No doubt about it, the Scots are a warm, friendly people. From
Glasgow, where a hiking shoe salesman gave us one of our best things-not-to-miss tips, to the taxi driver in
Inverness who rescued our impounded car from the Jacobites, we couldn't have been treated better. We even had "
the piss taken out of us" a couple of times, which is how you know you're really welcome. I struck up conversations with many of the people whose pictures appear below and won't soon forget their kindness and competence.
Paul, the resident artist at
Òran Mór, was quite the chatterbox. He's standing in front of the portrait he painted of
John Muir, the "father of America's national parks" who actually was born in Scotland. Paul grew up poor in Glasgow, not unlike
Shuggie Bain, a book with which he was unfamiliar. A big fan of
Quentin Crisp, he spent much of his early career working in American advertising, first following a friend to Colorado, and eventually moving to New York City, where he lived in the
Chelsea Hotel. To our everlasting surprise, he claimed a woman as his long-term partner. Not that there's anything wrong with that!
Thom and I didn't get to
Belstaff until almost closing time, but this young salesman defined solicitous accommodation, repeatedly retrieving items from the stock room for Thom, always a discriminating shopper. He'd only been employed a week and he treated me like the wife who has to sign off on her husband's clothing purchases. Anyone who knows Thom will understand why I found that presumption hilarious.
Liz, a docent, and I got along like a house on fire once I asked her to identify the beautiful woman in the painting, who appears to have been the vivacious mistress of
Hill House's second owner. Liz satisfied my curiosity by combining deep knowledge and delighted giggles, a perfect combination. You could tell she loved what she did.
Our hosts at the
Distillery Cottage were missing in action, but Andy and Sandra rose to the occasion, plying us with terrific hiking recommendations and maps. Aging hippies who hailed from Yorkshire, they seemed to have some kind of barter arrangement with the owners, tending to the livestock in exchange for a room. A win-win as we say in America.
A flame-haired lass acknowledged with a happy shout that the temperature of the
Fairy Pools was just a degree shy of an ice cube. Few of the Instagrammers who crowded the scene were as plucky as she . . . or as determined to get her money shot.
This painfully shy woman plucked flowers from the castle garden at
Dunvegan and arranged them in beautiful bouquets that brightened nearly every room. She apologized profusely that those we had seen weren't fresh. "Tomorrow's the day that I change them," she explained.
A muddy German couple had ridden their dirt bikes from
Sligachan to Eigol through some very rugged country, a round trip of more than 60 miles. Even more impressive, they had carried their bikes up the
Storr the day before so they could ride them back down. Surprisingly, they had never heard of the
Fairy Pools, which suggested a refreshing social media disinclination.
We caught these Canadians celebrating their imminent nuptials. They had just had their wedding photos taken with
Sligachan's old stone bridge as the incredibly scenic backdrop.
This fellow, a crew member for the German cruise ship we had seen in
Portree's harbor, enjoyed some me-time with his phone in the
Inverewe Garden before the passengers--all wearing blue jackets--sailed on to Iceland.
Elaine, a chipper ranger at
the Neolithic sites on the Orkney Islands, confirmed that the graffiti I had photographed at the Ring of Brodgar dated to the First World War. "And that's relatively recent given the markings made by other humans over time." When I asked if she spoke Gaelic, she conducted a quick seminar on Orcadian culture. Elaine's ancestors, like many of those living in the islands, were Norse and she had the DNA test to prove it.
Thom and I encountered this crusty old gent en route to
Dingieshowe Beach, which bordered his property, while he was pulling the remains of a black garbage bag from a dune. He claimed to be recycling. When I asked him if he harvested the abundant dandelion leaves for salads, he insisted he'd never heard of such a thing. "If you believe that, I've got a bridge to sell ya," he crowed. A native of Edinburgh, he retired to the Orkneys where "I'm busier than ever. Ha!" We didn't have to look any further than his front yard, decorated with objects scavenged from the North Sea, for evidence of that.
Kate, our smooth guide at the
Highland Park Distillery and a company girl all the way insisted that she enjoyed a nip of Scotch in the evenings. No wine or fruity vodka drinks for her if there's a smokey peat alternative!
The occupants of
this story-book cottage have been married for 60 years. When I asked if the dead crow hanging upside down in their meticulously tended garden was real, the man replied "About 85% of the tourists--and birds--think so." His wife explained that the yellow flowers we had seen carpeting landscapes everywhere on our trip were actually two different kinds: broom, which blooms first, and gorse, which has thorns.
After George, a retired civil engineer from Aberdeen, lost his wife, his son-in-law, the groundskeeper at
Balmoral, suggested he come work for the royals. That was 16 years ago. "So you never met Diana?" I asked. "No, but he did. He said she was a very nice woman, but definitely a round peg in a square hole." George also revealed that no commercial movie ever has been filmed on the Balmoral estate, but allowed that the stand-in locations seen in "The Crown" and
The Queen had been remarkably well-chosen.
This very pretty bartender, who mixed a sweetly potent cocktail made with local gin liqueur (who knew?) is studying brand design at the University of Dundee. Although she'd never heard of Michael Clark, she loved
the exhibit at the V&A which gave her instant credibility in my book.
Lee is apprenticing with his uncle John to learn the lobster trade along the
Fife coast. It takes them three days to inspect their 300 traps which they do continuously from spring through Christmas. John bought a lobster boat in
Kirkwall where it cost less than it would have locally even after he had it shipped to St. Andrew's via land.
When Thom asked the skipper of our canal boat about the physics behind what we had just experienced on the
Falkirk Wheel, she replied "You've got to think of it as a couple of bathtubs." That simile clarified Thom's understanding if not mine.
Jaclyn, the daughter of one of Thom's closest friends, joined us on a very rainy night for excellent Indian food at Dishoom. Like many millennials, she genuinely seems to enjoy the company of adults. A graduate of
St. Andrew's University, where she studied international relations, Jaclyn will work in Scotland until her visa expires and her Glaswegian boyfriend--who was home studying for his drivers test--can find an accounting position in the United States. They have two guinea pigs, Hans and Giles, and spent part of the pandemic in
Dundee, where rents are cheaper. I took Jacklyn's recommendation to hike up
Arthur's Seat.
"You look lost," this pleasant pedestrian observed before suggesting that we stop at the cafe in the National Portrait Gallery of Scotland ("delicious cakes") before continuing
our very long walk across town. "What are people who live in Edinburgh called?" I asked, after commenting on how helpful she and her fellow residents had been. "Oh, I don't know. Edinbridgians, I suppose." Google isn't any more definitive.
Joey D, emerging from his workshop in the back, greeted us as if we were his best customers but spent way too much time bragging about his how well his clothing sold in Portland, Chicago and Washington, DC. His unique inventory spoke for itself. It reminded me of the leather knee pads
my father made for yard work using
my grandmother's antique Singer sewing machine.
Our guide at the
Scottish Parliament, a dead ringer for a young
Hugh Laurie, responded to my leading questions with the kind of aplomb that no doubt serves him well in politics. "Yes, all highway signs have to appear in Gaelic as well as English, even though only two percent of Scots speak it." "Yes, proximity to Holyrood Palace was a factor in the selection of this site for the new parliament building." "A lot of things have to happen before Scotland declares its independence from the United Kingdom." Good job, fella, in keeping the inquisitive American at bay.
Aside from Scotch, haggis and golf, there's nothing more iconic in Scotland than bagpipes and kilts. That's actually quite a list: America, a much bigger country after all, only has apple pie and baseball. These musicians play in shifts for the tourists.
