Road Diary
Scotland Part XIII
Cannon Balls & The Scottish Opera
By Dick Sutphen

JULY 18, SUNDAY: While making morning coffee for myself (I'm going cold turkey on this Brit-Tetley thing) and tea for my wife, I notice a newspaper clipping, circled in red, on the dining room table. A dark and foreboding picture of South Leith Parish Church catches my eye. This is the church that causes Tara's throat to close up every time she comes "within range." Through Abenda, Tara learned of a guardian who resides on the grounds and is drawn to Tara's empathic sensitivity.

The notice reads: CHURCH REVEALS ITS PAST: If you would like to be given a guided tour round the historic South Leith Parish Church then now is your chance. On Sunday July 18 the church is holding an open day for visitors who want to come and find out more about the building's colourful past. From 2-3 PM your guide will take you round the church and it's churchyard free of charge.

I decide not to bring this up in hope it will go away. It doesn't.

"You don't have to go with me," Tara says.

"We don't want to go," Hunter and Cheyenne say in unison.

"I'll go with you," I say. It sounds like the husbandly thing to do, and this is a Presbyterian church, which I grew up with, because my maternal ancestors carried their religious proclivities to America.

The Church of Scotland is Presbyterian. There are a few other denominations, but the Presbyterian legacy reins supreme in Eastern Scotland. Glasgow, on the other hand, is predominately Catholic.

Tara and I walk to the church. She senses the throat reaction again, but once we're on church grounds for a few minutes the feeling abates. We're welcomed by Alan, a retired man with a warm personality. One older woman from another local parish church joins the tour. Obviously, there's not a lot of local interest.

I must admit that the tour (it turns out be 90 minutes because we ask a lot of questions) is very interesting to both Tara and I, primarily because it involves so much Scottish history. As you walk into the church, in a glass case to your left are ancient cannon balls. "Those cannon balls were used by the evil English to destroy the church in the 1560," Alan says. "The church was originally Catholic. The army was sent to assist the Reformers. They set up artillery on Links and destroyed the east end of the building during a church service. There are no deaths in the records, but the building collapsed around the members."

We learn that in 1645 the Great Plague killed over half the population of Leith -- 2,736 people. From 1650 to 1657 Oliver Cromwell's Roundheads kicked out the members so they could quarter here. Cromwell again! Few men in history have caused so much human suffering. 

Alan feels about Edinburgh much as he feels about the English. Leith and Edinburgh are now one city, but as a life-long Leither, he liked it better when the city was independent. I joke with him about wanting both Scotland and Leith to regain their independence.

Even more interesting than the church history, which is Edinburgh's history, is what is going on in the graveyard right now. Outside, we meet genealogist John Arthur who writes a column in the local paper. He is working with a couple assistants who are using ground probes connected to high-tech computer equipment. The church used to be much larger and they've just found the structural pillars beneath the ground that will prove it. John shows us a computer printout of the underground readings. "Much of our written history is wrong," he says. "They think the original church was built in 1483, but I can prove it goes back to 1230."

John takes time out to give us a quick tour of the church graveyard -- historic names of importance, including gravestones relating to Robert Louis Stevenson's family.

After the tour, Tara and I go to nearby Bar Java and order tea and the "huge" bowl of vegetarian nachos.

"The children will be jealous," I say.

"Serves them right for staying home," Tara says.

The tea/coffee house is crammed with people, most watching a golf tournament on a TV in the corner.

We read the paper, trying to learn more about the John Kennedy tragedy. I ask Tara if she can remember anything more about her dream (described at the end of Road Diary XII). She can't, but I learn from the newspaper that the plane went down while we were asleep. I wonder if she observed the event as she has done in the past, or if she sensed the event in the ethers and telepathically related the events.

JULY 19, MONDAY: We're up early and off to the city. Cheyenne has been accepted in the Scottish Opera Summer School program. This morning she begins to train at the Edinburgh Festival Theater with other local children. They will work all week on a musical about the French Revolution. We will attend the performance Friday evening.

We take our daughter to the theater, wish her well, then Tara, Hunter and I are off to enjoy a day of browsing. We spend an hour in a James Thin bookstore. I'm becoming very interested in backpacking and camping some of Scotland -- especially the Isle of Skye and ideally, the "West Highland Way." The Ordinance Survey maps are a great temptation. Early in our relationship we often camped in Mexico, but trekking-style camping is something else altogether.   

Tara is reading a book on Paganism when I find her in another section of the store. "What if we come back next summer and hike the West Highland Way?" I say.

"Sounds like fun," she says.

"It's a hundred mile trek from Glasgow to Fort William through all kinds of Scottish terrain."

"Maybe some friends or family will join us," she says.

That was easy enough. "We'd have to physically prepare. Maybe we could also trek the Isle of Skye and some of the northwest Highlands while we're at it?"

"Okay," she says.

"Really?"

"Sure."

I purchase a book and detailed map of the West Highland Way and a book and map of the Isle of Skye.

"What?" Hunter wants to know about this.

I explain.

"Oh, come on, Dad. Not a hundred miles."

"You and I hike four to six miles all the time at the beach. We do twice that around Edinburgh. Let's just extend our mileage, get used to heavier equipment, then decide. Okay?"

