a framed document. In 1921, the British Cabinet had met here in the
first ever meeting outside London – Prime Minister David Lloyd George was vacationing
in northern Scotland and had called the meeting after receiving an urgent letter from the
Irish revolutionary leader Eamon De Valera. One
of the ministers that scurried up from London – and signed this document, second to
the last – was Winston Churchill, Secretary of State for the Colonies.
After Peter added his signature to the Odyssey Book, I fled
Inverness. I raced south along the A9, weaving
through the mountains: the Monadhliaths, the Cairngorm, and back to the Cambrians. When I reached Blair Atholl, the rain had
stopped and the pavement was dry but the air was still cold.
It took thirty minutes and two cups of tea in a village café to warm my
aching muscles.
Heading
out of the village on a side road, I met Jan Riley, a backpacker who was walking north
toward dark threatening skies. He was from
Hamilton, New Zealand and worked at a place called Whatawhata Research Station. He had been in the U.K. for five months and had
worked at odd jobs including that of a porter. He
said he would be back in New Zealand in a month and a half and invited me to stop by. I planned to be in New Zealand in ten months.
(Regrettably,
I never got there.)
As
I sped south, feeling lucky to be carried by Melawend, I entertained myself with thoughts
of distant destinations: Africa, India, Japan, Australia... but the cold seeped back in
and I focused on Edinburgh. I was approaching
the Firth of Forth and human development began to close in.
I found refuge near Culross on West Grange Farm, the home of Donald Pifer
and family, and what seemed one hundred chattering crows in a nearby forest.
In
the nearly vacant city hall, the next day, I was lucky to catch Edinburgh’s Deputy
Council Chairperson, Eleanor McLaughlin. Though
pressed for time, she welcomed my mission. Senior
Assistant City Officer Allan Boothman attended to the details. Everyone seemed in a rush. I had come during the Commonwealth Games. On my way out of the city, I passed the crowds near
the stadium and saw protestors shouting for trade sanctions against South Africa over
apartheid. It was reported that Margaret
Thatcher visited here and that eggs were thrown at her over her refusal to impose
sanctions, but I saw no eggshells.
Melawend
and I rolled along a road that had one lane cordoned off.
I parked Melawend near a Rolls Royce dealership and joined the spectators
and TV crews along the sidewalk to see what they were waiting for. Sweaty, mat-haired marathoners soon appeared. The men's champion, Australia's Robert de Castella,
had already passed by and would become the first Commonwealth marathoner to successfully
defend his title. I saw his compatriot Lisa
Martin race by, going on to take the women's race. And
I saw Canada's Odette Lapierre run by on her way to take third place. Though cheers were louder for favorites, it was
hopeful to see each runner appreciated at they pressed on for their respective countries.
During
a lull, I walked across the street to the Murray Motor Company and photographed a spotless
gold and black Rolls Royce. It brought to mind
Grandpa and his Silver Shadow. Getting a Rolls
Royce had been a dream come true for the former prairie farm boy who had had to share a
pair of shoes with his brother. For me, the
marathon symbolized "going for the gold" and this splendid automobile was an
international symbol that epitomized arrival, a coveted prize at the end of a personal
marathon in one's life.
I
had to get back to my own odyssey. I was down
to my last one hundred dollars. I did not know
how I was going to get out of Britain. I knew
only that I had to continue south, quickly.
I
would love to have taken a more leisurely exploration along the shore of the North Sea but
I had decided to make a stand in Newcastle Upon Tyne.
I would try for passage to Norway or perhaps arrange something out of London
and cross the English Channel to France. I
stopped at Bramburgh Castle long enough to take a quick photograph. It was a mammoth fortress, a quarter-mile long,
standing on a rocky cliff 150 feet above the sea. It
had had a violent history: a wooden fort built by the Anglo-Saxon chieftain Ida in 547 was
destroyed by Vikings in 993. Two hundred years
later, Henry II rebuilt it but it was ravaged by cannons in The War of the Roses in the 15th
century – becoming the first English castle to succumb to gunfire. The 1st Lord Armstrong turned it into private
residence when he bought the castle in 1893. What
looked like an impregnable medieval fortress was someone's 19th century home. I pitched my "home" for the night by the
road at Lane Head Farm, the home of Ida McCourt and family, near Felton.
