Dear Editor
Karlheintz Schriever, who wants to avoid extradition to a Germany, claims he gave $300 thousand from Air Bus to Brian Mulroney. Mulroney, after hoping sleeping dogs lie, wants to clear his name. Stephen Harper, after buddying up to Harper, now wants to distance himself from the former PM. As a result we Canadians must spend $100 million for an inquiry we don't want. All this could've been avoided had the 2 prime ministers remembered this: if you lie down with dogs you get fleas.
Sincerely
larry macKillop
Nov 15 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
Hebrides in my Genes
HADRIAN'S WALL Oct 9 07: We bade farewell to friends, who had brought us from Plymouth via their native Wales and the friends who put us up another 3 days in England's Lakes area (favourite of Linda's dad.) We saw not Wordsworth's daffodils but thousands of sheep on the beautiful Welsh mountainsides, stayed in a castle, toured the Roman city of Chester and visited a magnificent limestone formation in The Lakes area.
GLASGOW: We arrived at Central Station and schlepped our wheely bags to Adelaides BnB where a portly chap in rich Glaswegian said a Nancy MacKillop who worked here wanted to meet us "airly" before we left in the morning. We had tea with Dorian Stone, a fine young man from my hometown, High River. He claims to be content here, managing a Christian radio station the past 4 years. After a fine fish dinner, we returned to our BnB to hear male singing in the hall next door. As we entered a friendly little man insisted on seating us in front as audience for a rehearsal of the Glasgow Male Philharmonic Chorus. We invited them to come to Canada where we had seen the Wales Male Chorus. We bought their CD and left them singing "Joy to the World." That night we slept well despite the screaming of youths partying in the street. At 8 AM we met Nancy, who has no idea of her peoples origin. The taxi driver to Queen Street Station claimed locals here go hungry in Florida where no one understands them.
SCOTRAIL: Our 5 hour trip to Mallaig was stupendous with trees changing colours in sunlight, scenery to rival our B.C. Seated across from us were a farmer/ ironmonger couple on a day outing from Aberdeen. They were curious about our Alberta snowfall and farming. The man favoured separation due to the UK government blocking Scottish lamb sales since a hoof and mouth outbreak in England. They showed us where their daughter recently completed an Outward Bound course like her father when he was 16. He pointed to the locks built by Telford to allow ships through that huge cut through Scotland. He also showed us the Glenfinna Monument where the Jacobian (Gaelic for James) uprising began. When I said I was seeking the place my people left, he asked sadly " Because of the clearances?" A piper and some peat smoked haddock stew awaited us in Mallaig. We pulled our bags to a BnB and gazed over a lovely harbour where our ferry awaited.
OVER THE SEA TO SKYE: We disembarked next morning at Allmande in light rain. While we put on our yellow (smell like cheese) rain coats, we missed the bus. Pulling bags up the road we stopped to ask directions to Clan Donald Centre. A poker faced guy, a reminder of my brother Bill, said I should go one mile further, stop, turn and around and come back one mile to this spot. We had the Centre to ourselves for a history lesson on the Jacobian uprising. Seems Bonny Prince Charles (a playboy to some) returned from France and persuaded clan leaders to rise up against the English in order to restore King James, a Catholic but seen as the legitimate heir. They lost at Culloden, Charlie fled to Skye and the clans never recovered. The library suggested I take my questions on family origins to Bill Lawson in Harris. I had received his material from my nephew Scot MacKillop. We caught a bus to Portree, the main town on Skye. Our driver told us his son had been "blowing up Alberta" in training for Afghanistan. Since our Nanton friend had just lost her son there we changed topic to ask what he does if he hits one of the sheep grazing by the highway. "Be sure you kill it," he replied. We had another fine meal of Scottish grown mussels and went to the library to check on the health of Linda's mom. (OK) We chose a bus to Uig going clockwise around the island rather than one going anticlockwise. A young fiddler and girl friend from Virginia going to a concert were amazed Linda had lived in D.C. We found our BnB and again slept overlooking the harbor from which we would sail in the morning.