"Okay. But a hundred miles is a long way, Dad," Hunter says.

Our taste buds are yearning for California Mexican food, which explains why were lead astray on this overcast afternoon. For lunch, we're drawn into Pancho Villa's Restaurant on the Royal Mile. They offer no tortilla chips and few of the offerings are familiar. I order a green-chili chicken sisita (or something like that). When the food arrives, there are no green chilies, only diced bell peppers and what tastes like out-of-a-jar, melted-nachos-cheese sauce poured over pieces of chicken wrapped in a tortilla and microwaved. 

"Pancho Villa will curse them," I say.

"Bell peppers are good," Tara says.

This is not good. This would not be good even with chilies.

"You're the one that says, 'never order Mexican food outside of Texas and California,'" Hunter reminds me.

My son is happy with his fajitas, but it would be hard to screw up do-it-yourself fajitas. Tara has a spinach enchilada -- something I've never seen offered in any self-respecting Mexican restaurant. It sounds downright anti-Mexican to me.

After lunch, Tara wants to browse Scottish shops. If you've seen one Scottish shop, believe me, you've seen them all. Now I like a good Scottish shop, but you only need one. There are hundreds on the streets of Edinburgh. What this city really needs is a good California surf shop, or a Hawaiian shirt shop. People would flock in the doors just to experience the refreshing change of pace.

Neither Hunter or I can look at another variation of tartan -- yellow and green on a blue field. Green and yellow on a red field, et cetera. By varying the thickness and spacing of the lines a thousand different ways, individual tartans have been assigned to individual clans. Next, make this material into kilts and skirts and neckties. Add a few clan plaques, some Highlander statues and Celtic jewelry and you're in the tourist business. Sure, it's interesting to look at your plaque and your tartan (considering my Scottish family names and all the variations of tartan, I can be clan-correct wearing any of a dozen patterns.) But then what? I can't pull off wearing a skirt at home, even on special occassions. Even if I could, my wife would insist I wear it correctly -- without underwear. It would follow that she would tell everyone, and I'd spend the evening trying to maintain my modesty.

We decide to split up. Tara happily browses the South Bridge and Royal Mile shops, while Hunter and I head to HMV and the Virgin Megastore. My son plays sample video games in the basements. I listen to the albums on the listening bars and find a fabulous CD called Mac Umba -- a combination of Caribbean rhythms and bagpipes on the Greentrax label, Edinburgh. Very high energy. Listening to this album while working, should double my output.

When we meet Cheyenne at 4 PM, she tries to play down her excitement. We sit in the Festival Theater Cafe and she explains that she didn't get one of the main parts because, "I couldn't project my voice with a good French accent."

But she will be one of the French nobles and has to memorize the words to four long songs. The theater company has provided a cassette tape to help her.

"Let's go to a movie," she suggests.

"You are going home to study your lines," I say.

"Oh, yeah."

By the time we leave the Festival Theater, it's raining. In Dave Hewitt's "Hill Informed" column in the Scotsman a couple days ago, he was describing a new outdoor hiking jacket from a local manufacturer: "This, it must be said, fits well with the fickle vagaries of the Scottish climate -- deceptively sunny one minute, all hail and fury the next."

Exactly.

JULY 20, TUESDAY: Each morning I check the paper for the weather forecast and temperatures. The high in Edinburgh never varies more than a couple degrees -- 62 to 64. We did have that 75-degree, two-day heat wave a couple weeks ago. No more of that. Most days it rains off and on all day, but you get used to it and you don't mind it. At least I don't.

This morning Cheyenne and I set off to the Edinburgh Festival Theater. Tara worked with  her for hours last night, helping her to learn the lyrics to the songs. This morning, my daughter feels confident.

We arrive 45-minutes early and have tea and muffins in the Irish Sandwich shop down the street from the theater. We talk. Cheyenne looks over her lines. I skim the paper. Starbucks has bought out the Seattle Coffee Company, so three Starbucks are opening in Edinburgh. A Scotsman headline says "Strong coffee weakens tea's appeal." The article points out, "Coffee benefits from a high profile among the key young adult market, and this is driven by popular American sitcoms such as Friends, Frasier and Ellen ..."

But coffee in Scotland has a long way to go before catching up with tea. On a drinks consumed chart, tea rates 56.1 percent, while coffee rates 11.3 percent -- a 1.6 increase since 1995.

After dropping Cheyenne at the stage door in pouring rain, I take refuge in a James Thin bookstore until the deluge passes. Last night, Hunter left my umbrella in a taxi.

 The apartment is three miles away, an easy warm-up jaunt. The city smells wonderful after the rain. Many people on the streets are carrying full backpacks. I check out each one to see how they've rigged the equipment. My mind is locking on to the idea of trekking the hills and mountains of Scotland next summer. Maybe this is because we're nearing the time to return home and I'm trying to soften the parting with plans to return. Mind fookin' myself, me thinks.

 Another item of interest appears in Instant -- Edinburgh's Cafe Culture publication. An article blames the American College of Plastic Surgeons for generating a market for vulva-tucks. Neither Tara or I can figure that one out. Obviously, we're out of the loop.

