Perspective

Ailsa Craig . . .

men in tweed on bicycles with helmets on their heads . . .

older men in navy blue suits with vests, clutching SmartPhones to their ears. . .

all bring me lessons in perspective.

Even the word brings to mind wildly varying concepts . . . Google a question about perspective as relates to objects in the distance and you get both an explanation of why the moon seems to follow us as we drive (Following the moon) and an article responding to someone seeking advice on how to get past the hatred and disappointment in her marriage - I think the common tag must have been ‘moving’.

***

Ailsa Craig

I drive more than 5 miles and do not pass Ailsa Craig from sight when I’m going along the coast towards Girvan.  Ailsa Craig remains alongside me from the time she comes into view over the crest at Turnberry until the last cross street before I pull up to the Crumlish vacation home where I’ve been a guest these last weeks, but the buoy that’s in front of her but so much closer to the shore passes from my view measures in yards, not miles.

Distance brings perspective.

Physical distance brings changed as well as better-focused perspective.  So too does cultural distance.

Some time ago I was thinking about aging as it shows itself in the silliest of ways – things like wondering when I stopped updating the decorating of my home and why, realizing I am become the fresh makings of a little old lady whose home appears frozen in some long-ago past barely imaginable to the young ones who might stumble in.  I was really feeling my age.

And then I saw these Scottish gentlemen all about, riding their bicycles dressed in their old-fashioned tweed suits, but with state-of-the-art bicycle gear, including helmets and those in their dated navy blue suits with vests, speaking into their Droids or SmartPhones as they headed home for some neeps and tatties (how’s that for a stereotype?).

None of us are all one thing or another – neither old nor young, fresh or outdated, even good nor bad.

And call me stone-age, but I quite like how my house is decorated.

Scotland Days24-25: Book Towns & Folk Festivals

Road into Wigtown

Only in the UK have I encountered places that define themselves as ‘book towns’: Hay-on-Wye in Wales has to be the best book town ever, but Wigtown near the Scottish borders with England, is a quaint, if distant, second and Saturday, I traveled to Wigtown to check out their spring book festival.  I don’t know how it started for Hay-on-Wye, but Wigtown apparently made a self-conscious decision to become a book town (simply meaning a village with more than one used book store, as best I can tell) in an effort to promote tourism.  Well, it got me there.  And I did buy some books.  So good on Wigtown.

Samba Fusion on the green at Wigtown

The Samba Fusion rhythm playing and dancing on the green was a bonus, especially since the folks doing most of the playing and dancing were old enough to be my parents – their percussive downbeat an ironical contrast to the complaining of the Englishman at the adjacent table in the café where I enjoyed some potato-leek soup and the best ham sandwich I’ve had in a long time.  They would beat, he would complain and then they would beat again, only louder, as if they could hear or sense his displeasure.  It became quite comical, this contest of sound.  But of course, the drums won.  Don’t they always?

The main surprise for me were the comparative numbers of Englishmen and women to Scots: just about everyone I heard had a distinctive English accent.  Then I remembered how very close to the border with England I was.  Going north for a day seems to be a good past time when the weather accommodates the journey.

Ailsa Craig and could that be Ireland behind?

As they had a beautiful drive north, so I had just a beautiful long drive meandering south along the western coast, with fantastic views along the way of the Irish Sea.  It was a clear enough day that I really do believe I spied Ireland across the way behind Ailsa Craig.  It’s only 30 miles or so, so maybe I did.  Or maybe it was low-laying clouds.  Doesn’t matter – whether I saw it or not, I know it’s there.

But the Ireland connection was brought home more firmly the next day.  After church (I was late, the door was locked in typical Scots fashion - more on that another time), I meandered in Girvan to one of the local venues for their annual Folk Festival.

Recitation winner reciting The Twa Dogs

I headed to the story-telling location and was treated to stories and recitations enough to delight for a long time to come.  The recitation that won was a gentleman doing The Twa Dogs by Robert Burns.  He was fabulous, with two hats with dangling ears he’d switch off as he took the part of the high-born dog and then the lowly dog of a poor house, each to espouse the advantages of their respective ways of life.

And I met an Irish Scot, a Protestant Republican.  I leave the politics and legacy of that one to those more politically and culturally astute than I.  But he was a raconteur of the first order in his own right and made for a very enjoyable time as our erstwhile host.

Outside, musicians gathered round the tables of the hotel’s sidewalk café and played and sang – guitars and mandolins and a recorder that broke your heart with each note.  And to my surprise, much of the folk music played was Irish and told the stories of migration to the United States, particularly New York.

This wasn’t one of the venues; it was simply where some musicians sat down and started talking with each other and randomly playing, taking the center by turns, with we non-musicians graciously allowed to sit and stand at the periphery tapping our toes and wiping our eyes.

Whatever the day, when you encounter people making music as you walk by, that, friends, is a blessed day.  And so it was.

Scotland -- Day Seven (Travel Dreams)

Day seven was an uneventful day in a life – spent relaxing and laughing and dining with friends – and spent dreaming about what I might do while here, having come with no set itinerary and plenty of time, a rare luxury.

So much of yesterday was spent dreaming of Shetland – I could go later in the month for the annual Shetland Folk Festival (#15 on The Herald’s 100 Things to do in Scotland Before You Die  list [I’ve already some aspect of fifteen others on the list]).

Ailsa Craig

I’d take the train to Aberdeen and the ferry to Shetland, singing, clapping and stomping in rhythm to the music made by my imaginary new musician friends going over to play the festival.  And hoping against hope, I’d stay up to the wee hours every night I was there craving a glimpse of the northern lights.  I’d make my way to the northernmost point of Scotland (and hence Great Britain and the United Kingdom – a discussion on navigating the politics of naming we’ll leave for another day).  And I’d stand on Mavis Grind and throw a rock from the North Sea into the Atlantic Ocean (or is it the reverse?  I can’t recall - but it’s also on The Herald’s Top 100 list).

Reality sinks in as I check out distances and costs.  It’s rather dear (meaning expensive) to get from here to there.  I can actually get to Paris cheaper than I can get to Shetland from Ayr.  It’s frustrating: while Paris is lovely, it’s Shetland I want to aim for this time round.

But here’s the thing about travel: once you’re where you’re going, you actually have time to think about why you’re here in the first place.

Liz & Idris Crumlish at Rozelle House Tea Room

And while Scotland has some amazing places to see and things to do, I didn’t come for the tourism.  I came for the friends I’ve already made, the comforting places I’ve already been.

Sure I’ll do some new things along the way.  But those will be the icing.  The cake, you see, I’ve already gotten in the faces of friends too long not seen, voices too long not heard.  Some I’ve been to already, some I’ll be seeing in the coming weeks, all in their own time.

And that is blessing indeed.

Scotland -- Day One

Plane lands safely 

through the obligatory fog 

and clouds

Glasgow!

Ayr

Scottish breakfast

good friends

laughter

Zara remarkable for her presence

Ruaridh for his absence

Girvan

the waters of the Irish Sea

is that Ireland in the distance?

must be on such a clear evening as this

Walking the beach

and behold --

Ailsa Craig --

how do you explain 

a giant rock of an island 

jumping up

out of the sea?

Or the river?

Or the ocean?

Culzean Castle

Guest house to presidents

and such

The sun sets bright

and gold, 

laying itself down

across the water

day is nearly done

Stop at the Chip Shop

now it’s done

and well done

Scotland – day one