I’m sure my Dad won’t mind me sharing an excerpt from an email he sent me while I was traveling around Europe in 2004. My Dad is a very talented writer, especially when conjuring up memories and transferring them onto paper. While my sister and I were traveling those six months through various destinations, we received emails from him that chronicled his first impressions, in 1972, of the places we were about to visit, whether it was communist Czechoslovakia, ancient Greece or beerhaus-ed Germany.
As we were approaching Scotland, he sent us an email that included some of what you will read below. It begins on a train from London’s Paddington station to Glasgow, where he was obeying his grandmother and getting in touch with Scottish relatives he had never met before.
“… The train was old and the compartments were wooden enclosures with sliding doors. We were fortunate to have one all to ourselves which allowed us to sleep on the bench seats. At dawn I awoke to the sound and rhythmic shaking of the train and gazed out the window. Gone was the flat English countryside with the old dingy brick buildings. Before me the upland hills filled the window, steep and lined with stone fences. I could not see the sky. I had to get close to the window to look up to see the tops of it. I felt that I had been transported into another world.
We were met in Glasgow by Uncle John Brown [Pearl and Mary’s father] who insisted that, the first thing the next day, we accompany him to some place called Tiree to close down their cottage. Connie [Pearl and Mary’s mother] had gone to Ottawa to visit grandmother so we were bachelor-ing it. He claimed he needed 'hunger-as-hunter' young men to eat the food there. He flew us both over and I assumed that, since it was the Highlands and Isles and that the flight was short, it was relatively inexpensive. Later, I found out quite the opposite. I had just encountered John's brand of Highland hospitality.
My first encounter with Uncle John in Tiree 'clashing-the-pan’ opened up a new world, and vocabulary, for me. Not just Scotland but his Scotland. He would talk about the past, his past, and what it was like. Both the information and context one cannot get from history books. I learned to better appreciate oral history - history that must be told by the people who lived it and that will die with them. I found out about my family, including my grandfather, someone who I never knew except through my grandmother. From John, and later Aunt Pearl, he became more alive to me; my grandmother made him seem god-like …
… I gazed down at the clouds over the Atlantic realizing that despite all the wonderful and wondrous experiences, it was the contact with the older Scottish relatives that was the most important to me. This surprised me because, at the onset of the trip, visiting them was a mild inconvenience to satisfy my grandmother. At the end, it was one of the highlights resulting in life-long relationships.”
The way that my Dad describes learning about his grandfather is exactly how I feel when Pearl talks about my great-grandmother Bessie. She died when I was still quite young, though I do remember her. But when I hear about various episodes from her visits back to her homeland over the years, I feel like I am getting to know her a little bit better. And that amazing Highland hospitality has been passed down through the generations as well.
I’m jealous that my Dad’s very first impressions of Scotland and Tiree were at the age of 22, when he could remember it, appreciate it and eloquently describe it. I don’t really have that first memory, since I was 16 months old when I first visited. From my visit as a four-year-old, I do remember John and Connie, and that familiar Tiree scent that combines heather, the sea, sheep shit and burning peat. Strangely, it still moves me every time. Until you have smelt it yourself, you can’t imagine the unique and blissful flavour of Tiree. I also remember Lochan Ban, as the cottage is known, though it has seen many renovations in the last 14 years since my last visit.
So Lyl and I embarked from Oban on a four-hour ferry ride through the straight between the Isle of Mull and the mainland, joining rain and bumpy waters as we dropped passengers off at the small (population 65) island of Coll before docking in Scarinish, the port town of Tiree (population 700). Four (Pearl, Molly, Colin and Naomi) family members greeted us at the rainy dock, while 21 more (from London, Oxfordshire, Manchester, Yorkshire and even Norway) were back at the cottage, preparing a curry feast and a proper Scottish ceilidh (kay-lee).
We would all be living between three cottages for the next few days, a somewhat regular family reunion that Lyl and I were able to be a part of this year. While Tiree maintains the Scottish tradition of offering up a lot of rain, it is also known as the sunniest spot in the UK because of vast beaches all along its perimeter and westerly-facing views out to the sea. Also known for its windiness – it hosts surfers, kite-sailors, kite-boarders and even an international wind-surfing competition every year – the gusts can mean that the weather can change dramatically in a manner of minutes.