Then there is a story on "RealDoll," created by Hollywood's special effects wizards. She costs $5,000 and comes in four models, Leah, Stacy, Celine and Tami. The article says, "She doesn't talk or move, but possesses a 'stainless steel, fully articulated skeleton,' impeccable teeth and perfect melon-like breasts which 'feel like the real thing.' Plus (in case you were wondering) three orifices designed to mimic female sexual apparatus as closely as technology will allow, right down to suction where required."

Gee I wonder why the world thinks America is weird? I am, however, getting a little tired of English media reviewers touting Americans' bad taste. This seems a tad hypocritical from critics in a country that undoubtedly produces the most tasteless TV shows on earth.

Here's another story I doubt is being reported at home: One hundred Druids, bards and ovates from France are appealing to Prince Charles to help them attain Welsh/British citizenship. They're upset because their home country will not allow their regional language to be recognized by law. According to today's Scotsman, "Joined by the Arch-Druid of Wales, Meirion Evans, and the Great Bard of Cornwall, Ann Trevenen, the Breton Druids, bards and ovates carried out the ritual of "the shattered sword" in which the fragments of King Arthur's Excalibur were symbolically rejoined. Claiming that their "Celtitude" or "Celtishness" gave them a right to cross-Channel citizenship, the Druids sang their anthem, Old Country of My Fathers."

I guess America is just too young for such enjoyable controversies.

Tara and I spend an hour looking at the many different kinds of rucksacks/backpacks and camping equipment in an outdoor store down the street from the Edinburgh Festival Theater. At 4 PM we pick up Cheyenne and have tea in the theater cafe.

Cheyenne is exhausted. "They treated us like cattle," she says, laying her head on her arms upon the table. She has a headache. "They expect us to remember all these moves. When we don't, they get upset."

"This is show business, my girl," I say.

Tara and I both provide a short course in what the actress/dancer business is all about. Problem is, we have several close female friends who appear regularly on TV or in films. Cheyenne sees them on the screen and in our living room, but not behind the scenes doing all the practice and work.

"I have to practice my steps tonight," she says.

"Okay, but first we're going to visit the Museum of Scotland." The museum is only three blocks from the theater. Yesterday, the Mace of Scotland, which was presented by the Queen to the Scottish Parliament on July 1, has been placed on display for a limited time.

Every time we enter this museum, I'm more impressed. Never have I seen contemporary and ancient architectural concepts combined so successfully, or artifacts displayed so creatively. The mace is displayed in a glass case in the entry area. About three-and-a-half feet long, it is made of Sterling Silver with an inlaid band of Scottish gold around the shaft and a gold insert in the head. Around the silver outer edge of the head it says, "There shall be a Scottish Parliament - Scotland Act 1998." Upon the gold insert, the words Integrity, Compassion, Wisdom, Justice are engraved into four thistles. The words represent the aspirations of the Scottish people for members of their parliament.

The gold was panned mainly from rivers in the Leadhill area and was gifted by the panners. Mace designer Michael Lloyd sees the gold band as a symbolic wedding ring "celebrating the parliament, the land and the people."

Once inside the museum, we end up spending an hour exploring a section that was closed during our last visit. If Cheyenne didn't have to practice her dance steps, Tara and I would stay until closing time.

JULY 21, WEDNESDAY: Yesterday I talked about the weather. Today, Cheyenne and I leave early for the Festival Theater, and we can't believe how shivery cold and windy it is.

"This is like the middle of winter at home, Dad."

She's right.

To flow with Scottish weather, one needs proper attire. I'm a big fan of the Nautica line of sailing coats and have one for winter and the one I'm currently wearing. They're made of waterproof and breathable fabric with a hood that snaps out of the collar. This morning I zip up and snap up the high collar.

Arriving early, we stop at the Black Medicine Coffee Company across the street from the theater. My daughter is delighted to be able to order a toasted bagel with cream cheese, plus Cranberry juice. "This is like being at home," she says. We never see bagels and few restaurants have cranberry juice in Scotland. I have a white tea and we read the morning newspaper together. 

 Before leaving the house, Tara told Cheyenne that she had drawn tarot cards on how she'll do at the theater. "You're going to do great and you'll have a lot of fun today," she said. I watched Tara pull the positive cards.

Cheyenne isn't so sure, but she slept 13 hours and she's ready to give it her best effort.

After dropping my daughter at the stage door, I go to the Scotsman newspaper to ask them about purchasing photos that have appeared in the paper and about a poster I want to frame for our dining room at home. The counter woman is most helpful. Yes, they'll print up the photos and mail them to me in America for a nominal fee.

"Do you want the one of the bare-bottomed boys," she asks.

"No, the burning Viking boat." An event we'll never forget from New Years 1995.

"Many people want the boys," she says.

The boys are two kilt-clad Scots celebrating their Highland games win with a somersault. The camera captured their bare asses in the air while the delighted crowd looks on. Bare bottoms -- especially bare male bottoms -- are popular in Scotland. They grace dozens of post cards and posters offered on the tourist streets. Back in 1996, we watched comedian Billy Connolly's World Tour of Scotland. A segment of the show has Connolly dropping his drawers to moon the camera and run around standing stones. This, according to Connolly on a recent TV interview, has inspired everyone to do it.

When I pick up Cheyenne at 4 PM, she is elated. Her day has gone well. She has been complimented by her teachers and placed in a better dance position. She is also making new Scottish friends her age with the same interests.