OUTER HEBRIDES, ANOTHER WORLD: Our wheelies bounced over gravel to the ferry terminal and into a van driven by John MacKenzie, an elderly character (and bagpiper) we were destined to meet again. Linda offered to shut the side door but he said it was automatic, hit the brakes to slam the door shut, giving all a good laugh. We sailed on Cal Mac's "Hebrides:" from Uig to Lochmaddy, North Uist. Excitement was provided when a local lad hit the jackpot on the machine near us. Lochmaddy has the only bank machine in the area and we knew cash was preferred here. We caught a local van/bus whose lone passenger was a man I've seen in many old Irish films. We crossed the causeway from Uist to Bernary. Everyone knew where Splash MacKillop lived and we were dropped at the road to his BnB As we trekked through treeless land it felt like some Indian reserves back home. No one home at the croft but the porch was open and well stocked with great photo books.
BURNSIDE CROFT BnB: Gloria MacKillop arrived and put us in a room where H.R.H. Prince Charles slept (his "Charles" was entered in the guest book) while here to open the causeway between Uist and Bernary. Don Alic (Splash) MacKillop and I looked into each others blue (Viking?) eyes and we made small talk as Gloria served tea and oat cakes, which Splash claims to be aphrodisiacs. Crofting is a unique system that gives you a small piece of land and share of a community pasture. People must do something else to survive like run a BnB. This place reminded me of my grandparents small farm in Cape Breton where Dad as a boy sold vegetables and milk in Sydney.. Since there are no restaurants here, Gloria arranged for a woman to cook us dinner in her home. She and husband served a fine meal of poached (farm) salmon and he lamented most fish from up here being shipped by truck and ferry to Spain. I wondered why he would not make an arrangement with local fisherman but, being English, and living here only 15 years.... After dinner we talked about our respective trips to India where he once worked. She said they moved from South England because the foreigners committed crime there. (I wasted time arguing this and the reality of global warming)
GENE TALK: Back at the BnB, over a wee dram, Splash (as a kid he splashed through puddles) told stories. He does the address to the haggis each Rabbie Burns night. He and Gloria sang us a song about porridge we learned (and forgot) during a one hour Gaelic course in Cape Breton. Splash and Gloria have been to Delia, Alberta and Cape Breton where he was disappointed no one spoke his (and my grandparents') first language. I shared the genealogy information Scot had handed me en route to the Calgary airport . It seems about 1750 Donald Og (the younger in Gaelic) MacKillop of Bernary had 3 sons, one from whom I descend) and Norman, the name of Splash's father. During the clearances, a Roderick sailed for Cape Breton Norman's (Splash's) line stayed here. Scot, my nephew, is working on this theory. "Slange va" according to Splash is good night in Gaelic ("Irish speak Gaylick while the Scots speak "Gallic," he added). Gloria is an Australian who came here as the nurse 40 years ago. Recently, at 73, she went backpacking with a young group in Pategonia. Now with her detached cornea she seems unlikely to venture further than Inverness where Splash was treated for colon cancer. Her dream is to finish building a self catering cottage next door to her house and stop BnB (except for family she said).
