The Last Day

 And then we woke up and it was the last day.

Dunfermline’s Keavil House hotel came complete with a Scottish fold cat who appeared outside our garden room windows. “Garden room” is a euphemism for “you have a door that opens into bushes near an abandoned greenhouse.” The adorable little grey Scottish fold (those are the ones with the cute ears folded over) apparently frequented the greenhouse for mice. Which would explain his pulchritude.Tho’ he was but little, he was tubby.

And expectant. I spent several minutes attending to his petting needs in the abandoned greenhouse. I also took a sleeve of old planting pots from the greenhouse. (Which, trust me, had been abandoned for at least three years, judging by the spiders). Somehow, I feel good using these pots for my American tomatoes. They were new, although very old, so don’t get excited about diseases and stuff. Scottish souvenirs can be practical.

Harry, an ardent cat fan, was not so lucky to see our new friend, although he did search the grounds.

Off we went to see the kelpies. These are horse head statues 98 feet high, made of thousands of little sheets of metal. They are gorgeous, and their models Baron (head up) and Duke were working Clydesdales. Kelpies, aka brumbies, aka water spirits/sprites/horses, are figures from folklore. Keplies are… unpleasant, yet functional. Water horses would come to you at the edge of some running water and be all sweet and “please feed me an apple you sweet young thing and please get on my back.” The second you did they dove down to the bottom and drowned you. Very useful for keeping kids away from deep water.

From the kelpies we went to another miracle of modern engineering: the Falkirk wheel. This is an elevator for boats. It connects the Forth and Clyde Canal with the Union Canal in Scotland. These canals are not even with each other, so you put the boat in the wheel and it turns and drops you off at the upper or lower other canal. And the one thing everyone in the world who has ever heard of this wheel knows is the famous line: “It takes the same amount of energy as boiling a kettle for one revolution of the wheel.”

I hope whoever wrote that is still getting royalties.

The wheel is cool, but my favorite thing about the place is a Roman fort ruin. You have to use a lot of imagination to understand the fort, because it’s basically a line of moss covered rocks now, but how awesome is it to stand where the guys who were in Scotland when Pontius Pilate was born once stood—bored out of their minds yet nervous and on the lookout for Picts? It feels like the ground beneath your feet is telling you stories.

Maria and I walked there, girl chatting, and back again while the rest watched the wheel. I don’t know if Mr. Fox managed a ride on it, but the rain came on and we all dashed for the van.

From Falkirk we were headed to Doune, but everyone needed lunch and a toilet. We stopped in Dunblane. Yes, THAT Dunblane if you are thinking of Scotland’s only school shooting, back in 1996. Andy Murray, who grew up to be a famous tennis player, was a child in that massacre. Dunblane now has a golden post box and phone booth in honor of his Olympic triumph.

Again, some of the best things in life are unscripted. It was wet, it was rainy, there were only two restaurants and two thrift stores in the town, and the restaurants were crowded. I parked Jack on a sheltered bench with a hot pork pie from the local co-op grocery, and was headed to the public toilets when I saw a sign:

Scotland’s oldest lending library. Open to the public.

Well then!!!

I spent a happy hour being allowed to touch first editions on vellum of the works of Burns, Locke, and other famous Scottish authors. Leighton library had belonged to a rich white guy who built it to deliberately let rich white guys borrow his books–for his own reasons. You can read about the library here, but there is nothing like someone interested in your tiny little museum to make your day as a museum guide. The authoritative scholar, the sweet volunteer, and I had a blast talking books and ideas and history that rainy afternoon in Dunblane.

And I forgot to go to the toilet.

Off to Doune Castle we went, and everyone in the van had a different reason for being excited about this. First, Doune Castle is the one mentioned in the famous ballad The Bonny Earl of Moray (Pronounced Murray) You can read the words here, but the refrain of the ballad says long may his lady look from the castle Doune, and people assume his wife is standing on a turret longing for him. It was his mother, and Doune and down in Scots are pronounced the same. The big irony of that is, this is also the ballad that gave us the word Mondegreens, the term for a misunderstood song lyric. “For they have slain the Earl of Moray and laid him on the green” became over time a woman’s name who had the misfortune to be with him: the non-existant Lady Mondegreen.

The story of Moray’s actual death is one Jack and I tell often, and we spared no details on the van, but I’ll let you read about it here after you finish this post. It’s quite the story.

Meanwhile, two other reasons people were excited about Doune Castle existed: Monty Python, and Outlander. Both were filmed there. I picked up a rock in the courtyard for our friend Karen, who was watching our garden while we were gone and is a big Outlander fan. Oddly enough, Game of Thrones also filmed scenes at Doune, but nobody mentioned it. We were perhaps a more pacifistic group of TV watchers. Jack, btw, is a huge Python fan.