For the Friday night performance she needs a white shirt and black shoes that we don't have with us in Scotland. So we go shopping, and shopping, and shopping. And finally find the proper shoes.

We celebrate our shopping success at Burger King.

Interesting story: A Scottish housewife named Mary Armour has spent 15 years researching the story of Helen Duncan -- the last woman to be tried as a witch in Britain. Back in 1944, Duncan was jailed for nine months under the 1735 Witchcraft Act for "pretending to raise the spirits of the dead."

After talking with the deceased sailors from two sunken British battleships Duncan announced the ship losses before they were announced by the Admiralty. She was then brought to trial on trumped up charges by the Royal Navy.

 Eleven years after her release the witchcraft law was repealed as archaic.

Mary Armour, who is assembling this research for a book, is in the news because she turned down a lucrative Hollywood deal for fear the film-makers would distort the story.

On the same note: According to a story in The London Times, the London Chamber of Commerce has appointed a clairvoyant to predict trends. Camilla Ventham Fraser claims to be guided by a nun, a Native American man and an angel.

JULY 22, THURSDAY: After dropping Cheyenne at the theater, I do several errands before walking home. On the way, I think about all the things I'm going to miss about living in Scotland, including the simplified lifestyle.

Yes, I miss America, but no, I'm not ready to leave here. Tara really isn't ready to leave. But if we stayed six months, I don't think she'd be ready.

Tara and Hunter decide to go with me to pick up Cheyenne. We go out of our way to hike over Calton Hill and linger around the monuments. I find myself resenting two arriving tourist buses. "Richard, you can't resist tourists when you're a tourist," Tara always tells me, so I keep quiet about it. We also take a half hour to explore the graveyard at the foot of the hill -- the site of some impressive monuments, including a huge Washington Monument-style needle dating back to 1844 and commemorating the fight for a Scottish Parliament.

We meet Cheyenne at the stage door. What a transition in four days. She now stands up and belts out her songs. No more stage fright. No more negativity about the teachers. She is excited about presenting the play to the public tomorrow night.

On the way home, we walk up to Edinburgh Castle to see how they're preparing the site for the Military Tattoo (marching drum and bagpipe band show). The edges of the esplanade are now ready to sit 8600 people per performance. August is the festival -- roughly a month of entertainment and carrying on -- the biggest summer party in Europe. Sadly, we won't be here to participate.

The Edinburgh International Festival runs August 15 to September 4, and includes basically high-brow offerings of opera, dance and theater. The Edinburgh Jazz & Blues Festival runs from July 30 to August 8. The 53rd Edinburgh International Film Festival runs August 15 to 29. The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is the biggy to me: August 8 to August 30. The Fringe presents hundreds of unique offerings: comedy, music, including a month of top-notch folk and traditional concerts, and wild, hip and experimental theater like we often have available in West Hollywood. In the Fringe offices, Tara insists on buying me a black T-shirt with the fringe logo and "Edinburgh Festival" running sideways down the shirt.

"Thank you, I love it."

We decide to play tourists at the High Kirk of St. Giles Cathedral. When you walk through the doors, according to a church flyer, "you are entering one of the most historic and romantic buildings in Scotland. Founded in the 1100s, this church has witnessed executions, riots and celebrations. Its famous crown spire has dominated Edinburgh's skyline for over 500 years."

The two most famous executions -- Montrose (Graham) and Argyll (Campbell) were said to be conducted in a "bloody fashion" in front of the church. Both are family names -- likely ancestors.

This was the church of reformer John Knox during the Reformation. Today, it remains a living church with an active congregation and is visited by Royalty on state occasions throughout the year. The cathedral architecture is magnificent. The stained glass windows cover a wide range of styles from traditional to modern.

While Tara and Cheyenne linger in the gift shop, Hunter reads the new issue of The List to find out about entertainment this week in the city. I enjoy sitting in a corner, admiring the incredible arched ceiling, and watching the tourists. I'm getting pretty good at guessing what country someone is from by their dress and manner. Americans are easy to spot before hearing them speak, and from my observations, they're among the most respectful. Scandinavians are generally a handsome and unassuming people who tend to dress in trekking attire even when they're not. There are many Germans visiting here and most seem exceptionally friendly. Tara and I have a natural affinity for English people individually. Every time I hear their accent, I hope the Scots are treating them nicely.

After dinner in a Hanover Street restaurant, we walk home. I figure I've covered 12 miles today, and my feet are pissed off. "What's wrong with you, Richard? This is ridiculous. You're not thinking of us, are you? We fookin' hurt."

After looking into this, I find my well-cushioned cross-trainers are causing my feet to roll inward onto my big toe with each step -- evidently a major problem with shoes that provide a lot of spring to your stride.

JULY  23, FRIDAY: This is the big day. To say Cheyenne is excited about appearing in a Scottish Opera production of Revolution would be to flirt dangerously with understatement.

I'm going to miss setting off every morning with my daughter, so this morning I video most of our journey to the theater. This is fine with Cheyenne until we near the stage door, where she whispers loudly, "Stop the video, Dad. Please!"

"Am I embarrassing you."

"Yes."

"Do good today. I love you."