BERNARY: MACKILLOP LAND: Next day Gloria arranged for Andrew, a nice young man from Oxfordshire, to take us on a tour. He and his wife operate a BnB and work from here by Internet. It was his first tour and we urged him to make it a side business. He drove an old Mercedes like the one my brother John has. We visited the 7 foot 9 inch monument (his height) to Angus MacCaskill, a giant famous in 1800's Cape Breton. At the cemetery nearby I met a nephew of Splash whose mother was a MacKillop. Andrew took us to the library and historical centre where I checked email (Linda's mom still okay) and we bought a dvd they had made (doesn't work on my machine). Next we went to the other side of the island where an old black (peat burning) house had been made into a youth hostel. There were remains of houses on the rocky beach where the poor bastards had been relocated from the other side of the island (where Splash lives.) They made a living collecting kelp for fertilizer and farming shallow beds of soil on a nearby mountain side. Vertical lines of these so called "lazy beds" are still visible. We stopped in sight of the old cemetery where my great greats must be buried beneath the unmarked stones. Linda and Andrew waited as I hopped the fence and jogged across the soft pasture. The rock wall was covered in orange lichen and the open gate revealed sheep were the main visitors. I entered, wandered through the stones and looked out to the sea pondering what life was like for those who lived here and those who left for a new life in Canada.
END OF THE LINE: We planned to cross over to Harris and travel up through Lewis, see the Callanish Stones predating Stonehenge and then fly to Edinburgh. But the "Free" Church of Scotland closes all hotels and even buses on Sundays up there. Splash says those people are not well liked here (someone said they even cover the roosters so not to crow on Sunday). Rather than lose a day in Edinburgh we reversed directions. I would like to have seen Harris where my MacKillops lived 2 years before sailing. I wanted to buy a genuine Harris tweed cap here from a crofter. Findlay MacDonald describes in "Crowdie and Cream" how they kept pee tubs to fix the wool with lichen dye and make this cloth. Once the women used pee to douse a landlord who was preventing them from growing food. I hope my Harris Tweed cap from Uist doesn't bring home the smell!
HOMEWARD: Sunday morning after helping Splash chase some cows out of the community centre parking lot, we had breakfast (porridge of course). Inside the centre he showed me a photo in the centre of his father, Norman Patterson MacKillop and other crofters. Splash pulled on his rubber boots to go check his sheep along with Effie. (same name as my Grandma MacKillop). This Effie is a wildly natural crofter from next door whom I met earlier digging tatties (spuds) with Splash. Gloria drove us to the ferry and rushed to hold it while we purchased tickets. "God bless," she said as I kissed her farewell. Splash and I had both found angels to look after us.
FLYING OVER SKYE: We arrived back in Uig hoping to catch the train to Inverness on the other side of Skye. John MacKenzie, who took us to the terminal office, said no regular buses ran on Sunday. What about a taxi? He looked nervously at his watch and said it would be tight. He agreed on a price of 60 pounds and, after trying to phone for a faster car, took off his flat cap and sped us away. He flew right across the Isle of Skye in 90 minutes, cursing slow moving ferry traffic until we crossed the causeway and boarded the train from Kyle of Lochash.
HIGHLANDS: Another trip through heaven as the afternoon scenery unfolded in our train window. There was still some purple in the heather with brownish bracken around. We will never forget the mountains and rivers and sheep grazing amongst clumps of heather.
INVERNESS: Lonely Planet lists a good restaurant in a hotel so I phoned there. Despite the drunken kids in kilts singing and lurching through the station I heard a price of 70 pounds (same as a BnB) and got directions. We drug our bags to a McDonalds and asked for help from a Polish server who got her manager to explain but I understood the Pole better. We landed in a vintage hotel on the Ness River, as close to Loch Ness as we wanted to be. The room had an old intercom from earlier days and no elevator. We had a fine supper of scallops and retired to look at the moonlit river. Next morning for breakfast our Polish waitress brought me the Highlander (haggis) instead of the Islander (kippers). One for the kipper? I found haggis to be as terrible as the blood pudding I had in Wales.
LAST LEG: We drug our bags (good exercise?) to Inverness station noting a monument to soldiers in Khartoum (is there anywhere Brits have not fought?) On a morning train to Edinburgh we saw more pastoral scenery until Perth when it became farmland. At Waverley Station , Edinburgh, we went to a last minute hotel booth where a young woman from Montreal (I know a song about her) found us a hotel deal. The Parliament House Hotel, where MPs stay during session, normally charges 210 pounds per night but we were in for 70. The J in front of our room number meant it was in the older Jacobean section (no elevator for us to escape). The Scottish manageress was a reminder of Linda's first grade teacher, Miss Wooly worm, but she warmed after Linda made her laugh.
