Nemo me impune lacessit. "Do you know what that means?,"
pondered Judy's sister Patty as we eyed the gates of Edinburgh Castle. The
crest, seen everywhere, begged explanation. Recalling what
I could of my high school Latin and the history of this rugged land I took
a stab: "Don't piss me off." Not precise, but close. Like their
land, the Scots have always been terse and unapologetic.
I've not been many places where I sensed a belonging. Looking out upon the heights of Ben Dorain and Stob Ghabahr as the sun broke from the clouds - great ramparts of earth and granite that seemed piled as if by giant's hands - I felt a longing fulfilled. The Highlands are lonely and achingly beautiful. A nearby piper played a melancholy aire, and I in my new kilt and knee socks didn't feel so out-of-time.
Scotland is more than The Haggis, single malt, and
tartan. It is a place of invention and tradition, of warriors and poets, of plain
folk who look you in the eye. Prickly as the thistle that guards her fragile bloom, Scotland remains: beautiful, proud, and forever free. >>
We can thank movie actor/director Mel Gibson for the popularity of this
chap. "Braveheart" made
William Wallace a household name, though some of the details
of his life as presented in the film were suspect. No matter that most of
it was shot in Ireland. In a long and sad history of clan bloodshed and English
oppression, Wallace epitomized what was and is good about Scotland. This rendering
of comes from the chapel of St. Margaret in Edinburgh Castle.
Every day for the past 141 years, a Time Cannon has fired at Edinburgh
Castle precisely at 13:00 hours. This display from the castle offers another
intriguing fact, though. Nine years prior, a dropping time ball was
employed so harbor captains could synchronize their time pieces. I wonder:
a dropping time ball, and a poem by Scottish poet Robert
Burns set to music. Do you think the Scots pull a fast one
on us every New Year's Eve?
On the outskirts of town lies the renown Edinburgh Crystal Factory.
We took the opportunity to take a tour one day. The guide was nice enough
to let Chris and Elena make a try at glass blowing, and we watched a master
cutter transform a simple wine glass into a work of art. Glass is a unique
medium requiring the artist to use their body (and breath) to create a piece.
No two pieces are ever exactly alike, and apprenticeships demand years of
training.
The city of Edinburgh,
with its neighborhoods stitched to each other over time, seems a bay of human
populace surrounding a few of islands of naked rock. The Castle sits atop
one outcropping, forming one end of Old Town which tumbles downhill along
a street called the Royal Mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse and the new
Scottish Parliament. Above these rises the other craggy spike called Arthur's
Seat, with faces too sheer and sacred for mortar but good for hiking.
Here, as in the Highlands, it takes a sturdy set of legs to get around.
Edinburgh, cosmopolitan in so many ways, is still an old college town filled
with students, tourists, shops, historic tours, and, for a few weeks in August,
a street festival serving every kind of live entertainment. (Our favorite
was this hirsute combo at right.) At times it was a bit frantic, but I did
find my kilt and pin along the Mile as well as several bagpipe
makers to foster an old longing.
Three days seemed enough time to grow familiar with vibrant Edinburgh.
Not true of our overnight in the Highlands, though the drive was stunning.
Next time I'll bring boots and a walking stick, and I'll set my footsteps
on those enduring hills.
"Evening clouds swept down heavy with menace,
and torches turned faces ruddy like angered gods; and all eyes turned to the
great castle's yawning gate - and all ears to the drone of the advancing pipes
and staccato drum licks like gunfire snapping against the rocks - when two
neat columns, swaying in perfect time, marched across the castle's bridge
and assembled file upon file at the field's far edge by the cadence of the
ancient tunes, songs of fire that lie in the heart waiting for their call,
answered to now by each newly-lined company until there was no room left for
them to form and nothing else to do, it seemed, but spill with measured and
irresistible force upon the field and all who lay before it.
"We surrendered in this moment of precise beauty and stately grace, to
the drone and the snap, clapping and stomping with wonder and glee,
our chins raised, shoulders braced, eyes resolute and clear; for
as long as the fire song asleep in our hearts is stirred by the piper's call,
the drummer's snare, and the sway of the tartan cloth we will remember the
night of this ancient Tattoo."
I apologize for the delay in posting this issue of Yanks in Blighty. The school year's now started and we've just moved into our new house in Thurston. Boxes everywhere again ... that's three houses in eight months. Totally disruptive, but we are settling in at last. If you haven't gotten our new address and phone number, please send me an email. Thanks for your patience ... I hope this issue was worth the wait. And keep those letters coming ... it's always great to hear from you! Something else: Starting on September 20 the address for this site will change to www.bigplum.com. No more -hyphen- ! Please adjust your bookmark or link, or just type in the new address when you launch your browser. Thanks for visiting!