The major story in the papers today is an expose about how the British people are being ripped off on car prices. The people here will pay up to 90 percent more for a car than people pay across the channel for the same car. As an example, a Honda Civic which is manufactured in Swindon, England costs £9,681. But the same car costs £5,122 in Denmark. The Land Rover Discovery may be build in Silihull, England, but it still costs 42 percent more here than it does in Spain. Et cetera.

The people are pissed off at the shocking scale of the rip-off. Stephen Byers, Trade and Industry Secretary unveiled the Labor party's crusade to combat the problem, and urged consumers to act more like brash Americans who would never be afraid to deal directly with such a problem. He added, "For too long the attitude in Britain has been that 'Things could be worse,' rather than 'Things should be better.'"

From my own observations, the Brits might be well served to challenge a lot of things. For starters, if I had to pay a huge TV tax on every set in my house, I'd demand some watchable TV. But then I'm a brash American.

Tara, Hunter and I meet Cheyenne at 4 PM. She has two hours before returning to the theater to get into her costume for the performance.

"You can choose where we have dinner," I say.

"KFC," Cheyenne says.

"Of all the restaurants in Edinburgh you want Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

She nods enthusiastically.

"KFC it is."

Over dinner she is quite calm. Only once when she and I are walking down the street well in front of Tara and Hunter does she say, "I sure hope I don't mess up, Dad."

"You won't. You know your lyrics, right?"

"Right."

"You know your moves. You did two dress rehearsals today, right?"

"Right."

"You've got it then. You'll do fine."

The Edinburgh Festival Theater is a glass front contemporary structure, but inside is an older, elegant house. We attended a ballet here in 1996. Tonight there will be three performances: Summer Holiday is a creative dance presentation featuring very young children. For Nostradamus is a fascinating mixture of Paganism and futuristic dance numbers.

During intermissions we savor Scottish ice cream. Most of the center section of the theater is full and many people are in the first balcony.

Cheyenne's musical play, Revolution is "set on the eve of the French Revolution in 1794, this takes a light hearted look at one of the most important events in French history. The King and his Court make merry with song and dance whilst The Soldiers complain that there is nothing for them to do. However, discontent is rife and when The Bourgeoisie and The Peasants join forces in their fight for Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, it becomes clear that the party days of the nobility are over!"

Tara and I are amazed that the members of the Scottish Opera teaching team has managed to put this semi-professional presentation together in one week. Cheyenne is dressed in a white wig and elegant attire for her part as one of the nobles. She boldly sings out, "Tax them, tax them," as she checks names off in a book. From what I can see, she never misses a word or a beat in any of her scenes.

I know I'm not supposed to, but I manage to video over half the production. Then a flashlight is shined in my face and an usher is evidently assigned to make sure I don't video any more. What can I say, "I'm a brash American and a proud father."

I am impressed with Cheyenne's performance. Tara is impressed. Even Hunter has to admit that sister did good.

When Cheyenne emerges from the theater, Tara hands her a beautiful bouquet of flowers. We celebrate at a favorite restaurant called Brasserie One. The children have banana splits, Tara and I have tea.

Cheyenne says she feels bad that it is all over. "I don't want it to be over."

"Does this experience make you want to be an actress more or less?" I ask.

"Oh more, much more."

"Someday when People magazine is writing about you, you'll have to tell them you got your start in the Scottish Opera in Edinburgh," I say. "And I'll sell them this video." I pat the camera.

"Oh, Dad."

JULY 24, SATURDAY: Tara works all day. I should work, but instead I read Bruce Chatwin's 1977 book In Patagonia. Chatwin, who died in 1989, has to be the finest travel writer of them all when it comes to the quality of writing. This doesn't translate as most enjoyable, but his words are pure poetry.

The rest of the day is spent spreading out maps and reading articles on trekking in three different British outdoor magazines.

The 100-mile trek up the West Highland Way titillates my imagination. Then there is the Southern Upland Way, a trail that cuts all the way across southern Scotland, east coast to west coast -- 212 miles. I've also mapped out a dozen treks around the Isle of Sky. Now, today, I'm learning all about Offer's Dyke Path -- 177 miles across Wales -- Chepstow to Prestatyn -- water to water. According to a lot of long-distance walkers, this path is "not the oldest, nor the longest, but the best," and it can be walked sin two weeks of steady trekking. The scenery and historic sites along the way are most inviting -- from the castled village of Clun (5 miles off the path) to the sites of famous battles. Evidently, very long ago, Welsh King Offa ordered the construction of a dyke from sea to sea, separating Mercia from Wales. What he intended is unclear. Photos of the wall look like a six-foot mole dug his way across the country side. The dyke was probably a political boundary marking the Welsh border.

Tara is fascinated with this trek. We go over all the information together. In talking about how we're going to spend our last week in Scotland, we both decide what we'd really like to do is trek the hills. But we still have seven days left on our train pass and we'll only be here six. Time for some distance trekking on the train.

If we didn't have seminars upcoming, I don't think we'd go home until school starts in September.

To be continued ...

Road Diary
Scotland Part XIV
Last Entries
By Dick Sutphen

JULY 25, SUNDAY: We have seven travel days left on our rail-pass, so we have to go somewhere. Last night we talked about the possibility of going to Wales, which is a long ways a way. An overnight run. But when we get to Waverly at 10:45 AM, we learn it would take over 11 hours just to get there.