EDINBURGH is the favourite city of Linda's mom and we now know why. We hit the National Gallery first day for some Impressionist paintings. One Monet impressed Linda while I stared at a van Gogh some elegant lady proclaimed "so van Goish!." When I asked why, she replied, " It jumps out at you." A bored attendant showed me the hidden rooster in the painting which both agreed might "jump out at you." He told me about his time in Halifax as a naval engineer when almost staying to marry a sweet young local. Walking home we passed the monument to Sir Walter Scott, pointing like a Hindu temple into the grey sky.
The Castle sits on its volcanic butt overlooking city, land and sea beyond. We looked over to the island where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned before escaping to seek help from her cousin Elizabeth. I entered its underground prison for an idea of what it was like to be incarcerated while Linda (she does not like caves) waited to see if I got out. About 9000 years ago hunters came here and through the bronze age tribes may have watched Roman legions going past to fight the Highanders (before Hadrian walled them out.). Later came the Angles, Normans, Robert the Bruce, James II, etc. In 1689 Jacobites made a last siege here before the Battle of Culloden ended their cause and Prince Charlie fled to Skye. William and Mary (James' protestant daughter) were crowned and the Act of Union followed in 1707. Last year Scotland voted for the Scottish Nationalist Party, but like Quebec, seems unlikely to choose separation. (they'll continue to cheer against English teams).
The Royal Mile was touristy but we ducked into side streets to find such interesting places as where Rabbie (Burns) had his poetry published. Linda spotted a factory outlet and, by asking for seconds, was directed into a back room where the price of a blanket dropped by 10 pounds. She is more Scotch than me.
That night we strolled to the Mussel Inn for a kilo of fine Scottish mussels. The place was full of young people and later we again heard the screaming of drunken youth. (The government has asked the author of "Train Spotting" for help on this matter. I think a bigger problem is the 1 million Scots admitting they pay their mortgage with a credit card!) On the way back we saw the castle lit up like the Acropolis in Athens. Too tired for theatre or a pub we stayed in and watched Billy Conolly, a Scot comic describing his visit to Ireland and those oppressed but feisty folk (the many meetings between Irish and Hebrides people as well as Norse suggest my genes were molded around the Irish Sea.
Last day, after a breakfast of porridge and smoked haddock (pancakes for Linda) we headed for the Royal Museum of Scotland. We first entered a cathedral housing the covenant of the Church of Scotland. Jennifer MacMillan, a ticket seller who has studied the subject, told us more "witches" were burned here than anywhere in history. Most were women with sharp tongues whose female opponents could afford lawyers to make convictions. I suggested feminists might not like such an answer. "No," she replied with the sly smile of someone who enjoys going against the grain. Meeting gems like her is the reason I travel!
The Museum has exhibits from stone age to the current, including sailing ships, working steam engines and flour mills. It is a place I'd love to take my grandkids. Our final treat was to see some of Picasso's pottery and paintings. I loved "Woman at the Window" with one pair of eyes staring into a street and another pair staring at the viewer.
We had a final lunch at a favourite cafe, collected our bags and caught the bus to an airport hotel. While other guests ate steak and chips at 20 pounds a plate and watched England and Scotland lose soccer matches, we had left over bread and cheese (that why the raincoats stink!
At 4 am the alarm beeped and we began the journey home. I thought it prudent to allow 4 hours for a terminal change in Heathrow but most of that time was consumed awaiting bags (they made us check our carry ons) and security check after security check before we were off to Calgary. I scored 4 empty seats and slept while Linda looked at the ice of Greenland and Labrador below her window. We hit Calgary rush hour traffic and were not home until 6 PM (a 22 hour day of travel). We were glad to find our plants and animals okay and our flock of 10 sheep safe in the barnyard.
