“Right then, off to the colonies,” my father announced in his thick Scottish brogue, anxious to escape austerity and start afresh in the New World. As a child of six, I had no choice but to don my tweeds and join the party. We emigrated to the United States and then to Canada where we eventually settled. Now, a half century later, I was in Glasgow, a scant 16 kilometres from my birthplace.
In the pouring rain, I approached the Millennium Hotel opposite George Square in the centre of town. Unable to find the main entrance, I stumbled through a side door only to end up in the dining room where I was met by an officious looking maître d’.
“Where do ye think yer going,” he bellowed. “I’m cutting through to get to the lobby,” I replied meekly.
“Then I’ll have to charge you five bob,” he said sternly. The thought of parting with five pounds hung in the air for a split second and then he smiled and waved me ahead. It wasn’t the last time I encountered droll Scottish humour.
It happened again at The Glasgow Tenement House; a four-room Victorian flat lovingly maintained by Scotland’s National Trust. Susan, the on-site guide was a wellspring of information on Victorian customs – Victorians slept sitting up, she said, pointing to the shorter-than-usual bed.
“What part of Glasgow are you from?” I asked, struck by her knowledge and Scottish lilt.
“Ohio,” she replied without missing a beat. Decades ago, Susan met a Scotsman touring the States and followed him home. The relationship soured but she stayed on. I wanted to know more about Susan and less about the House, but time was pressing, and I had to move on.
Every year, over 14 million tourists visit Scotland, drawn by history, family connections or the promise of a wee dram at one of the country’s many distilleries. I was in the auld country on business, intent on finding out more about my homeland before moving on to London.
Leaving Glasgow, I drove west to Oban (pronounced Obe-in) a picturesque coastal town and ferry terminal for the Inner Hebrides – Mull, Coll, Rum, and others. The crossing to Mull takes 50 minutes and lands at Craignure. Another 40-minute drive leads to Tobermory and its seafront promenade peppered with brightly-coloured houses.
From Oban, I drove north to Fort William, gateway to the Highlands and the home of the Jacobite Express, the steam train featured in the Harry Potter series. Originally part of the West Highland Line, the canny Scots rented out their rolling stock to Warner Bros in 2000 and then re-branded it to take advantage of Potter-mania. Sadly, Harry wasn’t aboard. No matter, the 66-kilometre run is arguably the most scenic in Britain, passing villages, lochs, and heather clad hills to Mallaig and its ferry port to Skye and the Small Isles.
Fort William also marks the beginning of the Caledonian Canal, a 97-kilometre series of lochs and channels running east to Inverness. The largest in the chain is Loch Ness, but I was too busy dealing with impatient tailgaters to look sideways for Nessie. I was assured she lurks beneath the waves. Or not. There are numerous boat tours available to test the premise.
By the time I got to Culloden Moor outside Inverness it was grey, misty, and cold, much like that day in 1746 when 7,000 clansmen charged the Hanoverian line only to be cut down by grape shot and musket fire. The Jacobite Rebellion was crushed at Culloden and Scotland joined England in a political union 55 years later. A series of markers, rocks really, loosely grouped together acknowledge the clans that fell in battle.
I noticed the Campbell marker sitting apart from the other clans in a sort of no-man’s land. When I enquired, I was told the Campbells, the most populous and arguably the most powerful clan in Scotland, were reviled for siding with the English and shooting their brethren from behind a stone wall. The Scots remember their history.
The road south to Edinburgh was picture postcard country. The Cairngorm mountains may not be as imposing nor as foreboding as elsewhere in Scotland, say at Glencoe for instance, but the rolling hills, rivers, and magnificent castles create an otherworldly experience. Balmoral Castle, 12 kilometres west of Ballater, is the most famous. No time to pop in on the Queen though; I was in a hurry to reach the capital and, besides, I wasn’t royally attired.
Edinburgh is Scotland’s capital city and the seat of the Scottish government although London still controls immigration, telecommunications, and defence. Edinburgh Castle was impressive, but it was the streetscape leading from the fortress into Old Town that I enjoyed more.
The ancient limestone buildings now repurposed as cafés or shops conveyed the city’s medieval past. The area was pedestrian friendly and peppered with interior courtyards or closes. A huge park called The Mound separates Old Town on the hill from New Town below and once on Prince’s Street in the shadow of the Castle, I stopped for a pint. The conversation focused on football and Scottish independence.
Edinburgh has a gentler vibe than scrappy Glasgow, but I have to admit a fondness for its gritty sister. It’s that deadpan humour. It gets me every time. It was the end of my trip, and I was back in Glasgow dutifully lined up for an Indian meal at a non-descript restaurant pretending to be more lavish than it really was. The doorman, elegantly dressed as a maharajah in his finest silks and turban greeted me at the front door.
“And what part of India are you from?” I asked.
“The Scottish part” he replied in his broad Glaswegian accent. Zing. The less charitable would call it sarcasm; I prefer to call it Glasgow patter.
I felt at home in Scotland. The scenery is rugged, and the people are warm and friendly with a wicked sense of humour. The trip certainly re-acquainted me with my homeland, but I hung my hat in another continent a long time ago and have no intentions of re-settling.
Having said that, there’s some validity in the expression “bred in the bone” and as the American novelist Katherine Anne Porter once said, “the past is never where you think you left it.” My affinity for Scottish culture and deadpan humour will stay with me the rest of my life.
IF YOU GO
Many airlines fly into Scotland. We flew Air Canada to Glasgow International, which is located in Paisley, 11 kilometres away. A short bus ride took us to the centre of town. The Canadian dollar was worth 60 pence at the time, today it’s worth 63. For the sake of convenience, we just rounded it out to two dollars to the pound.
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