During our three days there we saw it all: downpours, clear blue skies, gusting winds and t-shirt weather. We spent our days hiking up Ben Hough, accompanying the kids to the beach for boogie-boarding, learning how to kite, painting finger and toenails, reading in the sunroom, drinking pints of Tennants and drams of whiskey, and spending the evenings with a family ceilidh band that had a changing cast of talented musicians.
It was a truly memorable visit, one that I could appreciate that much more because of both my previous summers here and because I am at an age now that contributes to experiencing family and places from my own perspective. I did yearn to have my parents there with me, because I know how much Tiree means to them as well, but it was enlightening to familiarize myself with the Isle with as few preconceived versions of visits to draw from.
I am grateful that the family let us gate-crash for those three days and allowed us to be a part of the reunion, sampling that Highland hospitality that my Dad described in his letters. I hope this is not the only Tiree visit I fit in while I’m living in the UK. Back in the city and back at work already more than a week, I am still craving that heathered, sea-strong Tiree scent.
Monday 16 August 2010
Tuesday 10 August 2010
England Forever, Scotland A Wee Bit Longer
I have decided to make this blog a two-parter because I have so much to say about my beloved homeland. Today's will cover the mainland of Scotland and next week the stunning and unpredictable isle of Tiree off the west coast.
With a visit from my sister Lyl came also the quintessential visit to the land of our ancestors. I can hardly believe that I have lived in the UK for 11 months and have only just now taken the journey up to Scotland. The northern tip of the UK is probably my favourite place on the planet, filled with brisk weather, greasy food, hilly terrain, and whiskey. Besides all the typical stereotypes of Scotland I also love it because it is where, in some very small way, I come from.
There's something about Scotland that warms my spirit every time (may be that's the whiskey). My relation to the land is a few generations removed, but the textures of history here mean more to me than in any other country that I have ever visited because it is connected to my history and the history of my father, grandfather and so on.
Back in 1923 Robert Kerr Paterson (my great-grandfather) married his second cousin who was 19 years younger than him, Elizabeth McBride Holmes (my great-grandmother), in Gourock, Scotland. Robert was already residing in Canada, and had received a medical degree from Queen's University (this is where the legacy began). He had moved from Renfrew, Scotland to Renfrew, Ontario, and later Bob returned to Scotland and fallen in love. Later, Bessie gave birth to a daughter named Mary, and twins Robert Kerr (my beloved grandfather) and Elizabeth. That is how the lineage traces back and, despite the three generations passed, I still feel an intense pull to the place.
My first two trips to Scotland was as a youngster – first when I had just turned one and then when I was about four. Though I cannot say for sure that I remember these trips in detail, whether from hazy memories and photographs, I do remember bits and pieces. At 15 I remember more clearly being stuffed into a station wagon with my Mom, Dad, sister and brother, and driven all over the country, visiting castle ruins, Scottish cities and lochs, as well as the westernmost of the Inner Hebride islands where cousins Pearl and Mary maintain their parents' cottage – a later full-time home – on a heather-capped, sheep-strewn and remote island called Tiree.
Though being fined countless pounds for fighting with my siblings and dragged to countless castles, I have to thank my Mom and Dad now for instilling such passionate pride in me for this gorgeous country. There was a lapse in my grandfather’s generation when there was not a lot of connection to Scotland. A combination, I think, of a distancing from the previous generation and my grandparents absolute worship of their second-home and cottage at Norway Bay.
When Dad visited Scotland during a 10-month backpacking trip in 1972, he got in touch with unknown relatives to appease his grandmother (the aforementioned Bessie) and discovered instead lasting relationships and a deep love for the country. Dad maintains the Scottish pride continually with an insistent celebration of Robbie Burns' Day each 25 January, his homemade shortbread during the holiday season, and his fervent desire to one day learn to play the bagpipes.
Lyl and I counted Edinburgh and Glasgow among our must-visit destinations during the great backpacking adventure of 2004. Though Glasgow was too bustling a city for me at the time (this is before I ever imagined Toronto and London would be my homes), we were in love with Edinburgh, its studded volcanic hills, perched on the southern edge of the Firth of Forth, with an old and new town that is separated by a valley that holds up the towering Edinburgh Castle. We stayed at Brodies' Backpackers, facing the cobblestoned Royal Mile, which leads east to Palace of Holyroodhouse and west to the Castle. We bundled up in the day and visited landmarks such as the war memorial and tower to Lord Nelson overlooking the city from Calton Hill, then listened to bagpipers along Princes Street while eating chips and haggis wrapped in paper, before returning to our hostel to nap beneath large tartaned comforters. We visited the Writer's Museum, learning more about Scottish legends Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson; the graveyard where economist Adam Smith and poet Robert Fergusson are buried; the National Portrait Gallery to see paintings from Mary Queen of Scots to Sean Connery to a possible relative called Robert Kerr Paterson; the imposing Palace of Holyroodhouse and the magnificent castle.