No thanks.

Hunter and Cheyenne run to the magazine stand. Tara and I stand beneath the call board. Two trains go to London. Nope. "We could spend the day in Glasgow," I suggest.

"Nah, I don't want to go to Glasgow." Tara wrinkles her nose.

Neither of us have an ounce of affinity for Glasgow.

"If we convert the road diaries to a travel book on Scotland, wouldn't it be lopsided without Glasgow?" I have rewritten and combined segments as chapters and sent them off to English publishers as a book proposal: An American In Scotland. Although no one has purchased, one publisher wants to see more and the editors have been very complimentary. They generally agree, however, that this is a book that should be launched by an American publisher. As a Little Brown editor said, " ... it runs the risk of preaching to the converted." True.

Tara nods to express understanding of the need to include Glasgow but continues to wrinkle her nose.

"We've never spent time in Dundee," I say. "It looks inviting when we shoot past on the train."

"When does the train leave?"

"Two minutes. RUN!"

Hunter and Cheyenne sprint from the magazine stand and we jog to track 16. The conductor is just blowing his whistle for the train to leave. "Hurry on, hurry on," he says, waving his arms.

Hunter thinks we're crazy. He was told to pack a backpack for an overnight stay. Dundee, 90 minutes up the west coast, is not an overnight stay. "It might be better if we PLANNED things," he says.

"That just doesn't seem to work for us," Tara says.

Hunter is right of course. Now we're all stuck with lugging extra-heavy backpacks all day. Or as the Scots would say, "rucksacks."

Although very familiar with this landscape, Tara and I enjoy a rerun. For a moment, I feel as if we've become airborne when the ground drops away and we shoot across the narrow Firth of Forth bridge. Being a Sunday, many sailboats are tacking around in the broad expanse of water. From the center of the bridge you have a perfect view of the wide mouth of the firth opening to the North Sea.

I glance from the landscape to the book I'm reading, back to the landscape, back to the book. A passage in Chatwin's In Patagonia begs to be underlined. While traveling in Argentina Bruce is asked his religion: "'I haven't got any special religion this morning. My God is the God of Walkers. If you walk hard enough, you probably don't need any other God.'"

Dundee is an old seaport, now transformed into an industrial center on the north shore of the Firth of Tay. The fourth largest city in Scotland, Dundee is home to 160,000 people. Back in the 1860s, when steam-powered ships took over the whaling industry, this city became the home port. The nautical and whaling theme is evident everywhere. Downtown is an uneasy mixture of Victorian and contemporary structures. A decorative brick pedestrian street runs through the main shopping area. The streetcar tracks have been filled in, but if you're not careful they'll trip you. The stores here are exactly the same stores you find on most shopping streets in Scotland.

Dundee promotes itself as the "City of Discovery." Although I think the city fathers wish this to have a broader meaning, the slogan is based upon the fact that the Royal Research Ship Discovery, which was trapped in Antarctica ice for two years, is permanently berthed on the waterfront.

As the primary visitor attraction, we decide to visit the ship. This sounds like a boring thing to do on a Sunday afternoon, but it turns out to be most interesting. Built here in 1901 because of Dundee's expertise with whaling vessels, Discovery was designed for Antarctic exploration. The visitor center offers films and impressive displays to tell the story of Captain Robert Falcon Scott's National Antarctic Expedition.

My shaman wife would probably have predicted the events to come based upon an omen. Discovery was given a huge send off in New Zealand. Crowds lined the quays, bands played and boats tooted. In response, a high-spirited young seaman climbed above the crow's nest to the very top of the mainmast to wave to the cheering crowds. Suddenly he fell head first onto the iron deckhouse, dying instantly.

Although ice bound, the ship's crew of 10 officers and 36 men of other ranks, successfully carried out all the planned scientific experiments. But in January 1904, two rescue vessels arrived and Captain Scott was told that if the ship could not be freed by the end of February, she would be abandoned. The Admiralty was not prepared to finance any further relief operations. At this time, 20 miles of ice, eight feet thick, blocked Discovery from the open sea. Using controlled explosions around the ship, combined with the seasonal breakup of the ice, the ship was finally freed.

After experiencing the story through displays, video presentations, and in a large theater with three moving screens, we visit the ship. The kitchen and various living quarters cause us to linger. We all imagine what it was like being isolated in the coldest place on earth and living like this. What an adventure.

As we ride the train back to Edinburgh, a sense of tourist burnout descends upon me. Maybe I'm ready to go home after all.

JULY 26, MONDAY: Over morning tea, Tara admits that although we have more days on our railpass, she too has reached a level of overwhelm. No more trips. We're both ready to return to our California routines.

The children already have their big suitcases packed in happy  anticipation of our return. But they'll miss the sense of freedom they've experienced in Scotland and they'll miss their friends. Last night, from the apartment window, we watched Hunter playing cricket in Pilrig Park with his friends. (Cricket is a baseball type game played with a flat bat.)

Over brunch we talk about the things we will miss about Scotland. Tara will miss the overall atmosphere of Edinburgh, a lot of the food, the tea shops, and even the British TV channels, including the funny commercials  (heaven help us). She says there is something about this country that touches her soul. It can't be put into words, but she knows she will often long for Scotland.