Doune Castle’s other history is also interesting – the usual stories of intrigue, murder, and plot. I’ll tell you one thing about visiting ancient rich people’s homes in Scotand: it reminds you what’s important, and what isn’t, just like leaning against the Birnam Oak. This too shall pass, be careful what you spend your time on because a thousand years from now you could be just another tourist attraction, a mossy wall with a weird vibe, or a tree planted by water still growing. What are you doing with your life, the stone walls of Scottish castles ask. And is it important?

Doune Castle behind us, the group was something between somber and exhausted as we headed to the airport hotel. Tomorrow various members of the group would fly at different times to different places—although Andrea and Harry, Cassidy, Jack and I were all on the same first flight to Atlanta.

The group wanted to do a last night bond, but we also had zippo will to take the tram back into Edinburgh and fight the crowds for an evening meal. So we cozied up in the hotel and ate whatever was on offer and had a good time.

And Harry got the last word. The next morning, Andrea was at the hotel door at 8 am for a shuttle to the airport five minutes away – for a flight that left at noon. We had said Cassidy and our party would join them for 9:30.

Andrea smiled at us. “I hope you don’t mind, when the shuttle comes, we’re going to go ahead and get on it. We will see you at the flight boarding.”

I smiled back. “I understand.”

Sitting next to his wife, Harry shook his head and said, without emotion, “No you don’t.”

Best parting line ever.

And we all flew home and began posting our pictures and telling our stories and savoring the cheeses we smuggled into our luggage and thinking about maybe going back next year.

Actually, next year the tour is the Highlands and Islands, so it goes north and stays there for the most part. The only overlaps are Edinburgh and Fife’s East Neuk. If you’re interested, shoot us an email or FB message. We believe this will be our Last Tour Ever. (Of course we said that in 2022 too, but this time we mean it.)

An Inauspicious Beginning, but hey, she didn’t Jump

Up a little late, we burned the toast on Barbara and Oliver’s aga, but managed not to set off the fire alarm. (If you’ve never toasted bread on an aga, basically you lift the cast iron cover over the hot plate, set the bread down, wait 30 seconds, turn it over, and take it off. You do not walk away to do something else, allowing the plate to fall onto the bread and smoosh it into burning within 5 seconds. So now you know.)

All the luggage and all the people (just three of us but if felt like moving a people caravan) up the steep staircase to street level and off we went to the tram stop.

Where I looked up to behold a young girl walking across a rooftop peak, like a tightrope walker in a hoodie.

When she had perched herself on the gable end of the house, nothing between her and the street but about 20 feet of air, she realized I was watching her and made a “get lost” gesture with her arm. A big gesture that made her teeter for a second.

I made a “you don’t want to do this” gesture with my hands. She put her hands to her eyes and indicated she was looking at the view, not contemplating ending it all.

Trying to hold a conversation without words across 400 feet width and three stories height is tricky, different cultures notwithstanding. I tried to vibe “I understand you are not planning to jump but I also understand that it rained last night, you are wearing cheap sneakers with slick soles, and you are clearly not yet old enough to drive, so even though you are not intending to commit suicide, you are in danger and no view is worth that. Get down at once. I do not know you but I care what happens to you, and I suspect other people do too even if you don’t think so.”

Again, complex ideas can be difficult to convey by mind meld, so the girl repeated the swatting gesture. I raised my cell phone. “Come down or I dial 999.” Maybe a simpler message would penetrate.

She put what I think was a cigarette back in her pocket and recrossed the peak, one foot in front of the other, moving so swiftly, I wondered if my interference would be the cause of her demise. One intends to do good, but…..

The tram pulled up just as she reached the ladder at the far end of the second house and descended. Probably cursing the interfering bitch at the bus stop, but she lived to curse another day. And maybe had some things to think about. Who knows?

Well, it was an interesting start to ten days of looking after people. We reached the overcrowded airport and quickly located Maria, looking pale and strained and close to panic. She had arrived late, getting in at 1 am from Paris (singing with a choir there) but her luggage had not. Operating on five or so hours of sleep sans suitcase, Maria was trying to bear up bravely, but I could see her full tuning fork quiver shimmering below the surface. We called some numbers that were supposed to help her track the suitcase, figuring it was in the airport someplace, but they did not work. Perhaps it’s policy to give people fake numbers—cuts down on complaints.

Meanwhile we found Zahnke, party of three easily and located the Meadors, looking mildly intimidated by the crush of people pouring off planes in this compact yet horrifically busy airport. My all time worst airport is Toronto, but Edinburgh might run second. The Meadors wanted Out Of There. So did we all.

Our hope that Maria’s suitcase waited in that scrum someplace was quickly dashed by being told in baggage claim, in a Scottish accent so it didn’t sound quite so mean, to get ourselves gone, they weren’t looking for anything right now, someone would deliver it to the hotel if it did arrive.

I didn’t like the way that man said “if,” but off we went.

This was only the first three hours of the first day, which was so eventful we’re going to pause here and pick up tomorrow. With such an inauspicious beginning, where could we go but up?