For this latest journey to Scotland, Lyl and I had Tiree as our ultimate destination, a trip we had not made for almost 15 years. First we arrived in Edinburgh to meet Ottawa friends Jill and Noel, who have been on the road for over two months. As usual, Scotland greeted us in a misty rain and, as a result, that first day was spent along the Royal Mile, pub-crawling to avoid the downpour. There were pints of Tennants and McEwan, drams of whiskey, a delicious pile of haggis, tatties and neaps, then later deep-fried Mars bars and fish and chips. By the end of the day we were all feeling a little worse for wear and vowed tomorrow to indulge in some vegetables.
We did even better. Though Noel was feeling under the weather (which I have been blamed for thanks to a never-ending cold I’ve been nursing), Lyl, Jill and I spent the day hiking up to the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Since Edinburgh is placed within a 350 million year old volcano, the surrounding terrain offers casual (and often strenuous) walks with stunning views of the city below. We started off on a slight incline along the Salisbury Craggs and, with prodding from Jill, traversed the heather- and thistle-strewn hill to the top, known as Arthur’s Seat. It was brutal at times since, as usual, I was not wearing proper footwear, and the remnants of yesterday’s binge drinking and eating were barely settled in my stomach. But despite all the whining (sorry ladies), the view from above was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. (You will have to wait for me to upload my photos to see what I mean.)
Back down the hill we lunched on mussels from the Isle of Mull (so much for the veggies plan) and then embarked on the informative Scotch Whiskey tour. We learned about the five whiskey-producing regions and chose our favourite to sample at the end. Though fond of the floral highlands, light lowlands and even the peaty smokiness of Islay, I discovered that the fruity Speyside whiskies are my dram of choice.
Lyl and I said goodbye to Jill and Noel, who returned to Canada a few days later, and equipped with a brand new knowledge of whiskey, the rugged countryside around Edinburgh and the wish that we had never tasted a deep-fried Mars bar, we boarded a train the next morning to Oban, a small fishing village on the west coast that provides ferry passage to the Hebride islands.
Tiree is such a blissful and heavenly place, and was this journey filled with amazing family members, great food and Scottish music, that I will have to break off now and return to a Tiree-only blog next week. Until then, mar sin leibh.
With a visit from my sister Lyl came also the quintessential visit to the land of our ancestors. I can hardly believe that I have lived in the UK for 11 months and have only just now taken the journey up to Scotland. The northern tip of the UK is probably my favourite place on the planet, filled with brisk weather, greasy food, hilly terrain, and whiskey. Besides all the typical stereotypes of Scotland I also love it because it is where, in some very small way, I come from.
There's something about Scotland that warms my spirit every time (may be that's the whiskey). My relation to the land is a few generations removed, but the textures of history here mean more to me than in any other country that I have ever visited because it is connected to my history and the history of my father, grandfather and so on.
Back in 1923 Robert Kerr Paterson (my great-grandfather) married his second cousin who was 19 years younger than him, Elizabeth McBride Holmes (my great-grandmother), in Gourock, Scotland. Robert was already residing in Canada, and had received a medical degree from Queen's University (this is where the legacy began). He had moved from Renfrew, Scotland to Renfrew, Ontario, and later Bob returned to Scotland and fallen in love. Later, Bessie gave birth to a daughter named Mary, and twins Robert Kerr (my beloved grandfather) and Elizabeth. That is how the lineage traces back and, despite the three generations passed, I still feel an intense pull to the place.
My first two trips to Scotland was as a youngster – first when I had just turned one and then when I was about four. Though I cannot say for sure that I remember these trips in detail, whether from hazy memories and photographs, I do remember bits and pieces. At 15 I remember more clearly being stuffed into a station wagon with my Mom, Dad, sister and brother, and driven all over the country, visiting castle ruins, Scottish cities and lochs, as well as the westernmost of the Inner Hebride islands where cousins Pearl and Mary maintain their parents' cottage – a later full-time home – on a heather-capped, sheep-strewn and remote island called Tiree.
