Road Diary
June 1999 -- Part IX
Anglophobia, Earthbound Guardians & Standing Stones
By Dick Sutphen

JUNE 23, WEDNESDAY: I awaken realizing that I'm sleeping on a wee-pretendy bed. My feet hang three inches over the end unless I manage to manipulate an angled position. This doesn't work too well for Tara because it leaves both her head and feet hanging over the edge.

Upon getting dressed, I become aware of my wee-pretendy wardrobe. The only clothing decision I have to make each morning is which black T-shirt to wear and to decide between my black or faded-blue Levi's. Actually the jeans decision is usually made for me because one pair is dirty.

While making coffee, I watch people in coats strolling through the park, and realize I'm in love with a country that has a wee-pretendy summer.

While sipping my coffee and trying to wake up, it comes to me that I'm a wee-pretendy Scotsman, who is not a Scotsman at all but an American with Scot Celtic bloodlines. No matter how much I read, I can't understand all the subtle interactions of the people, the government, the prejudices. In yesterday's Scotsman newspaper, there is a lengthy commentary by Allan Massie on "Scotland's dirty little secret." The subhead reads, "Scots have preferred to ignore reality and pretend that racism didn't -- couldn't -- exist here." But this isn't racism as we know it in America. Scots are "Anglophobic" -- the Anglos being the English.

Massie says, "Some have been ready to excuse Anglophobia on the grounds that we have been oppressed by the English. So this sort of racism hasn't disturbed our sense of moral superiority, our conviction that we are more democratic and more decent than the English -- indeed than the rest of the world."

The writer goes on to mention an unspoken "Glasgow Irish" prejudice. But the Irish are also Celts so this certainly can't be classified as Anglophobia. I don't get it.

Another major story in the paper is about Stonehenge, the sacred site in England. It seems Tara and I weren't the only ones wanting to celebrate summer solstice. A group of 100 Pagans were invited to Stonehenge by English Heritage who manage the site. But 600 people showed up and when denied access, toppled the fences. Many climbed atop the stones, where at least one woman danced in the nude. Police in riot gear were called and the solstice celebration turned into a royal mess.

Tara and I have never been tempted to visit Stonehenge, because you can't walk among the stones. Looking at the stones through a fence, amidst busloads of tourists, while cars rush past on the adjacent freeway isn't our kind of fun. There are too many stone circles in this land that allow total access.

I realize I'm still stuck on Anglophobia. I'm part Celt, part Scandinavian and part Anglo (at least I think there's some Anglo). But what if I'm Anglo AND Anglophobic? What an interesting state of affairs? It's time for me to "come out." I'M PREJUDICED AGAINST MYSELF.

Whenever I see the British Union Jack flying above three blue and white Scottish flags, I bristle. Whenever I visit the site of a Scottish conquest, I silently cheer. Anglophobia?

Enough of this.

Our regular-day routine is to work all morning and have a late breakfast in the apartment -- anything from muesli, fruits and yogurt to Scottish oatmeal, to full course breakfasts. This morning Tara brings to the table a variety of goodies from Irish Cottage Bread with rhubarb/ginger jam, slices of chicken/mushroom pie, a bowl for freshly sliced French peaches, and tea. Oh, yes!

By 1:30 PM I've completed six hours of writing and am ready to sally forth. My father used that term which is common over here. Just in case you wanted to know, it has two meanings: 1) sudden swift attack, or 2) set out on a journey. Obviously, I'm not in an attack mode on this sunny afternoon.

Today we drop off film at the One-Hour Photo Shop. Only once in all our visits to such shops have they been able to accommodate in one hour. Two hours is the closest they've come. Today, they say, "Tomorrow."

I make a deal with the kids. "I'll let you go to LaserQuest while we're in the cyber cafe, if you'll attend The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) without complaining. At the Lyceum Theater, the Reduced Shakespeare Company is doing all 37 plays in 97 minutes.

"Agreed?"

"Okay."

Tara deals with the e-mail, and sends a Road Diary installment and some of my copywriting to the office. I find I'm tuning out a little more every day. I'm no longer willing to answer any e-mail that isn't critically important. Tara reads my messages and condenses the contents down to a verbal paragraph, while I sip tea and read the Scotsman. Things that seemed so important a month ago, no longer feel very important. I try not to, but I think about those people who herd sheep in the Highlands. It doesn't sound like a bad life. "I could sit on a rock with my laptop on my lap and watch over the sheep," I tell Tara. "Then my trusty sheep dog and I will bring home the sheep. You'll have fixed dinner in our little thatched-roof cottage, and ..."

"Richard!"

Tara tells me that the average person in Britain is videotaped 71 times a day by hidden cameras. I did not need to know this. Now I'm watching for them everywhere. Maybe we should dress up a little better before sallying forth. A little bronzer on the cheeks? I think there may be a camera on the top tier of the buses. I notice them in retail stores, at ATMs and on normal streets. Beneath the fluttering Scottish flags on Princes Street, cameras watch passersby.