Mountains divide us and a waste of seas;
yet still the blood is strong;
the heart is Highland and we in dreams
behold the Hebrides.
Canadian Boat song circa 1829
Postscript: After Linda finished editing this pile of...we scattered manure over the garden. As I rototilled the soil, up popped a dozen missed "tatties" to add to our home grown supper of lamb chops and lettuce. Mother Earth and the Hebrides gene have been very good to me.
GLASGOW: We arrived at Central Station and schlepped our wheely bags to Adelaides BnB where a portly chap in rich Glaswegian said a Nancy MacKillop who worked here wanted to meet us "airly" before we left in the morning. We had tea with Dorian Stone, a fine young man from my hometown, High River. He claims to be content here, managing a Christian radio station the past 4 years. After a fine fish dinner, we returned to our BnB to hear male singing in the hall next door. As we entered a friendly little man insisted on seating us in front as audience for a rehearsal of the Glasgow Male Philharmonic Chorus. We invited them to come to Canada where we had seen the Wales Male Chorus. We bought their CD and left them singing "Joy to the World." That night we slept well despite the screaming of youths partying in the street. At 8 AM we met Nancy, who has no idea of her peoples origin. The taxi driver to Queen Street Station claimed locals here go hungry in Florida where no one understands them.
SCOTRAIL: Our 5 hour trip to Mallaig was stupendous with trees changing colours in sunlight, scenery to rival our B.C. Seated across from us were a farmer/ ironmonger couple on a day outing from Aberdeen. They were curious about our Alberta snowfall and farming. The man favoured separation due to the UK government blocking Scottish lamb sales since a hoof and mouth outbreak in England. They showed us where their daughter recently completed an Outward Bound course like her father when he was 16. He pointed to the locks built by Telford to allow ships through that huge cut through Scotland. He also showed us the Glenfinna Monument where the Jacobian (Gaelic for James) uprising began. When I said I was seeking the place my people left, he asked sadly " Because of the clearances?" A piper and some peat smoked haddock stew awaited us in Mallaig. We pulled our bags to a BnB and gazed over a lovely harbour where our ferry awaited.
OVER THE SEA TO SKYE: We disembarked next morning at Allmande in light rain. While we put on our yellow (smell like cheese) rain coats, we missed the bus. Pulling bags up the road we stopped to ask directions to Clan Donald Centre. A poker faced guy, a reminder of my brother Bill, said I should go one mile further, stop, turn and around and come back one mile to this spot. We had the Centre to ourselves for a history lesson on the Jacobian uprising. Seems Bonny Prince Charles (a playboy to some) returned from France and persuaded clan leaders to rise up against the English in order to restore King James, a Catholic but seen as the legitimate heir. They lost at Culloden, Charlie fled to Skye and the clans never recovered. The library suggested I take my questions on family origins to Bill Lawson in Harris. I had received his material from my nephew Scot MacKillop. We caught a bus to Portree, the main town on Skye. Our driver told us his son had been "blowing up Alberta" in training for Afghanistan. Since our Nanton friend had just lost her son there we changed topic to ask what he does if he hits one of the sheep grazing by the highway. "Be sure you kill it," he replied. We had another fine meal of Scottish grown mussels and went to the library to check on the health of Linda's mom. (OK) We chose a bus to Uig going clockwise around the island rather than one going anticlockwise. A young fiddler and girl friend from Virginia going to a concert were amazed Linda had lived in D.C. We found our BnB and again slept overlooking the harbor from which we would sail in the morning.