Cheyenne will miss two friends and she dreams of participating in another play -- the highlight of her trip. The Irn-Bru soft drink is high on her "I'll Miss" list. She won't miss the boys here, "because the boys at home are cuter." She will not miss Scottish TV.  Garbage concert has inspired her to get to more rock concerts.

Hunter claims he'll miss his friends, Princes Street, the city of Edinburgh, McVitie's caramel cookies, Irn-Bru, and South Park being on regular TV. He'll also "kind of" miss going through ancient castles, but he is no fan of the long train rides.

I'll miss the city of Edinburgh and the ease of experiencing everything a great cultural city has to offer. I'll miss the architecture and the sense of living history you encounter every day in a dozen ways. And I'll miss visiting ancient sites that relate to my heritage -- scampering up narrow circular-stone stairways to see where they lead, and hiking across open fields to find standing stones that have been there since the Bronze Age. Our eight weeks in Scotland have filled my mind with vivid, never-to-be-forgotten images.

We have explored a lot of the most important sites and some special minor sites, but there are literally hundreds of places I still want to visit in this country. And I want to walk Scotland. When we leave on Friday, we'll be carrying the books and maps to plan a future trekking expedition.

We've enjoyed living a cosmopolitan lifestyle, but I wouldn't trade it with our California lifestyle. Public transportation has been a delightful experience, but certainly not on a full-time basis. In the heart of Edinburgh there are few places to park, so it would have made little sense to rent a car.

I won't miss British TV, but you already knew that. But there again, last night while writing a note to the CA office on my laptop, I glanced up to see Tara in tears. "What's wrong," I yelled, jumping to my feet, thinking she has perceived some major psychic message.

Instead of answering, she pointed to the telly.

"What? What?" Has someone blown up NY or LA? Has another celebrity died? She can't talk, I grab the TV listing. "ANIMAL PEOPLE: The work of CHATA which specializes in training animals to help raise the spirits of poorly children."

"Tara!"

An hour later, tears dried, my wife is up for more adventure. She watches the biggie for the night. "GROUND FORCE: An assessment of the current status of a former garden transformation."

"Nobody can build a TV show around the reassessment of a garden," I say.

"We never get shows like this at home," Tara says.

"That's because if anyone came up with such an idea they'd be fired at the first planning meeting. That's because if an American network aired such a show, it would rank 168 for the week and the CEO would be hung at Sunset and Vine. That's because ...

"Richard!"

I turn my laptop over to Cheyenne and run with my book to the bedroom. Sadly, this means I'll miss BADGER, my wife's favorite ongoing show -- the saga of an animal policeman who is having an ongoing affair with a veterinarian, while busting criminals who mistreat non-human living things. Tonight's episode: "McCabe suspects a local criminal is responsible for killing birds and poisoning otters near a fishing lake."

Don't let me mislead you. The four channels do offer other things including drab newscasts and the America expose shows I've mention on more than one occasion. And there are soap operas, which I think is the key to understanding Brit TV. I think the Brits tolerate garden shows and baby rabbit shows to get Coronation Street, EastEnders and a dozen similar soap operas. I can't comment upon British soap operas because there is little on earth that could temp me into watching one. But they are strategically interspersed throughout the evening so one is usually showing on one of the channels. These shows and a few American imports are what people actually watch.

When it comes to cable offerings, American shows dominate. A recent newspaper report says Scots are signing up for cable in record numbers. The cable-resistant English, however, are happy with the existing free channels. Considering this English state of mind, maybe it's time for Scotland to invade England--an easy takeover. I'd much prefer a Scottish king or queen. Maybe Billy Connelly would take the job and make the monarchy fun again.

JULY 26, MONDAY: Tara says, "I'd like to go Icelandic pony riding."

"Huh?"

"Icelandic ponies will take us out into the Pentland Hills." I see that she is reading from a brochure, "Out to where buzzards, grouse and skylarks acrobat above the heathery grasslands and where roe deer, foxes and mountain hares find sanctuary."

"Oh, come on."

"Icelandic ponies."

"Tara, I'm six-foot-one, my feet would drag on the ground."

"It would really be fun."

"If you really want to go riding, let's find horses. I'm at home on a horse. Ponies are weird and they're little."

"Haven't found any horses."

"Where buzzards fly and hares find sanctuary?"

Nod.

"Have you watched a BBC show on Icelandic pony riding?"

Tara calls and makes reservations for two adults and two children, Wednesday morning, 10 AM.

"I also need more embossing powder," she says.

"We're going to take embossing to America?"

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't recognize you anymore if your face didn't twinkle."

"Embossing is good."

"Embossing is like the plague -- an airborne contamination."

Tomorrow we're going to the stamp store (if we can ever find it again) to stock up for America.

Hunter, Cheyenne and I go along with mom because we don't want to set her off. The other day she threatened to cook only broccoli from that day forward. Forever! And for five minutes she meant it. Shit! 

JULY 27, TUESDAY: Tara and I sally forth into the sunshine wearing T-shirts. I decide to mail a box of my stuff back to America, until the post office tells me it will cost $75 and take eight weeks.