At home in Malibu I only get videotaped once a day, if it happens to be a day I go to the bank. I think I prefer it that way. Does that statement indicate I have something to hide? No. No, it doesn't. Nothing.

This surveillance wouldn't be so bad if it was effective, but a recent newspaper story points out that all the cameras have done nothing to deter crime. The criminals know where the cameras are and do their deeds elsewhere.

We spend a couple hours in James Thin bookstore, where I compare what Scottish history books have to say about the William Wallace siege of Dunnottar Castle. They all agree that what was left of the English garrison locked themselves in the church to make a last stand. Wallace then barred the door and burned them alive. But one of the books claims he didn't take the castle. I don't know how this could be when the chapel is in the middle of the castle. Some reports say he killed 4000 English troops, others don't mention numbers.

After using James Thin as my library, I feel obligated to buy something. Tonight, I choose On The Trail Of William Wallace by David R. Ross. Published in 1999, Ross lists 74 Wallace-related places to visit in Scotland and the north of England.

We walk home. At 8:30 PM there's a chill in the air, but the sun is shining brightly and there isn't a cloud in the sky. The weather man says it will get nicer and nicer through Sunday. This has been a five or six mile walking day. Low mileage for us these days. If I want to be a sheepherder I'll have to get in better shape.

JUNE 24, THURSDAY: This morning Tara will close herself in the bedroom, go into trance and do automatic writing. She'll ask Abenda questions for us personally, for an online update and she'll begin her regular column.

"Anything you want me to ask?" Tara says.

"Be sure to ask Abenda why you get a lump in your throat every time you come within range of Leith South Parish Church," I say as Hunter and I leave to go downtown. Cheyenne is delighted to have the laptop to herself, so she can play her Catz 3, a virtual pet CD-rom game. She raises pet kittens and the way she takes care of them results in how they grow and how they act. The other night she told me her pregnant mama kitten would probably deliver by morning.

"If she has a male kitten, I'll name it after you, Daddy," she said.

So I want you to know that somewhere out in cyber-cat land a Richard cat is running around getting into trouble.

The weather is sunny and hot. I'm sweating in a T-shirt. Are we still in Scotland? Hunter and I go to the camera store to pick up nine rolls of film.

"They aren't printed yet. One more hour," the counter man says.

"I dropped them off yesterday for one-hour service," I say and smile.

He shrugs. "One hour."

We kill time in the HMV Megastore. Hunter plays the display video games in the basement. I head upstairs where I can browse the traditional music and check out albums at the listening stands. Only problem, whoever is picking the music for the in-store sound system loves American country music -- especially Dwight Yoakam. Even with headphones, I get a strange mix of bagpipes and over-amped Yoakam. I can say with a degree of authority, the two genres don't mix well.

Back in the apartment, Tara and I go over the photos and set a few aside to post on the Road Diary. The first group of photos were scanned in a cyber cafe and sent via e-mail. The second batch were air-snail-mailed to the office where Jason scanned them for a better result. So photos of our adventures will appear about a week behind my words.    

Tara is listening to an album she picked up a few days ago. Canan Nan Gaidheal by Catherine-Ann MacPhee. Tara discovered her on a listening bar and calls Catherine a Celtic Sarah MacLachlen. All the songs are in Gaelic, so we can 't understand a word, but we both love the album. One song sounds so sad we have to look up the words. A mother's ghost is telling a dairy maid to pity her children. A new stepmother scarcely feeds and brutally beats the children.

"Great lyrics."

"Let's not look up any more," Tara says.

"Did you ask Abenda about your reaction when you near the church?"

Tara flips through many pages of writing, hands me one. Evidently Abenda has found a woman in spirit who can explain the situation: "A badly burned four-year old boy was brought to the church in 1527 AD. He was barely alive. His mother's skirt got fire and burned the family cottage. The father saved his son, but went back in to save another and perished. Over half the boy's body was burned. A group of women took it upon themselves to doctor him. They were called the "Sisters of Purity," and they helped the sick and forlorn. The women dressed in white for their ceremonies. When the boy grew up he remained at the church as its guardian. Even after death, he remained and has done so for nearly 500 years. He knows Tara is sensitive to his energy, so he tries to talk to her in her throat -- through her throat. She could talk to him and tell him he can leave and follow the Sisters of Purity into the light. Thank you for letting me speak." The writing is signed Marjorie Blansand.

"So your dream of leading the women with a candle was a telepathic perception of the guardian's memories?" I say

"Maybe his projection. I don't know."

"The throat thing? Your vibes go out before you, the earthbound spirit feels you coming and ..."

Nod.

"Do you want to go down there, sit between the tombstones and do some automatic writing?"

"Maybe."

"Or we could skirt the church, and from now on take the long way around to the cyber cafe."