OUTER HEBRIDES, ANOTHER WORLD: Our wheelies bounced over gravel to the ferry terminal and into a van driven by John MacKenzie, an elderly character (and bagpiper) we were destined to meet again. Linda offered to shut the side door but he said it was automatic, hit the brakes to slam the door shut, giving all a good laugh. We sailed on Cal Mac's "Hebrides:" from Uig to Lochmaddy, North Uist. Excitement was provided when a local lad hit the jackpot on the machine near us. Lochmaddy has the only bank machine in the area and we knew cash was preferred here. We caught a local van/bus whose lone passenger was a man I've seen in many old Irish films. We crossed the causeway from Uist to Bernary. Everyone knew where Splash MacKillop lived and we were dropped at the road to his BnB As we trekked through treeless land it felt like some Indian reserves back home. No one home at the croft but the porch was open and well stocked with great photo books.
BURNSIDE CROFT BnB: Gloria MacKillop arrived and put us in a room where H.R.H. Prince Charles slept (his "Charles" was entered in the guest book) while here to open the causeway between Uist and Bernary. Don Alic (Splash) MacKillop and I looked into each others blue (Viking?) eyes and we made small talk as Gloria served tea and oat cakes, which Splash claims to be aphrodisiacs. Crofting is a unique system that gives you a small piece of land and share of a community pasture. People must do something else to survive like run a BnB. This place reminded me of my grandparents small farm in Cape Breton where Dad as a boy sold vegetables and milk in Sydney.. Since there are no restaurants here, Gloria arranged for a woman to cook us dinner in her home. She and husband served a fine meal of poached (farm) salmon and he lamented most fish from up here being shipped by truck and ferry to Spain. I wondered why he would not make an arrangement with local fisherman but, being English, and living here only 15 years.... After dinner we talked about our respective trips to India where he once worked. She said they moved from South England because the foreigners committed crime there. (I wasted time arguing this and the reality of global warming)
GENE TALK: Back at the BnB, over a wee dram, Splash (as a kid he splashed through puddles) told stories. He does the address to the haggis each Rabbie Burns night. He and Gloria sang us a song about porridge we learned (and forgot) during a one hour Gaelic course in Cape Breton. Splash and Gloria have been to Delia, Alberta and Cape Breton where he was disappointed no one spoke his (and my grandparents') first language. I shared the genealogy information Scot had handed me en route to the Calgary airport . It seems about 1750 Donald Og (the younger in Gaelic) MacKillop of Bernary had 3 sons, one from whom I descend) and Norman, the name of Splash's father. During the clearances, a Roderick sailed for Cape Breton Norman's (Splash's) line stayed here. Scot, my nephew, is working on this theory. "Slange va" according to Splash is good night in Gaelic ("Irish speak Gaylick while the Scots speak "Gallic," he added). Gloria is an Australian who came here as the nurse 40 years ago. Recently, at 73, she went backpacking with a young group in Pategonia. Now with her detached cornea she seems unlikely to venture further than Inverness where Splash was treated for colon cancer. Her dream is to finish building a self catering cottage next door to her house and stop BnB (except for family she said).
BERNARY: MACKILLOP LAND: Next day Gloria arranged for Andrew, a nice young man from Oxfordshire, to take us on a tour. He and his wife operate a BnB and work from here by Internet. It was his first tour and we urged him to make it a side business. He drove an old Mercedes like the one my brother John has. We visited the 7 foot 9 inch monument (his height) to Angus MacCaskill, a giant famous in 1800's Cape Breton. At the cemetery nearby I met a nephew of Splash whose mother was a MacKillop. Andrew took us to the library and historical centre where I checked email (Linda's mom still okay) and we bought a dvd they had made (doesn't work on my machine). Next we went to the other side of the island where an old black (peat burning) house had been made into a youth hostel. There were remains of houses on the rocky beach where the poor bastards had been relocated from the other side of the island (where Splash lives.) They made a living collecting kelp for fertilizer and farming shallow beds of soil on a nearby mountain side. Vertical lines of these so called "lazy beds" are still visible. We stopped in sight of the old cemetery where my great greats must be buried beneath the unmarked stones. Linda and Andrew waited as I hopped the fence and jogged across the soft pasture. The rock wall was covered in orange lichen and the open gate revealed sheep were the main visitors. I entered, wandered through the stones and looked out to the sea pondering what life was like for those who lived here and those who left for a new life in Canada.
