My Heart's in the Lowlands: Ten Days in Bonny Scotland

AN INVITATION

But first, before you see heaven’s glory,

May ye get mony a merry story.

ROBERT BURNS

Liz, are you off to Scotland again? "

I blush to confess it.

Aye. At first everyone understood. Doing research for your novels, they said. Who wouldn’t enjoy seeing the land of Braveheart and Rob Roy?

But when my visits became an annual pilgrimage, when every spare penny and frequent-flier mile was earmarked Glasgow, when I had to build more bookshelves to hold all my treasured tomes from you-know-where, one fact became abundantly clear: Scotland had captured my heart and was not about to let go.

So … let’s go, shall we? Just the two of us?

Rather than running breathlessly from one end of the country to the other, we’ll take a leisurely turn around South West Scotland, known as Dumfries and Galloway. Many travelers bypass this quiet corner, eager to experience the stark beauty of the Highlands—a sight worth seeing, to be sure. But I consider Galloway the country’s best-kept secret: a place where time holds its breath, where ancient ruins dot the countryside in moss-covered splendor, where the natives are friendly and the tourists are few, only because they don’t know what they’re missing.

So, ten days in bonny Scotland. You’ll join me, aye?

May is the best month for a leap across the pond. The sun rises by five and tarries past nine, providing ample time to wander down every footpath that beckons. The air is scented with lilacs. Month-old lambs gambol along the hedgerows, and the rolling hills and glens are covered with the greenest grass you can imagine.

I’m on tiptoe just thinking about it.

Don’t worry about the driving; a steering wheel on the right side of the car and traffic on the left side of the road feel perfectly natural to me. Besides, in May we’ll have the place to ourselves. Students are still in school, and most tourists wait for summer. English sightseers, however, barrel up the M6 motorway on the weekends, so we’ll plan to arrive on a Sunday and depart on a Tuesday. That will give us lots of weekdays to poke about the village shops and explore half a dozen castles and linger over pots of tea and nibble on scones and …

Oh, is it May yet?

GLASGOW BOUND

It’s always May, if only in our hearts.

Our Continental flight leaves in an hour, and the passengers in the gate area are growing restless. The novel stuffed in my purse remains untouched, yet my plane ticket has been consulted many times. Still safely in place. Still a 7:50 p.m. departure.

Behind us, a Glaswegian woman scolds her teenage sons for wandering off. "Eejits! she fumes. Are ye daft?"

I duck my head to hide a smile and see you do the same. No matter the dialect, a mother’s words are universal.

When the first wave of passengers begins to board, we gather our belongings and follow the herd, trying not to be envious of all that legroom in the business-class cabin. No matter. Business or coach, high road or low road, we’ll all be in Scotland afore long.

Truly, that’s all that matters.

WHY SCOTLAND, LIZ?

I’m asked that question so often I really should have a snappy answer at the ready. Because it’s the loveliest place on earth is a beginning. Because I’m fascinated by the country’s history offers some justification. Because men in kilts make my heart skip a beat may be true, though it’s the skirl of a lone bagpipe that brings a lump to my throat. Crawfords and Walkers, two fine Lowland names, grow in my family tree, but we’ve yet to find our roots definitively planted in Caledonian soil.

How then to explain my abiding affection for Scotland, a country small enough to fit inside the state of Indiana with room to spare?

Perhaps because when I’m there, I have a sense of rightness, of completion, of belonging.

The verdant, rolling hills remind me of places I’ve lived—eastern Pennsylvania and central Kentucky in particular—yet the angle of the sun falling across the Lowland moors is uniquely Scottish. That slanted light works a kind of magic on me. The misty air softens my complexion. Sleep comes easily. Contentment seeps into my bones. I bite into a freshly baked oatcake, covered with a generous slice of sharp Galloway cheese, then sip milk-laced tea, hot enough to numb my lips, and I’m within walking distance of heaven.

I’ve felt this way since May 1996 when I first crossed the English border, driving north from Manchester Airport, and was greeted by a sign shaped like an arched door bearing a regal red lion and a single word in bold letters: SCOTLAND. I parked on the shoulder of the road, hands trembling as I photographed the sign, and then I wept with joy.

Home, home, home.

A good friend of mine feels the same way about Italy, and another adores a certain island in the Caribbean. For me, it will always be Scotland—Galloway in particular. The musical lilt of a Lowland accent never fails to boost my spirits. I’m simply, deliriously happy there. I suspect you share my passion for all things Scottish, or you wouldn’t be traveling with me now, bound for a distant kingdom.

Bless you for coming, my friend.

COUNTING THE HOURS

As we settle into our coach-cabin seats, the screen in front of us displays a map of the eastern half of the United States and the western half of Europe, with a dotted line showing our intended route arching over New England before heading out to sea. We’ll cover a daunting number of miles tonight: more than three thousand. Had fictional Jamie McKie, the hero from my Lowlands of Scotland novels, sailed across the Atlantic in the late eighteenth century, the crossing would have taken two months. Hard to fathom we’ll cover the same distance in mere hours.