"Maybe."

JUNE 24, FRIDAY: After doing our post office duties, we catch a cab to the Royal Highland Show grounds. The driver is friendly, wants to talk. He must have come to Edinburgh from the western isles last week, because his brogue is so thick the first few sentences sound like a different language. I smile, nod and TUNE IN. By paying close attention and adjusting my mind and ears to the tonalities, I come up to speed. 

He assumes since we are going to the fair, we're interested in farming. He takes off on how the farmers were hurt by the mad-cow disease scare and how the big grocery-store chains are bullies who manipulate the farmers to keep prices low while inflating the cost to consumers. He's delighted that Wal-Mart is coming to save the Scottish people by forcing the other chains to lower prices. He loves American, Welsh and Irish people. "Scots can go anywhere in the world and people are receptive," he says. "But not the English. The whole world knows of their cruelty and manipulation. People don't respond well to them."

"You don't like the English?"

"Don't trust them," he says and shakes his head. He's excited now and talking louder and faster, which makes the brogue all the more difficult to understand. He switches on a loud speaker in the back-window shelf. This makes it easier to understand him, but he sounds like the voice of God -- omnipotent and everywhere at once.

"Ye can go out to any pub or club in Scotland and the locals will be talkin'  ta ya in no time. Go to a pub or club in England and not a soul will talk ta ya all night," he says. (NOTE: In all fairness, this has not been our experience in England.)

He's watching me in the rearview mirror and not the road.

I try to spin him onto the subject of devolution. It works. He's all for it. The next step to independence. We talk about British Prime Minister Tony Blair's real motives. "He's the best of a bad batch," he says, "not to be trusted."

I explain how I think the first real Scottish/English political trouble is going to surface. He agrees, loudly. I'm no longer a friendly tourist but a political brother and he starts to talk even louder and faster. He is so excited, instead of taking us to the Royal Highland Show grounds, we take a tour through Edinburgh Airport.

"Oh-h-h, sorry," he says, switching off the meter. "I got so excited about our conversation I missed me turn."

Arriving at the show grounds, his parting words to Tara are, "Watch him closely in thar. He could come away buyin' a harvester," he says, driving away.

 "Whew!"

"You loved that," Tara says.

She's right. I'd take his cab all over Edinburgh if I could.

The admission is at Disneyland rates. A little steep to see goats and pigs.

The kids are expecting a fair like the Ventura or Mariposa country fairs in California ... with a midway. We're twenty yards inside the gates, and when the kids can't spot the top of a ferris wheel, Cheyenne marches right into an information office to ask where they've hidden the carnival rides.

"This isn't that kind of fair. I'm sorry," says a friendly woman manning the post.

"I knew it," Hunter says. Entrapped again.

"Let's just make the best of it," I say. I misinterpreted a photo in the newspaper of three cars on a curved track in the air as a ride. We find now that it is a Toyota display.

This is one big fair. The map alone is overwhelming. We wander into the crafts buildings where Tara is tempted by some unique women's clothes. She controls herself. Tractors and farm machinery are next and these displays goes on and on and on. The combines and harvesters blend into portable auto-dealer showrooms. This is a little better, but we're not in the market. Eventually, we arrive at an area where horses are in competition. Hunter and I know our fate is sealed. We're soon sipping tea and sitting in the stands watching the hackney pony and hackney driving trials -- high-stepping ponies pull men wearing black derbies sitting in tiny carts.

After about an hour of this, from far away, comes the plaintive wail of bagpipes. "Bagpipes, Tara, bagpipes!"

She's ready to leave and we're soon sitting on a sloping lawn watching a marching pipe and drum band.

After more aimless wandering to view all things farming, we make our way to the food court. To our delight, the choices are uniquely Scottish. I have a hard time deciding between the haggis and neeps and the hot-pork-and-applesauce sandwiches. Sandwiches win and I watch the meat for my sandwich being carved off the back of the head of a roasted pig. Really didn't need to see that. A woman forks huge pieces onto a bun, and asks, "Da ye want applesauce?"

"Thank you."

The big spoonful of chunky applesauce if dropped on top of the meat. This is one delicious sandwich.

Tara has a big bowl of strawberries, Hunter has crepes. Cheyenne is offended by most of the meal choices. She has strawberries and pizza. "You're going to turn into a pizza," I say. But at the apartment she is eating lots of broccoli and fruit.

We eat at a picnic table. Two young men join us. They ask how long we've been in Scotland. We explain and one asks, "Ye like it here that much?"

"Oh, yes," Tara says. "Have you been to the states?"

One of the men says, "I love it there. Would love to go back and stay for awhile."

"What part of our country do you like best?" Tara asks.

"Nebraska and South Dakota," he says.

Tara and I look at each other.

"The plains states," Tara says.

"Ah-h-h, the plains," he says.

