The Highlands

June 3, 2024

Greetings from the bonnie banks,

It is a rare delight to begin an adventure with strong expectations, only to have them enriched and surpassed by what is waiting for you in the world. 

In the short time I have been in Scotland, which in a sense has been all my life, I have been astonished by the beauty, by the people, and by another presence, one that I was aware of, but didn’t expect to feel so fully. But once I had my feet in the Highlands, it was an irresistible force.

The beauty of the country is impossible to overstate, in fact I hesitate to begin because there isn’t a way to share the texture of Scotland without leaving some facet in the wings.  It is more than the lochs, more than the waterfalls and the green hills dotted with sheep. It is more than the ocean, with its teasing edge, drifting off at different times, changing the shoreline, stranding fishing boats and turning islands into peninsulas. 

It is more than the narrow single lane roads, sprinkled with white cottages, thatch roofs, slate roofs, arched wooden doors. See the hairy coos, the red deer, these raptors in the sky, and know this is just a hint.  It is more than the sensual landscape, deep green, blanketing hillock and glen and mountains that rise up and disappear into the mist, daring you to guess how far they reach.

It is more than stone.  The stone walls, the barn, the cottage, the castle, the road, all formed from this unyielding granite and limestone. See the cairns, the tombs, the monuments and statues and icons and churches, that stand up to the harsh highland life after hundreds of years without giving way, and feel this country is more than that.

We traveled up from Edinburgh and into the Highlands, and felt the awe of one history replaced with an older one.  One of legends and faeries and clans and tradition, vestiges of other cultures, still woven in the fabric and stone and the blood of the people.  Of kilts and bagpipes and tartans and stories only told from one generation to the next, knowing they’d be told again.

The sea rushed in, filled with fantastic things to eat, carved the shore with breathtaking cliffs and made volcanic sculptures, artwork that is older than words or history, formed from the heart of the world and the icy sea.  And Scotland is more than the cities and the roads and the hills and the Highlands.

It is more than these people we met. The ones who became our friends, the ones whose names we didn’t know but shared their lives with us, maybe just with a word or guidance on the right train or a helpful direction on where to get the best haggis or the freshest haddock.

In all of this, and in all of the rest I don’t dare to begin to tell you, there is this other presence, one that has always been with me and my family, but for the first time in many years I sensed strongly enough that it brought tears to my eyes.  Here in the Highlands I felt my father, Hume.

It’s not hard to hear him in the voices of the people we met.  The lyrical brogue with an edge of Gaelic. The bits of language my Dad seasoned his English with throughout our lives.  And now we were surrounded by his people, all saying those words, like prayers they all were taught as children, and now we heard them again and it raised the hair on my arms and neck.

My father was born here, over nine decades ago, far enough in the past for him to have his own legends, which have been formed by his life and those of us who still tell stories about him.  My family and his wide circle of friends back in our green place, still say his name and retell his life in small vignettes and inside jokes and in our children and in how we live.  We know how he laughed and whooped and suffered and worked and lived all of his life, all of his life.

More than two decades have passed since he leapt from this mortal coil.  Some time after that his ashes were brought to Scotland, which I believe was his wish. This part has remained an unexamined mystery.  My siblings and I don’t know where his ashes were spread.  All we know is that it is somewhere in the Highlands of Scotland, which was one of his favorite places.

When we came to Scotland this week, I wasn’t really focused on this mystery, but rather on exploring the incredible beauty and fascinating history of the country. As we wove our way north into the Highlands, we stopped along Loch Lomond, and somehow I knew he was there.  Even not knowing, I knew.

In fact, while it sounds impossible, it was a comfort not knowing the exact spot his ashes were spread.  Because if he could be anywhere, then he could be everywhere. And so everywhere I went, I felt him there.

I felt him in the first light of the morning, the mist in the low places, running along the narrow road, listening to the cows lowing, the sheep muttering, the soft song of the cuckoo.  I heard him in the language of his people. I smelled  him in the woodfire in the little tavern. I saw him living in the astounding shapes of the verdant mountains, and heard him in the crash of surf in Finegal’s cave, an impossible creation.

I stood on the edge of this mountain, Old Man, and looked down at the Highlands, hemmed by the ocean, painted with brilliant sunlight, a precious event.  I stood there breathless and sweating, my heart pounding from the climb, and breathed in the same air my father breathed in and out, and felt him there.  That moment, celebrating my birthday, I felt him through me, and into everywhere and everyone.

 Scotland is more than the ordinary and even the extraordinary. It is more than the history and the people and the Highlands and the legends and the cold and the heat.  It is more than the mournful sound of the bagpipe echoing across the glen. It is more than all of this and maybe especially, it is more because it is where Oor Hume is.

Hope this finds you taingeil airson seo uile agus barrachd,

David

Copyright © 2024 David Smith