Dinner, such as it is, will come and go soon after takeoff. Might be a good idea to set our watches on Glasgow time—five hours later than New York—if only to remind us it’s already 1:00 a.m. where we’re headed. Sleep is a must, or we’ll spend our first day in a jet-lagged stupor.

I gaze out the window as we taxi from the gate, anticipation thrumming inside me. In little more than six hours we’ll begin our descent over the Firth of Clyde and across the hilly moors of west Renfrewshire, a bolt of green velvet undulating beneath our wings. Unless it’s a foggy morning, the sun will be shining in our pilot’s eyes when the wheels meet the runway with a firm bounce and the flight attendant announces our arrival at Glasgow International Airport.

Sleep? Who am I kidding?

We’re flying toward Scotland. We’re flying toward dawn.

The sky was a luminous dark blue with a faint pattern of clouds. As Leana watched, the color changed to turquoise so gradually she could not discern how or when it happened. Yet when she looked down for a moment to brush a leaf from her lap, then looked up again, the sky was lighter. And fading to gray.

Leana heard footsteps. Then Jamie’s voice.  ’Tis a beautiful sight first thing in the morning.

Whence Came a Prince

FIRST LIGHT

Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature?

Rosy morn now lifts his eye.

ROBERT BURNS

Iawaken to find my cheek pressed against the closed window shade, the flimsy airline pillow having disappeared over the far side of my armrest. Inching the vinyl shade upward, blinking as light streams in, I remind myself it only feels as if we’ve lost a whole day.

Scotland on Sunday. That’s the newspaper we’ll snag once we’re inside the terminal.

Peering down through the thick cloud cover, we’re rewarded with our first, fleeting glimpse of land: two coastal islands, Great Cumbrae and Little Cumbrae, set amid a shimmering sea. Then the mainland appears, dotted with countless lochs, like puddles of silver surrounded by green.

When the wheels are lowered with a mechanical whir and the ground rises closer, my heart is about to burst. Home, indeed.

Moments later we’re taxiing toward the gate. No question where we’ve landed: all the Jetways are emblazoned with the Royal Bank of Scotland logo. Inside the airport a blue and white sign at the head of the staircase proclaims, Welcome to Scotland: The best small country in the world. Low-ceilinged corridors boast colorful images of tartans, bagpipes, and Highland dancers. The occasional HM for Her Majesty reminds us that Scotland is part of the United Kingdom, though it’s clearly a country unto itself.

We make a quick stop in the loo—brightly lit and fresh smelling, with long, skinny stalls and round-seated toilets—then join the throng heading for Passport Control.

Around us, sleep-deprived voices sound gravelly. Shoulders are slumped, gaits stiff. When we hand over the simple immigration forms, filled out on the plane, we’re greeted with a cheery hello and a stamp of approval on our passports—a smudgy, black square giving us leave to enter the country for six months. Oh, to have the resources to manage that. Still, our ten days will do nicely.

Now it’s time to start praying, not because it’s Sunday, but because we’re standing at Baggage Reclaim. Anxious faces scrutinize the many-bags-look-alike parade as it passes by. One memorable January morning I landed in Glasgow, but my luggage landed in Edinburgh. Visions of wearing the same clothes for a week flickered through my head until I arrived at my bed-and-breakfast later that afternoon and found a good-natured taxi driver delivering my errant suitcases.

When you spot your luggage, your relief is understandable. My own black bag is not far behind; the polka-dotted ribbon on the handle makes it easy to spot. It’s heavier than I remembered; too many books in a suitcase will do that. I seldom break my five-outfits-a-trip rule, but I always feel compelled to add just one more book.

Highways and Byways in Galloway and Carrick is a favorite. Written by Rev. Charles Hill Dick in 1916, the small clothbound book fits neatly in my purse. Never mind that the cover is stained with mildew; this wee green volume is a literary jewel, filled with sketches and picturesque phrases like a distant jumble of whitewashed cottages standing against the shining Firth.¹ Rev. Dick, who toured Galloway on a bicycle, describes the land and its people in delightful detail. His style of prose is a throwback to a gentler time and place: After these extracts from the musty folios of the town council records, it is pleasant to return to the open air and advise the reader about some little journeys in the neighbourhood.² Such eloquent wording warms my English-major heart. Though I have no plans to ride a bicycle, highways and byways we shall see, dearie.

OF MAPS AND COINS

Belongings in tow, we head for the newsagent and stock up on newspapers, breath mints, and Ordnance Survey maps. Great Britain is the best-mapped corner of the globe, and these detailed maps are proof. Ever since King George II commissioned a military survey of the Highlands in 1747 following the Jacobite Rising, mapping the countryside has been a British specialty. Ordnance Survey, or O.S., maps are a road warrior’s dream. Motorways and railways, landmarks and properties, waterways and woods are all carefully marked. We can’t get lost—at least not permanently—if we have a few of these in our glove box. I’ve brought Travelmaster Map 4, Southern Scotland, to get us started. We’ll need Landranger Maps 77, 78, 83, and 84 to ramble around Dumfries and Galloway. About seven pounds sterling each and worth every penny.