I realize, I expect people to say, Florida, California or New York. Most do. But this fair is for people seriously interested in farming. Nebraska and South Dakota are natural choices.

"I was born in Nebraska, but escaped to California as soon as I learned to walk," I say.

He looks at me strangely, says, "Ah-h-h-h."

We're all fascinated by the sheep shearing demonstrations. Maybe they were contests? On a stage, four men shear four sheep. Each guy grabs a full-grown woolly sheep, flips it on it's head and leaps upon the poor animal with electric shears. There a lot of buzzing an squealing and wrestling and pretty soon the animal's entire coat is off. The shearer then grabs the naked and confused animal by its tail and tosses it down a chute. I could have happily lived my life without seeing this, but now that I have, I'll forever view my sweaters and sport coats through different eyes.

After walking around looking like we're interested in farming for another hour, we find the Foods of Scotland building. It would have been a better day for me, had I never found Foods of Scotland.

We're barely inside the door when a woman offers me some pickled chutney on crackers. Yum. Then at the next stall I have lemon curd on cracker, lime curd on cracker, and ginger jam on cracker. Wow. Chocolate on wafers. While Tara looks at Scottish salmon, I strike up a conversation with the man in the Isle of Skye Whiskey booth. He winks and hands me a shot of whiskey. "Oh, my, yes!" At another booth I have cheese. I offer some to Tara who is not accepting free samples.

"Don't you want anyway?"

She shakes her head and looks at me as if I'm being a little off the wall.

The ginger cake is wonderful. Duncan's cookies. Walker's shortbread. A pretty young woman hands me a glass of Guinness. "Oh-h-h, thank you." The whiskey liqueur at the next booth doesn't mix too well with Guinness, but it's a tasting experience, right? I love the raspberry juice and the prawns in mustard sauce look too good to pass up. "Wouldya like a coffee?"

Nod, smile.

"I think I need to go sit down for awhile," I tell Tara. Don't want to admit to feeling a wee bit queasy uneasy. 

"Gee, I wonder why," she says.

In the sheep and goat barn, I find a bale of hay to sit on while my family pets and says hello to 3000 animals. Soon a young woman towing a goat plops down on the ground in front of me and begins to milk her animal.

"You look exhausted," she says.

"The Foods of Scotland exhibits," I say, rubbing my stomach.

She nods knowingly. The goat milk is pinging off the sides of the metal bucket. "Si-s-s-s-s-s"

The sound makes me want to pee. "Do you have to do that twice a day?" I ask.

"Ah, yes."

"You can't hook the goat up to a machine?"

"I can milk faster than a machine."

"Si-s-s-s-s, si-s-s-s-s."

"Are ya here on yer holiday?" she asks.

I explain, tell her how much I love her country. "Where do you live?" I ask.

"Down in the southwest of Scotland. And I don't think we appreciate our country. It rains all the time." She gets up, walks her goat into a stall. Peering over the top of the stall she says, "Ya get awful tired of being wet and cold."

Hunter has listened to the conversation. As we leave he tells me, "I don't think I appreciate Malibu."

"Will you now?"

"I'm going to remind myself how good it is."

Scottish retail stores fill a major building. The biggest crowd is gathered around a "crookmaker" -- a store offering walking sticks with ornate handles. There are many men at the fair wearing knickers, high socks, tartan wool vests, sport coats, jaunty Highland hats and walking with tall walking sticks. I might not look so bad dressed like this with a walking stick of my own. I could walk around with the fingers of one hand stuck in my watch-fob pocket like Prince Charles.

Tara says, "You're too tall for it." I think what she's really saying is, "You're not formal enough, couldn't pull it off."

Probably not.

We end our Royal Highland Show day in the grandstand watching the "Heavy Horse Teams of Four Turnouts" competition. Teams of four huge Clydesdale horses pull brightly-painted wagons.

The taxi queue is long, so Tara checks out the buses waiting in the car park. She waves for us to join her. The bus is half full when we climb on, but no one has taken the four front seats on the top tier. We're soon ready to careen down the road and enjoy almost tipping over on the curves.

Although we travel on an open highway, our Scottish driver is a much safer and saner than the elderly Eviel Knievel on the Sandringham to King's Lynn run. We arrive safe and sound at Waverly Train Station, and walk the two miles home.

JUNE 26, SATURDAY: The Royal Lyceum is a classic beauty of a theater. Looking up from your red velvet seat you see gold rococo against deep blue. There are private boxes on the sides, a balcony, and upper balcony. A magnificent circular chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

Our Scottish-theater karma is still holding, because 15 minutes before the matinee curtain, we score the sixth row center for The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) -- All 37 plays in 97 minutes. When the actors appear on stage, I'm shocked to hear familiar accents. Three performers, two Americans and a Canadian, put on the entire show. I expect it to be funny, but am surprised to find it laugh-until-tears-are-running-down-your-face funny. Even Hunter, who thought he was going to hate the play, is laughing. Cheyenne is delighted.