END OF THE LINE: We planned to cross over to Harris and travel up through Lewis, see the Callanish Stones predating Stonehenge and then fly to Edinburgh. But the "Free" Church of Scotland closes all hotels and even buses on Sundays up there. Splash says those people are not well liked here (someone said they even cover the roosters so not to crow on Sunday). Rather than lose a day in Edinburgh we reversed directions. I would like to have seen Harris where my MacKillops lived 2 years before sailing. I wanted to buy a genuine Harris tweed cap here from a crofter. Findlay MacDonald describes in "Crowdie and Cream" how they kept pee tubs to fix the wool with lichen dye and make this cloth. Once the women used pee to douse a landlord who was preventing them from growing food. I hope my Harris Tweed cap from Uist doesn't bring home the smell!
HOMEWARD: Sunday morning after helping Splash chase some cows out of the community centre parking lot, we had breakfast (porridge of course). Inside the centre he showed me a photo in the centre of his father, Norman Patterson MacKillop and other crofters. Splash pulled on his rubber boots to go check his sheep along with Effie. (same name as my Grandma MacKillop). This Effie is a wildly natural crofter from next door whom I met earlier digging tatties (spuds) with Splash. Gloria drove us to the ferry and rushed to hold it while we purchased tickets. "God bless," she said as I kissed her farewell. Splash and I had both found angels to look after us.
FLYING OVER SKYE: We arrived back in Uig hoping to catch the train to Inverness on the other side of Skye. John MacKenzie, who took us to the terminal office, said no regular buses ran on Sunday. What about a taxi? He looked nervously at his watch and said it would be tight. He agreed on a price of 60 pounds and, after trying to phone for a faster car, took off his flat cap and sped us away. He flew right across the Isle of Skye in 90 minutes, cursing slow moving ferry traffic until we crossed the causeway and boarded the train from Kyle of Lochash.
HIGHLANDS: Another trip through heaven as the afternoon scenery unfolded in our train window. There was still some purple in the heather with brownish bracken around. We will never forget the mountains and rivers and sheep grazing amongst clumps of heather.
INVERNESS: Lonely Planet lists a good restaurant in a hotel so I phoned there. Despite the drunken kids in kilts singing and lurching through the station I heard a price of 70 pounds (same as a BnB) and got directions. We drug our bags to a McDonalds and asked for help from a Polish server who got her manager to explain but I understood the Pole better. We landed in a vintage hotel on the Ness River, as close to Loch Ness as we wanted to be. The room had an old intercom from earlier days and no elevator. We had a fine supper of scallops and retired to look at the moonlit river. Next morning for breakfast our Polish waitress brought me the Highlander (haggis) instead of the Islander (kippers). One for the kipper? I found haggis to be as terrible as the blood pudding I had in Wales.
LAST LEG: We drug our bags (good exercise?) to Inverness station noting a monument to soldiers in Khartoum (is there anywhere Brits have not fought?) On a morning train to Edinburgh we saw more pastoral scenery until Perth when it became farmland. At Waverley Station , Edinburgh, we went to a last minute hotel booth where a young woman from Montreal (I know a song about her) found us a hotel deal. The Parliament House Hotel, where MPs stay during session, normally charges 210 pounds per night but we were in for 70. The J in front of our room number meant it was in the older Jacobean section (no elevator for us to escape). The Scottish manageress was a reminder of Linda's first grade teacher, Miss Wooly worm, but she warmed after Linda made her laugh.
