Flashback: Scotland, September 2000

Despite my Scottish surname and a lifetime of travel, including a semester in London, I didn't discover Scotland until I was 32. I went for a few days with my mother and was instantly smitten. Dan would love it here, I thought, and vowed to return with him.

We went the following year, and this is my account. We had yet to buy a digital camera and have never managed to scan the pictures, so if my prose isn't descriptive enough, you can click on the links.

Well, we’re back from Scotland. And I enjoyed it even more than I did last year, mostly because we had the time to get far off the beaten track—or so it seemed, anyway, to a pair of wide-eyed suburbanites. Since my failing hands prevented me from sending most of you postcards, I’ll try to redeem myself with a description of the trip. No pretty picture (actually, I toyed with the idea of buying a digital camera but decided they were still too expensive), but more room to share my impressions.

If you haven’t been to Scotland, do yourself a favor and go. Really. It’s God’s country. Unfathomably dramatic landscapes—some lush, others lunar—and always a clear view of the sky (which usually isn’t clear itself). The weather changes as suddenly and as often as the terrain—brilliant sun one minute, pouring rain the next. And somehow, despite many centuries of inhabitation, vast parts of the country are barely populated—except by sheep, which in one county are said to outnumber humans by twenty to one, an assertion I have no trouble believing. At first I thought it was because all the Scots had gone to America, but then I read that half the population lives in Glasgow, which leaves the rest of the country wide open.

We spent the first couple of days in Edinburgh, where we stayed in a New Town hotel called Mansfield House. It took us about thirty seconds to realize the place was named after Jayne Mansfield. (The vintage movie posters gave it away.) Had Morticia Addams been enlisted to furnish a whorehouse, the result would have been similar. Heavy Victorian furniture, dark velvet curtains, and an astonishing array of taxidermy. I’m not sure whether the dust and cobwebs were intentional, but they enhanced the effect masterfully.

When I was approaching the brink of exhaustion (touring by foot is growing increasingly difficult), we claimed our rental car—a sporty little “Diablo Red” Peugeot—and headed north. After spending a night in Inverness at the home of a sweet old woman who was quite flustered at the thought of two men sharing a bed, we drove by Loch Ness and toured the Black Isle (neither black nor an isle, those wacky Scots!), where the name Jack supposedly originated. Then we headed west, where we found what may be the most beautiful spot on earth.

Inverewe Garden is a little coastal paradise started in the nineteenth century by a man who discovered that proximity to the Gulf Stream would permit him to cultivate a vast range of plants—many subtropical—in this seemingly unlikely spot. It’s meticulously maintained, and they even offer wheelchairs, though they’re of limited benefit when you’re facing steep paths and steps. (N.B.: Hysterical laughing fits do NOT help the chauffeur maintain control on hills!)

Our next stop was the Isle of Skye, which is as majestic and spooky as its reputation. It’s even wilder and remoter than the Highlands, and the end-of-the-earth sensation is intensified by the fact that it’s an island. Skye is closest to the mainland, so I can only imagine what the Outer Hebrides are like. The highlight for me was Dunvegan Castle, home of Clan MacLeod for 750 years. It hulks broodingly on a bluff overlooking an eponymous loch, surrounded by beautiful if slightly unkempt gardens. The condition of the castle’s exterior made me wonder where all the admission fees were going, but then, the wind was enough to knock you over, so I’m sure it’s a tough job.

Wanting to see more of the Hebrides, we moved on to Mull, which is as beautiful as Skye but in a tamer way. More populated, yet still bucolic. We stayed in a great B&B in Tobermory, where we searched for hedgehogs in the garden. Alas, the only ones we encountered were flattened into the road. The highlight of Mull was Torosay, another castle, although the snotty guidebooks referred to it as merely a Victorian mansion. Besides sporting another magnificent garden, Torosay delighted me by having TWO dumbwaiters—one for food and another for coal.

On the way to Glasgow, we squealed into Helensburgh just in time for admission to Hill House, designed at the turn of the century by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. It’s an excellent study of his style, as he (and, to a certain degree, his wife, Margaret MacDonald) were responsible for not just the structure but also much of the interior. And it was fascinating to see how Mackintosh startled Britons as Frank Lloyd Wright was shaking people up over here. I admire both, but I’d rather live in a Mackintosh house.

What to say about Glasgow? Where Edinburgh is tidy and patrician, Glasgow is grimy and rundown. It’s also much more spread out, a quality I dislike now more than ever. Having said that, there did seem to be an undercurrent of excitement that I didn’t sense in Edinburgh. There were lots of students around, and I had the feeling Glasgow would be a fun place to go to school. Though he died in near ignominy, Mackintosh is clearly Glasgow’s favorite son, as evidenced by the countless knockoffs seen everywhere. Dan and I saluted him with lunch at his restored Willow Tearooms, then burned off the calories by schlepping to the top of the Necropolis, which boasts an expansive view of the city. (Too bad there isn’t much to look at!) Our favorite attraction was the Tenement House, a small apartment occupied from 1911 until 1975 by a woman who apparently kept everything she ever touched. It was taken over by the National Trust when they realized its value as a time capsule. (Gee, Mom, now we know what to do with your house!) After years of painful deliberation, she finally had electricity installed—in 1960!

We stopped at Stirling Castle, childhood home of Mary, Queen of Scots, on our way back to Edinburgh. I’m sure it was a fascinating place, but the relentless torrents of cold rain dampened our interest as well as our bodies; the view, which I think would have been amazing, was greatly diminished; and, frankly, by that point we were castled out.

The last night was spent on the outskirts of Edinburgh so we could get to the airport in time for our predawn flight. About an hour after we filled up with gas, we passed the station on our way to dinner, and the line was unbelievable. We were incredibly lucky to miss the demonstrations and shortages—I don’t think Avis would have appreciated having their car returned bone dry.

With the notable exception of Glasgow, where we camped for two nights in a seedy, dingy hotel, we had great luck with B&Bs. All were reasonably priced, and several were even charming. The proprietors (and proprietrixes, as one referred to herself) were unfailingly helpful and friendly, and that’s an aspect of Scotland that impresses me even more than the scenery. The people are just so damn nice! It certainly helps to be civil when so many of your “highways” are a single lane wide, but it struck me that they simply view friendliness as a natural state. The things we could learn from them …