Speaking of accents, yesterday at the Royal Highland Show, a young man squeezed my arm and said, "Cool accent, man." But this morning, a friendly pensioner asked, "Where are ye from?"

"America," I say.

"Eh?" He shakes his head.

"Los Angeles."

"Eh?"

"LOS-AN-GEL-ELES."

"Eh?" He explains to Tara that he can't understand my accent.

A little later, Hunter says, "We don't have any accent."

"I agree," I say. "Our California speech is the core English that everyone else distorts. The people in the deep south and Brooklyn are as guilty as the Scots and English."

Tara narrows her eyes and I can tell she's hoping no one else has heard. She claims this is a redneck side of my personality that might best be subdued.

"Well, if it didn't start out that way, our movie industry is setting the world standard. Nine out of ten movies showing in the UK are American. As it should be, everyone is learning California English."

"Richard!"

The weather is sunny and warm again -- really warm. Three sunny days in a row is a minor miracle! We walk from the theater to the Royal Mile where Tara shops for birthday presents we need to ship to friends at home and in Ireland.

Edinburgh is a city of statues, many relating to family names and some to recorded family history. Tonight, at the foot of North Bridge, we walk past the 12-ton bronze monument to Arthur Wellesley Wellington, British general and prime minister (1769-1852). My maternal great-great-great grandfather was John Terrill of Cambourne, Cornwall. Terrill fought under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo, the final and decisive action of the Napoleonic Wars. Family records say, "John saved a company of British troops by shooting a French torch bearer who was trying to blow up the bridge, which the British were crossing. He climbed an iron gate twelve feet high to get his man. For this act he later received a medal."

The children have heard the story before, but Hunter likes to hear it again.

While on the subject of statues and art in Edinburgh, there is a bronze I want to mention. It sits in a little park at the top of Leith Walk, on the west side of the round-about. Here, a huge open-palmed bronze hand, about 12-feet in length, sits on the cement walkway. Right in the middle of the palm are two huge fornicating grasshoppers.

"What is the artist trying to say by creating a hand holding humping grasshoppers?" I say to no one in particular.

Tara won't even venture a guess. Hunter snickers. Cheyenne pretends it isn't there. I decide the artist did this so that well into the next century people will stop and stare and ask, "What is the artist trying to say ... "

JUNE 27, SUNDAY: A major transition has taken place in some dark corner of my brain. This morning I awaken and make tea instead of coffee. Tea simply sounds better than coffee. GOOD GOD, I'VE GONE BRIT. I had no idea it was going to happen and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this taste-bud takeover.

By the time I've finished my TEA, no one else has awakened. So I sally forth in search of a Scotland on Sunday newspaper, and breakfast treats from the bakery shop. Tara gets breakfast in bed: Scottish pie, a scone, rhubarb pie, apple juice and TEA.

"Tea sounds better than coffee," she says.

 "It's a British conspiracy," I say.

Changing the subject, Tara says, "You're a duvet snatcher."

I must admit to not doing well with Scottish sleeping attire. The apartment management brings us new towels and bedding once a week. On our bed we have a bottom sheet and a duvet ("doo-vay" according to Tara). To me it's just a comforter with a pillow-case-like slip case. At home we have a bottom sheet and top sheet and a comforter. I do very well with this arrangement, thank you.

But here, every time I roll over, I roll into another layer of the doo-vay until I'm wrapped up like a corn dog and Tara is left to her own devices.

"Hang on tighter, and roll into the middle with me," I say.

"Maybe I'll try that."

"Mustn't grumble," I say. This is another Scottish phrase that has become part of our vernacular.

"It's starting to rain again."

"Mustn't grumble."

"Everyone in Edinburgh let's their dog shit on the sidewalk."

"Mustn't grumble."

"The taxi cab just ran over my foot."

"Mustn't grumble."

If you've been reading this Road Diary for awhile, you may recall that back on May 27, my son and I had a wee bit of a disagreement with the Customs & Excise Division of the Royal English Post Office. They charged us £48.27 duty on Hunter's personal video games, which he forgot to bring and had his uncle mail to him.

So I filed a complaint.

And I discovered to my delight, that someone in government is listening and most important, responding. A Mrs. D. Bradbury has sent me a letter saying that she has been authorized to refund this fee and that it will be forwarded to me as soon as possible. Thank you, Mrs. Bradbury.

Tara and I are tennis players and tennis fans, and the early rounds of the Wimbledon championships are being played this week in England. This has proven to be a Royal temptation to watch the box. Now, on top of the tennis, the annual Glastonbury Festival -- one of the biggest music festivals in the world is being televised on the BBC. Over 100,000 people are attending, there are nine music stages and most of the attendees are sleeping in tents. What a party.