The
next morning, I made for the Tyne Commission Quay at North Shields to check out fares for
Norway-bound ferries. While eating a
"creamed split" and an iced apple danish, I considered my plight. Even with my youth hostel member discount, the fare
for Melawend and me to Bergen was more than money I had left. I felt that I could not risk looking for work in
Norway or wherever English was not the mother tongue.
What to do? I needed a place to
think, to get away from traffic, someplace by the sea where I could hunker down and plan
my next move.
In Seaham, I parked at a seaside picnic site of grass and
asphalt. There were no trees, no tables. It was windy and heavily overcast with occasional
drizzles. A hole would open in the clouds
clear through to blue sky, warm me, then close quickly.
The sea was rough. The
atmosphere was strange and unsettled.
What
to do?
Maybe I can
sell a story to The Times or to the BBC – do they have a station around here? Maybe I can
call John Lower and see if he could use some hired help around Ecclesden.
Success
seemed more possible if I was to approach someone who knew me. I was tempted to press on to London but it was too
far and too damned windy. I decided to stay
here for the night.
By
4:00 p.m., I found refuge in a huge brick barn with a roof of corrugated panels and
skylights. I made up a bed atop four bales of
hay beside a towering haystack. Melawend was
parked beside me, next to a hay baler and a two-horse trailer. I shared the spot with two friendly kittens. This was Seaham Hall Farm. Colin Snowdon, the trim balding man who owned the
farm, made calls to The Times and to the BBC
but it was Saturday and decision makers were absent. Colin
let me stay for two nights.
On
Sunday morning, I walked along the paved promenade below the seaside cliff. I was virtually alone. The sun had risen over the wide sand and stone
beach and colored the limestone cliffs gold. The
sea was calm and there were ships in the distance. It
was the first pretty place I had seen in Seaham. The
undeveloped look of this area seemed to hold promise.
I looked longingly at the North Sea just as I had looked at the Atlantic
back in Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia. The sea
was seductive, laying invitingly in wait, teasing me to take her. How? I
felt chained to the lonely cliffs of Seaham.
My
predicament had brought on a feeling of loneliness. But
I had developed a philosophy. Loneliness was a
common temporary malady, like a cold – it came and went. You took some medicine to relieve the symptoms. I treated myself with this layback stroll by the
sunny seaside. And from this and other
solitary journeys, I realized that in traveling solo, you were never absolutely alone. You held in mind memories of family and friends. Before you knew it, you were talking with strangers
and meeting new friends.
After
a while, there were other people walking along the promenade: old couples, young couples
with children and dogs and a few solitary amblers. I
met Mary, a full-figured girl about my age, and Seth, her 13-year-old son, and we walked
together to the lighthouse and into the town. She
too seemed lonely.
"Lord
Byron was married there," she said.
She
was pointing to Seaham Hall Hotel, a rather run-down building. All of Seaham looked forlorn and closed up. Many buildings were for sale. Even Seaham Hall Hotel was for sale. Though three coalmines were still in operation, the
coal business in Durham was dying. And there
were few tourists in Seaham. Lord Byron had
referred to this coast as "dreary" which was perhaps an apt setting for his
ill-fated marriage. He was known for his
eloquent verse and for his love of Greece, but with his wife Annabella, who he called
"the princess of parallelograms", he was a lout and a philanderer. They were on married January 2, 1815, after she
proposed.
After
Mary and Seth went their way, I went into the Harbour Casino where bored-looking young
people played video games, pinball and slot machines.
I won eight pence, but it took fifteen to do it.
I
decided to take a bigger gamble. I had leaned
toward going back to London, or Arundel, or perhaps to Lin in Bath, to someone familiar
who might help me find employment so that I could get across to France. That would mean lopping off Scandinavia and much of
northern Europe from my itinerary, but I considered the monetary savings. Then I thought, Damn it, I’m so close to Norway. I've got to give it a shot. I fired up Melawend and headed into Newcastle. I had an idea.
Chapter 13
Of the BBC and the North
Sea
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