Though being fined countless pounds for fighting with my siblings and dragged to countless castles, I have to thank my Mom and Dad now for instilling such passionate pride in me for this gorgeous country. There was a lapse in my grandfather’s generation when there was not a lot of connection to Scotland. A combination, I think, of a distancing from the previous generation and my grandparents absolute worship of their second-home and cottage at Norway Bay.
When Dad visited Scotland during a 10-month backpacking trip in 1972, he got in touch with unknown relatives to appease his grandmother (the aforementioned Bessie) and discovered instead lasting relationships and a deep love for the country. Dad maintains the Scottish pride continually with an insistent celebration of Robbie Burns' Day each 25 January, his homemade shortbread during the holiday season, and his fervent desire to one day learn to play the bagpipes.
Lyl and I counted Edinburgh and Glasgow among our must-visit destinations during the great backpacking adventure of 2004. Though Glasgow was too bustling a city for me at the time (this is before I ever imagined Toronto and London would be my homes), we were in love with Edinburgh, its studded volcanic hills, perched on the southern edge of the Firth of Forth, with an old and new town that is separated by a valley that holds up the towering Edinburgh Castle. We stayed at Brodies' Backpackers, facing the cobblestoned Royal Mile, which leads east to Palace of Holyroodhouse and west to the Castle. We bundled up in the day and visited landmarks such as the war memorial and tower to Lord Nelson overlooking the city from Calton Hill, then listened to bagpipers along Princes Street while eating chips and haggis wrapped in paper, before returning to our hostel to nap beneath large tartaned comforters. We visited the Writer's Museum, learning more about Scottish legends Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson; the graveyard where economist Adam Smith and poet Robert Fergusson are buried; the National Portrait Gallery to see paintings from Mary Queen of Scots to Sean Connery to a possible relative called Robert Kerr Paterson; the imposing Palace of Holyroodhouse and the magnificent castle.
For this latest journey to Scotland, Lyl and I had Tiree as our ultimate destination, a trip we had not made for almost 15 years. First we arrived in Edinburgh to meet Ottawa friends Jill and Noel, who have been on the road for over two months. As usual, Scotland greeted us in a misty rain and, as a result, that first day was spent along the Royal Mile, pub-crawling to avoid the downpour. There were pints of Tennants and McEwan, drams of whiskey, a delicious pile of haggis, tatties and neaps, then later deep-fried Mars bars and fish and chips. By the end of the day we were all feeling a little worse for wear and vowed tomorrow to indulge in some vegetables.
We did even better. Though Noel was feeling under the weather (which I have been blamed for thanks to a never-ending cold I’ve been nursing), Lyl, Jill and I spent the day hiking up to the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Since Edinburgh is placed within a 350 million year old volcano, the surrounding terrain offers casual (and often strenuous) walks with stunning views of the city below. We started off on a slight incline along the Salisbury Craggs and, with prodding from Jill, traversed the heather- and thistle-strewn hill to the top, known as Arthur’s Seat. It was brutal at times since, as usual, I was not wearing proper footwear, and the remnants of yesterday’s binge drinking and eating were barely settled in my stomach. But despite all the whining (sorry ladies), the view from above was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. (You will have to wait for me to upload my photos to see what I mean.)
Back down the hill we lunched on mussels from the Isle of Mull (so much for the veggies plan) and then embarked on the informative Scotch Whiskey tour. We learned about the five whiskey-producing regions and chose our favourite to sample at the end. Though fond of the floral highlands, light lowlands and even the peaty smokiness of Islay, I discovered that the fruity Speyside whiskies are my dram of choice.
Lyl and I said goodbye to Jill and Noel, who returned to Canada a few days later, and equipped with a brand new knowledge of whiskey, the rugged countryside around Edinburgh and the wish that we had never tasted a deep-fried Mars bar, we boarded a train the next morning to Oban, a small fishing village on the west coast that provides ferry passage to the Hebride islands.
Tiree is such a blissful and heavenly place, and was this journey filled with amazing family members, great food and Scottish music, that I will have to break off now and return to a Tiree-only blog next week. Until then, mar sin leibh.
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