The festival is a great chance to catch up all at once on the major British rock acts. Although some of the bands sound like a train wreck, others are most enjoyable. I'm especially taken with a Scottish rock group called "Texas." We watch an interview with Sharleen Spiteri, the female lead singer. After the Glastonbury appearance, they're flying out to do a concert in Los Angeles. Hope they come back when we're there.

This is a drab, spitty-rain day. Although there are a dozen exciting things to do only a couple miles away, we never seem to get it together to get up and go. Between watching the Glastonbury Festival, reading and letter writing, we fill the hours.

Glaswegian comedian/actor Billy Connolly is in the news and causing controversy, because he is boycotting the opening of the new Scottish Parliament here in Edinburgh this week. He has said previously that he didn't want to see a "Wee-pretendy government in Edinburgh." In a June 12 article in the Scotsman, he said, "I like to scream at nationalists whenever I can. I have a deep loathing of nationalists and patriots."

Sean Connery is the highest profile nationalist in the world. Connery will attend the opening ceremonies on Thursday. In a nutshell, the SNP (Scottish Nationalist Party) wants Scotland to break away from Britain and become an independent country.

Now in today's paper, the headline reads, "Connolly blames SNP for rise in anti-English racism." Connolly has called the new parliament "a joke" and claims that Scotland is becoming increasingly "anti-English." The SNP is furious, claiming his comments are entirely bogus -- "an ill-informed rant."

Judging from my observations over five years, Scottish people have never changed their opinions of their southern neighbors. Much as I love Connolly's humor, the idea of hating people who want to be free makes no sense to me. But he was accepted as a comedian in England, when no one was laughing at his material in Scotland. Only in recent years has he reestablished a relationship with his own country.

JUNE 28, MONDAY: The train from Edinburgh to Glasgow Queen Street takes only 45 minutes. We walk across downtown Glasgow to Central Station and arrive nine minutes before the train to Largs is scheduled to leave. I wish I could say this is the result of good planning, but it is simply good luck.

The track assignment isn't announced on the call board until four minutes prior to departure time. Gate 13 -- all the way to the far end of the station. Long legs are a distinct advantage in such situations.

We climb aboard a minute before the train pulls out -- a high-speed street-car of a train, powered by an overhead electrical wire. Transportation to more remote Scottish locations is usually on "el funko" trains. But the cars and windows are clean, the seats comfortable and the ticket men who roam the aisles checking and selling tickets are friendly and helpful.

This morning the car rattles and sways so badly it is difficult to read or write, but we travel through beautiful rural countryside at a high rate of speed. We're on our way to the west coast, to Ardrossan, to catch a ferry to the Isle of Arran. Two and a half hours after leaving our apartment we've crossed the country from east to west and see the Atlantic out the train window.

Tara asks the ticket man where to get off to best access the ferry.

"Saltcoats has taxis, so it's yer best best," he says. I don't listen, which is a mistake.

We rattle on, and Tara gets up to go to the bathroom, saying, "Two more stops, I think."

I nod, happy to be rattling on and leaving exit responsibilities to my wife. The sun is shining, the country is beautiful, and although it would be nice to have a cup of tea, it would probably end up in my lap.

Tara returns to her seat while the train is stopped in a station. "What station is this?"

"Saltcoats."

This is our stop. We grab for our belongings and are almost to our feet as the train pulls away. Tara and I look at each other. The train is now rattling north, up the coast to Largs.

"Let's get off at the next stop," Tara says, a tinge of desperation in her voice.

"I don't think so," I say as we pull into a station that is only a platform in the middle of nowhere.

We return to our seats, Tara pulls out the schedule books she received from an information man in Glasgow. These books are overwhelming, but under present conditions, this seems a good idea.

"Largs is the end of the line," Tara says. "We can get off on our way back and it will give us 20 minutes to buy ferry tickets and make the boat."

"When is the next boat?"

"Three hours later."

We have become "haphazard travelers." Anyone reading this with an intention of following our footsteps might best be advised to investigate the logistics of travel a little more thoroughly than we do. But this often takes more energy than the trip itself. Today, to reach our destination, requires a bus, two trains, a cab, a boat, then a cab or bus to get us to where we want to go on the island. If you plan every stage of your trip and one mode of transportation is late, so much for your well-laid plans. If you have no well-laid plans, they can't be screwed up. You just end up being grateful when things work and thank Mother Scotland. One is best served, however, when one exits at the proper train station.

The ticket man walks through the car, sees us and laughs. "Missed yer station, eh?"

We rattle on to the end of the line, sit and wait, rattle back to Saltcoats and leap from the train. Thankfully, there's a cab waiting in the car park. "Ferry terminal, please," I say.

"Oh, yer goin' to the island," says the driver.

"Yes, is it beautiful?" Tara asks.

"Used to be a nicer place."

"What happened to it?"

"The people who er comin' these days have changed the feel of the place."

"You mean tourists?" Tara asks.

