Like the previous text, this one was written in Scotland. Since then I've spent three internetless weeks in Norway, so I'm putting it - an article about Scotland and the Scots - up now; something on (beautiful, amazing, unique) Norway is bound to appear in the not-too-distant future.
“Twenty thrrree pounds, please” – the accent of the man in the toll booth in front of the entrance to Traquair House is undoubtedly Scottish. My brother and I exchange gleeful glances – yes, I think Scottish is one of the most terrific accents there are (“terrific” with a very Scottish “rr”, of course), and I suppose my view of the Scots as an incredibly kind people is bound to be a biased one on this account; but it’s grounded in some evidence nonetheless, evidence which I shall present in what follows. And if it seems that this evidence comprises too small a sample to judge from, then the esteemed reader ought to acknowledge that at least the stereotyped view presented here is a positive one, and perhaps unfounded praise is more excusable than unfounded blame.
Twenty three, then, is the price of a family ticket, sold to us despite Dad’s “but our daughter’s a bit older than sixteen!” – a mark of the Scottish generosity we were to encounter so many times that week (however paradoxical that may seem to those who take stereotypes too seriously).
Traquair House, allegedly the oldest inhabited house in Scotland, is positively charming. With its tiny windows and whitewashed walls, it’s an overgrown cottage which sprouted towers in an effort to simulate castleness but managed only to acquire a “Moomins’ house” quality. We’re welcomed by a lovely lady whose reaction to our nationality seems genuinely warm, in contrast with the accusation I sometimes hear into museum welcomes in England. Interestingly, when we ask her how the name of the house is pronounced (at that point we didn’t know yet), she answers “Traqueer”, and when Dad faithfully repeats, “Traqueer”, she says “That’s right”, instead of “No, you should say ‘Traquare’, you’re not Scottish, silly”, like she surely should.
We’re shown around one of the rooms by an equally lovely man. “Feel free to ask any questions,” he encourages us, but when none are forthcoming, he proceeds to answer the ones we don’t think of. He shows us some fascinating things, including a cigarette lighter which always stayed upright, no matter how drunk its users were, and though he did indulge in some folk linguistics (“drawing room” was originally short for “withdrawing room” and did not, as he suggested, originate from ladies drawing their dresses across the floor), his enthusiasm was so boundless that he could easily be forgiven. He was so nice that I even managed to overcome my shyness and ask him about an intriguing snuffbox the shape of an elephant’s foot – it turned out to have actually belonged to the elephant’s smaller cousin, the hippo, and the news got me so childishly excited that I feel obliged to end this sentence with an exclamation mark!
***
The man in Jedburgh abbey had a wonderful habit of putting “-like” in most every sentence he said – this linguistic device is quite distinct from the “, like,” of American teenage girls; while they would claim “It was, like, cool”, his expression of choice would be of the form “It was cool-like”. The habit was one that was likely found, like, likable-like. He spoke of the merits of a five day pass encompassing various Scottish tourist attractions: “It’ll save you seventeen pound-like just on Edinburgh castle”; when we worried that five days would not be enough he replied “How about I just sell you the pass and won’t write today’s date in? That way you’ll get in here for free-like, and you can start your five days tomorrow-like”. Scottish generosity-like. I like it. Like, a lot.
***
To our disappointment, the caretaker of “our” first Scottish cottage – and our neighbour for a week – had no trace of a Scottish accent. She had lived in Scotland for forty years, though, and so perhaps her incredible niceness shouldn’t come as a huge surprise.
When we first arrived and she noted with approval Chris’s Beatles t-shirt, commenting that she had just been watching a documentary on John Lennon, we knew she was a wonderful person. Then one evening we found a whole pile of rhubarb under our doorstep, with a note explaining that it was from her neighbour, an avid gardener, who thought we might like it. From a complete stranger! – not for the first time I wondered how Scotland could have such beautiful mountains and such wonderful people. The rhubarb tart Mom made with the gift was obviously excellent.
Our neighbour was a great gardener too – there was a fantastic garden right outside our window, and she said we could take some of the herbs there if we wanted. Chris and I ate a few wild strawberries as well...
We had the pleasure to spend a lovely evening with her, and when the topic of conversation strayed to Scottish food, she exclaimed “You know what, I’ll make you some Scottish shortbread, if you want. Yes, I will,” she finished with a smile. Real, homemade Scottish shortbread!
***
“I can show you around some of the exhibits here, if you want. It may be of some help, but it may be a hindrance as well – sometimes it’s more of a hindrance than a help,” the volunteer guide at Melrose Roman history museum, an older woman who, despite her crutches, strides from one end of the room to the other with all the vigour one could ever wish for at any stage of life, smiles apologetically. She’s being unduly dismissive of her abilities to paint Roman universes with her words, to transport visitors to strange new places and to pour her never-ending enthusiasm into them by the gallon; but luckily for us, she is unable to take her worries about being a hindrance seriously for long.
We find out that this was the site of the only Roman settlement north of Hadrian’s Wall. “They had an amphitheatre here, and they found pins from the shoes of soldiers which fell out when they stomped their feet when they saw something they liked – or didn’t like. When I saw them, scattered by the dozen, the hair on the back of my neck literally – and I’m not exaggerating – stood on end. I felt the Romans were just so near, like they were watching me.” The relentless stream of words flowing out her mouth is gloriously multileveled – she interweaves archaeological facts, her own experiences and feelings, and even metacomments about how quickly she is speaking or how she just dropped her crutches and how she does this a good few times a day. She’s a real master of rhetoric, I feel – her words are real, close to heart.
“We’ve just visited Rome this Easter, so this is a nice connection for us,” Dad remarks casually on our way out of the museum. “Oh, have you?” she replies, genuinely interested, but with a hint of sadness in her voice. “It must have been wonderful. I never have myself, actually. I’ve always wanted to, and my son promised to take me, but then I had the heart attack, and I don’t want to go when I almost can’t walk. It would be torture, seeing all these places from a distance and not being able to really see them...” She trails away, then with an eyeblink-long shake of her head composes herself. “Ah, it doesn’t really matter. Not everyone can do everything. Besides, the other volunteers here regularly visit Rome, and they bring back many stories and photographs. Perhaps it’s best that way.”
Real heroes know how to smile.
***
In the words of a guide in Edinburgh castle: “For those of you who aren’t Scottish – don’t worry, nobody’s perfect”.