EDINBURGH is the favourite city of Linda's mom and we now know why. We hit the National Gallery first day for some Impressionist paintings. One Monet impressed Linda while I stared at a van Gogh some elegant lady proclaimed "so van Goish!." When I asked why, she replied, " It jumps out at you." A bored attendant showed me the hidden rooster in the painting which both agreed might "jump out at you." He told me about his time in Halifax as a naval engineer when almost staying to marry a sweet young local. Walking home we passed the monument to Sir Walter Scott, pointing like a Hindu temple into the grey sky.
The Castle sits on its volcanic butt overlooking city, land and sea beyond. We looked over to the island where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned before escaping to seek help from her cousin Elizabeth. I entered its underground prison for an idea of what it was like to be incarcerated while Linda (she does not like caves) waited to see if I got out. About 9000 years ago hunters came here and through the bronze age tribes may have watched Roman legions going past to fight the Highanders (before Hadrian walled them out.). Later came the Angles, Normans, Robert the Bruce, James II, etc. In 1689 Jacobites made a last siege here before the Battle of Culloden ended their cause and Prince Charlie fled to Skye. William and Mary (James' protestant daughter) were crowned and the Act of Union followed in 1707. Last year Scotland voted for the Scottish Nationalist Party, but like Quebec, seems unlikely to choose separation. (they'll continue to cheer against English teams).
The Royal Mile was touristy but we ducked into side streets to find such interesting places as where Rabbie (Burns) had his poetry published. Linda spotted a factory outlet and, by asking for seconds, was directed into a back room where the price of a blanket dropped by 10 pounds. She is more Scotch than me.
That night we strolled to the Mussel Inn for a kilo of fine Scottish mussels. The place was full of young people and later we again heard the screaming of drunken youth. (The government has asked the author of "Train Spotting" for help on this matter. I think a bigger problem is the 1 million Scots admitting they pay their mortgage with a credit card!) On the way back we saw the castle lit up like the Acropolis in Athens. Too tired for theatre or a pub we stayed in and watched Billy Conolly, a Scot comic describing his visit to Ireland and those oppressed but feisty folk (the many meetings between Irish and Hebrides people as well as Norse suggest my genes were molded around the Irish Sea.
Last day, after a breakfast of porridge and smoked haddock (pancakes for Linda) we headed for the Royal Museum of Scotland. We first entered a cathedral housing the covenant of the Church of Scotland. Jennifer MacMillan, a ticket seller who has studied the subject, told us more "witches" were burned here than anywhere in history. Most were women with sharp tongues whose female opponents could afford lawyers to make convictions. I suggested feminists might not like such an answer. "No," she replied with the sly smile of someone who enjoys going against the grain. Meeting gems like her is the reason I travel!
The Museum has exhibits from stone age to the current, including sailing ships, working steam engines and flour mills. It is a place I'd love to take my grandkids. Our final treat was to see some of Picasso's pottery and paintings. I loved "Woman at the Window" with one pair of eyes staring into a street and another pair staring at the viewer.
We had a final lunch at a favourite cafe, collected our bags and caught the bus to an airport hotel. While other guests ate steak and chips at 20 pounds a plate and watched England and Scotland lose soccer matches, we had left over bread and cheese (that why the raincoats stink!
At 4 am the alarm beeped and we began the journey home. I thought it prudent to allow 4 hours for a terminal change in Heathrow but most of that time was consumed awaiting bags (they made us check our carry ons) and security check after security check before we were off to Calgary. I scored 4 empty seats and slept while Linda looked at the ice of Greenland and Labrador below her window. We hit Calgary rush hour traffic and were not home until 6 PM (a 22 hour day of travel). We were glad to find our plants and animals okay and our flock of 10 sheep safe in the barnyard.
Mountains divide us and a waste of seas;
yet still the blood is strong;
the heart is Highland and we in dreams
behold the Hebrides.
Canadian Boat song circa 1829
Postscript: After Linda finished editing this pile of...we scattered manure over the garden. As I rototilled the soil, up popped a dozen missed "tatties" to add to our home grown supper of lamb chops and lettuce. Mother Earth and the Hebrides gene have been very good to me.
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