Which reminds me: you’ve brought some British currency, aye? Obtained from your local bank? Most travelers wait until they arrive and then find an ATM for a better exchange rate. My fear? I’ll forget my card (which I never use at home) or forget my password (ditto) or get here and discover the magnetic strip has lost its zip, or I’ll drive high and low looking for ATMs, uncommon in the wilds of rural Galloway. So I come prepared, cash in hand.

The multicolored fives, tens, twenties, and fifties are each a different size, which makes life interesting in your wallet. But it’s the coins that intrigue me. Pounds—also called quid—are round and doubly thick, a pleasing weight in your hand. Fifty-pence coins are thin, silver, and heptagonal, as are the smaller twenty pence. The big, round ten pence overstates its meager value, the five pence looks like our dime, and the copper twopence—or tuppence—is fun to say, though you’re more likely to hear two p.

Are ye from Canada, then? our friendly cashier inquires.

We’ll be asked that again before our trip ends, though more often folks will hear one word from our lips and ask, Which part of the States are you from? We are fremmit—strange, foreign. No use pretending we blend in, though we can try.

With our collection of maps and luggage in hand, we move toward the Nothing to Declare exit and share a giddy smile. Beyond the revolving door the Lowlands await.

OUTSIDE AT LAST

The moment we reach the curb, a painted warning shouts from the pavement, LOOK RIGHT. Indeed, hadn’t we just gazed to the left out of habit? We yank each other back as a tour bus charges past, barely slowing down. That’s one way to see Scotland but not the method I’d choose. Like Rev. Dick on his bicycle, we’ll explore the roads less traveled, the ones no lumbering motor coach would dare attempt. In our European-sized Ford or Volvo or whatever Hertz has for us this morning, we’ll put our O.S. maps through their paces, following the yellow lines indicating roads less than four meters wide. Ooh, baby. My kind of byway.

As we roll our luggage past the parking garage, a light breeze ripples the grass, and fluffy white clouds spread across the sky like vanilla icing. The Hertz counter amounts to a freestanding coat closet at the edge of the parking lot—make that car park—with a customer-service area big enough for two people, if we deposit our bags outside the door. Behind the counter stands a square-faced woman of middling years in a gray sweater with gold buttons and a Hertz-issued gray and gold scarf. Though we can’t see her feet, I’ll wager she’s wearing a pair of sturdy, thick-soled shoes. She eyes us closely, as if assessing our driving skills. Ye’ll be wantin’ to hire a vehicle?

That threw me on my first visit. Hire? As in paying a driver to take me around? No, I patiently explained, I’ll be driving the car myself.

Now I understand the lingo. Yes, a compact car, please. Automatic. Driving on the left side of the road is one thing; shifting with my left hand is quite another. Papers signed and keys in hand, we’re soon loading our bags into the trunk—well, boot—of our hired car. The diminutive size will be a blessing when we navigate village streets.

Odd, isn’t it, to climb into the passenger seat from the left? I fear you have the more difficult task on this trip: sitting where the steering wheel should be, with nothing but a concealed airbag in front of you. If you can resist the urge to glance in the mirrors, all of which are pointing in my direction, you should be fine.

AND AWAY WE GO

Finding our way out of the airport is the first hurdle. No need to unfold our maps just now; letters and numbers are sufficient: M8, M77, A77, A76. I repeat the route under my breath like a prayer so I’m ready when the first sign appears. M8 … M8 … Notice anything missing? Right you are: no east or west. The signs list only the next city: M8 Glasgow or M8 Greenock. Woe to the driver who doesn’t know her geography! On one of my early solo trips via Manchester, I ended up in Wales instead of Scotland. Now when I ask for directions, I jot down letters, numbers, and cities.

Once we shoot past the modern industrial fringe around the airport, Scotland will not disappoint. We’ll see green and more green, with hills rising in the distance. A bit like Oregon, except for the traffic circles. And people driving on the left. And long, narrow license plates in bright yellow with black lettering.

Though we’re headed toward Glasgow, we’ll merely wave at her one million citizens in passing. I’m a small-town girl at heart and am eager to introduce you to a particular county in Galloway. The long name is Kirkcudbrightshire, but the Stewartry is far easier to say. That’s the eastern half of old Galloway; the Shire, or Wigtownshire, is the western half. It, too, boasts fascinating historic sites—the Torhouse Stone Circle and Saint Ninian’s Chapel among them. Yet I confess an inordinate fondness for the land that stretches from the River Cree to the River Nith, from the shores of Loch Doon to the Solway Firth.

Hang on to your seat belt as we approach our first traffic circle and prepare to merge onto the motorway. M8 Glasgow …M8 Glasgow …

HEADING SOUTH

Adown winding Nith I did wander

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring.

ROBERT BURNS

Today’s weather is quintessentially Scottish: mild yet breezy, with a mix of clouds and sun, gray skies and blue patches. In May, temperatures seldom climb above sixty degrees Fahrenheit, or about fifteen degrees Celsius. Such is the measure of things in the U.K., which became clear the first time I heard a BBC weatherman predict a balmy twenty-five degrees.

Perhaps a dozen days a year the winds are calm. Otherwise, a capricious breeze