"Like us?" I say.

"On no, ya know. Someone from Yorkshire moves in and they tell their friends, and pretty soon you have a whole conclave of em all wantin' the island to be the way it was back home."

He is bitching about the English moving to Arran without wanting to say the word.

"Things change," Tara says.

Oh that's going to make him feel better.

"Just the way people are," he says.

The round trip Arran Ferry fee for two adults and two children is £20. The trip takes an hour. "Caledonian Isles" it says on the bow of the ship, which carries up to 1000 passengers and 110 cars back and forth between Ardrossan and Brodick, the main town on Arran. (Had we rented a car to take to the island, we'd have paid nearly $80 extra in transport fees.)

A few moments after we walk up the gang plank, whistles blow and the ship begins to leave the dock, out into the Firth of Clyde. We sit outside on the upper decks until a few minutes out to sea and the temperature drops. Lunch in the cafeteria is a delight. Tara and Hunter have lasagna, Cheyenne chooses an assortment from the children's menu and I have chicken curry on rice.

Seating varies from comfortable lounger chairs to couches in cocktail circles, to seating in the bar. The children run off to play video games while Tara and I remain in the cafeteria and sip tea. We have three primary activity choices on the Isle of Arran. Brodick Castle is impressive and said to be haunted by a "Grey Lady" who was starved to death in the dungeons because she had the plague. It might be fun to see, but it has little historic importance to draw me in. Lochranza Castle at the northern tip of the island is a site relating to Robert the Bruce, but is tiny and in ruin. Plus I know that Tara really wants to see the standing stones. Her shamanic eyes and her Pagan roots are being called by the stones.

The Isle of Arran is located at the mouth of the Fifth of Clyde and is described in some guide books as "Scotland in miniature," because it offers most of the environments you'll find in this land we love: glens, moors, lochs, bays, mountains and rocky coasts. Arran is 25 miles long, 10 miles wide and offers a 60 mile coast road circling the island.

Rain welcomes us upon our arrival at the coastal village of Brodick. There are no cabs in site, so we hurry to one of the waiting buses and talk to a friendly driver. He agrees that time, distance, bus schedules, and closing times won't allow us to visit more than one site. We buy a Rural Daycard bus pass, for which we can travel on any island bus. Adults £3, children £1.50.

To get to the stones, the bus circles the top half of the island. The road up the east coast runs close to the water, through tiny villages and open expanses. Palm trees are flourishing in several yards. For the life of me, I don't know how this could be considering Scottish winters. At Sannox, the road cuts inland climbing into green mountains that somehow remind us of Hawaii. Dropping back to sea level, we get a good view of Lochranze Castle and are glad we didn't plan to spend our afternoon here. Rounding the top of the island, we shoot down the west coast along Kilbrannan Sound -- a jut of mainland visible across the water. When the driver stops for chickens in the middle of the road, Tara yells, "Thank you, that was nice."

After about 40 minutes of traveling, we slow down and stop. There is nothing to be seen but pastures of sheep. "Machrie Moor." The driver points the direction, says the bus returns at four and five this afternoon. The sun is shining again and if we stay until five we'll have two-and-a-half hours to explore.

The only site marker is a tiny sign about 18-inches square: "Machrie Moor Standing Stones. 1 Mile" We climb over a fence into a pasture filled with sheep, making our way along a two-track gravel path toward a rise on the horizon. There isn't a square foot of this land that isn't dotted with sheep shit, so proper walking takes some concentration. A house is visible in the distance. To the north, Goatfell Mountain (2866 feet high) looks like a volcano crowned by a ring of clouds. The air is filled with the sound of non-stop bleating. To make matters worse, Tara and the children bleat back, sending some of the sheep in a frenzy of tail wagging and scurrying.

Between bleats, Tara has been in silent communication with her spirit guide Abenda. "Abenda told me this site is a ten."

"Meaning great, right?" I say.

Nod. "A ten."

After about a mile we reach a fenced site where a sign says, "Moss Farm Road Stone Circle. This circle is formed of a single row of granite boulders. Within it are the scanty remains of a burial cairn. It dates from the bronze age (2000-1500 BC). The stone circle may be earlier than the cairn at it's center."

If this is it, the site isn't a ten. The stones are low to the ground in a small circle.

Beneath the first sign is smaller sign with an arrow: "Machrie Moor -- 500 metres."

Five hundred meters should be around a quarter mile, but we walk much farther before spotting another low stone circle on a rise near a stone-farm ruin.

As we're investigating, Tara yells, "Look," and points out to a peat-bog moor to huge standing stones. Two small markers sit on posts on the edge of the moor. There are six stone circles here and according to the marker, "About 4,500 years ago society changed. There were new ritual monuments which became new arenas for more direct contact with the gods, circumventing the earlier role of ancestors. Burial rites increasingly emphasized the importance of individuals rather than ancestors."

By the time we reach the tall standing stones, a couple is just leaving and we are alone on the moor. The children run off to play at two stone circles in the distance.

Three stones in an arch are from 12 to 18 feet high. (At 5.5 meters, the tallest stone is taller than the central stone at Callanish on the Isle of Lewis.)

"This is your chance to be naked with the stones," I say. This is something Tara has wanted to experience for years.

Her eyes light up and her Pagan blood bubbles. "It is."

While getting undressed, she finds a black raven feather in front of the largest stone. We have seen no ravens or any other feathers in the area. Abenda has left Tara another message.

For the next 20 minutes I take beautiful nude pictures of my wife peeking out from behind stones, leaning against them, or kneeling before them.

The site is definitely a ten. This opportunity is ten times ten. There is no doubt in our minds that we have been guided here. 

When I'm down to the last roll of film and Tara is getting dressed, she says it's my turn to strip and pose. I'm more than willing, but people appear over the rise -- two couples heading in our direction. The children also come bouncing up the rise to join us.

"Don't think so," I say.

Tara is disappointed. Knowing my wife as I do, she won't give up until she has photos of me bare assed embracing monoliths. Other sites await.

We spend so much time at the stones, we miss our 5 PM bus by five minutes. According to the train/boat/ferry schedule book, "There will be another at 17:35 -- 30 minutes from now," Tara says. "It's going the wrong direction and we may have to do some switching, but ..."

She stands by the road to make sure the bus driver can see us when he comes around the corner on this narrow road.

I sit on the ground, Cheyenne sits on my lap reading a book. Tara says something about this making a cute picture. She turns her back to the road and removes the camera from her purse.

I look up to smile at the camera just as the bus shoots past behind my wife.

Tara yells, waves her camera, and says a few naughty words as the bus disappears down the road at 50 mph.

We all look at each other dumbfounded.

"That didn't happen?"

My wife is either an eternal optimist or a clever spin doctor. I suspect the latter. She says, "Oh well, he has to come back this way."

Magically, ten minutes later, the bus reappears with an "Out of Service" sign in the destination window. We flag it down. Tara says she'll lay in the road if necessary.

The kindly driver takes pity upon us and says he has to sit down the road for 30 minutes, before proceeding. Fine with us. We finally arrive back in Brodick at 6:55 PM, just as the Arran Ferry is arriving at the dock.

We eat dinner on board ship. Tara reads her schedules, says, "We have 15 minutes to make the train or we're going to wait a lo-o-og time."

I don't even want to know the meaning of long, because I suspect it may require spending the night in Ardrossan. The ship arrives back at the mainland at 8:20 PM. We're among the first off and sprint for a cab. For some reason I don't understand, the driver brings up Robert the Bruce and says, "I hate him."

"He's one of the greatest heroes of all time," I say.

"Hate him."

"Why?"

"He was only interested in himself," he says in a brogue so thick you could slice it with a knife.

"Bruce freed the Scottish people from English tyranny. He could have stayed out of the conflict and lived a rich man's life."

"Oh, an the heart bit. Sure, sure, I believe that," he says and laughs mockingly.

"A well documented historical fact," I say.

"Oh yeah, sure, ha, ha, ha."

The cab stops at the train station. The children climb out and the cabby waves them away. "They dug up Bruce's bones and found he died of syphilis. Not leprosy, syphilis, ha, ha, ha." The level of the man's laughter has elevated to maniacal.

We exit the cab without comment. The demented cabby is still snickering as he pulls out of the car park.

My wife soothes my ruffled feathers as we stand waiting for the train. "Think how strongly you dislike Edward I and Oliver Cromwell."

"They were inhuman butchers. That Scotsman hates a Scot who saved his ancestor's ass."

(NOTE: Accepting that he was going to die, Robert the Bruce requested upon his death that his heart be extracted and carried to the Holy Land where Scottish knights would "fight the enemies of God" in the Holy Land. His most trusted knight, Sir James Douglas, was chosen to carry out this task. Douglas had a casket made of silver and enamel and in it he placed the heart of the king, which he carried upon a chain around his neck. When Douglas was killed in a battle with Moorish forces, Sir Alan Cathcart returned the heart to Scotland, where it is buried in Melrose Abbey.)  

We climb on the 8:35 PM train to Glasgow, arrive at Central Station at 9:30 and catch a taxi to Queen Street Station for the 10 PM train to Edinburgh. At 10:50 we step off the train in Waverly Station and into a cab, arriving home at 11:05.

"Whew!"

To be continued ...

Tomorrow we will travel to Dunfermline to visit the abbey where Robert the Bruce is buried. Wednesday is a huge party on Calton Hill -- the beginning of a two-day celebration of the first Scottish Parliament in 300 years. Thursday, July 1 will mark the most important day in Scottish history this century. Tara and I are thrilled to be here and be part of this momentous occasion.

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