So I carry the box back home to the apartment, tell Hunter and Cheyenne goodbye again, and we sally forth again in search of a couple cheap travel bags. At a bargain bag shop we find BIG bags for £6.99 each.

"We'll never fit into one cab again."

Tara's sister has had a baby girl, so we search for just the right Scottish tartan newborn attire, then focus upon the stamp store to buy embossing dust. The store which is far, far away.

"Let's take a cab," Tara says.

"You don't have an address."

"Well, it's somewhere up there, and over there and ..."

"Let's walk."

We find the stamp store, Tara lingers longingly over the various colors of metallic dust and purchases $30 worth -- enough to contaminate greater Malibu. (Note: when she later packs her suitcases, I'm assigned to carry the dust in my bag. I protest, because it the glass jars break, everything in the suitcase will turn gold, or silver, or green, or ... But I end up carrying the dust because I don't want to eat broccoli forever.)

We end our shopping day on the third-floor balcony of Waterstone's Books, sipping coffee and looking out at Edinburgh Castle high above us and glowing golden in the afternoon sun. Across the street in the gardens, people cram the wooden benches and sit and lie on the grass. Below us on Princes Street, a sea of tourists meld into each other in great waves of humanity.

I don't want to think about how much we're going to miss this city.

JULY 28, WEDNESDAY: Forty minutes from Edinburgh, on the edge of the tiny village of Carlops, is Windy Gowl Farm and the Pentland Hills Icelandics Trekking Centre. We arrive 20 minutes early and are given riding helmets. Mine looks like a Nazi World War II model. I find out today, that after 30 years of owning horses, I've never used the proper head attire. A straw Stetson doesn't quality. "For insurance purposes" we also have to use the center's boots, which are nothing but basic mud boots.

It was sunny and hot in Edinburgh, not a cloud in the sky. By the time we reach Carlops, the sky is dark and the weather has turned "dull" according to a pony woman at the center. I'd use the word "cold."

Thankfully, Tara is carrying in her backpack, an extra sweater and a fold-out windbreaker. For some reason, that makes no sense considering all my Edinburgh experiences, I set off this morning wearing a Levi's shirt and no jacket.

"Thank you for saving me," I say, "I might have ended up frozen in the saddle ... my frostbitten hands locked around the reins ... my ..."

"Richard, put on the jacket." 

Before proceeding, let me share the rest of the copy from the center's advertising flyer: "The advanced rider on our keen, lively horses will enjoy challenging terrain and plentiful gallops and will soon become addicted to the Icelandic's unique and comfortable tolt whilst at a more sedate speed, the beginners and the novices can improve their riding skills on more placid animals or just relax and enjoy the scenery. Whatever your experience you will have fresh air, extravagant view and an exhilarating feeling of being on top of the world.!"

The words are true, although as we begin our journey, I'm certainly less than enthusiastic.

Islandics are not really ponies, but somewhere between the size of a pony and a horse. They're very sturdy looking, although certainly smaller than any horse I've ever ridden. But at least my feet won't be touching the ground. We're each assigned animals based upon our size and riding experience. A young girl from Edinburgh and her French friend will be riding with us, and we will have a guide.

I can't believe we're going riding for two hours on a "dude string." But that's the way it's done and that's what is.

I do my standard "getting to know you" horse routine of gentle talk, breathing into the animals nostrils, and stroking his neck. As my hand near the animal's ears, he shys noticeably. The pony woman comes over to explain that for some reason he hates to have his ears touched. "He was probably mistreated before he came to the center," she says.

I'm used to western-trained, neck-reining quarter horses. Today I'll be sitting upon a tiny Icelandic saddle, on a horse that responds to double-handed reining. Okay.

Between my Nazi helmet, the mud boots, and me wearing Tara's size small jacket while sitting upon a dwarf horse, my wife wants pictures. "Don't even think about it," I say.

Hunter and Cheyenne have been assigned gentle horses. Cheyenne is excited and wants to trot. "I like everything fast," she says proudly.

Just what a father wants to hear.

Hunter is giving me his, "Why did you let us get roped into this, Dad," look.

"You told your mom you wanted to do it."

"That's only because she would have kept after me until I agreed. It was easier this way."

"What has this taught you?" I ask.

Our string of seven horses and riders walks for the first thirty minutes, passing through gates, down a country lane past small homes, and into open country where tractors are working the fields. We're soon into open country and our guide encourages the group to trot. I find my horse's gate to be clunky, which probably has something do with the animal's size and my size. When we're out into the hills, the guide keeps Hunter and Cheyenne with her, and gives the rest of us the freedom to see what the horses can do. At a full gallop, the ride is incredibly smooth. When Tara and I are galloping along a long path edging a steep drop, I hope our Icelandics are as sure footed as they appear to be. They are.  

The two hours passes quickly. I've enjoyed the experience immensely. Cheyenne had a great time. Hunter is glad it's over. Tara is elated with the experience. She misses her own horse, Li'rica, who is currently experiencing special training in California. The ranch manager is a friend and has notified Tara via e-mail as to Li'rica's progress. Evidently the trainer thinks Li'rica would make a great cutting horse. Tara isn't so sure she wants that. Cowboying isn't her goal. The best horse I've ever owned was an ex-rodeo cutting horse.

The only business in Carlops is the Allan Ramsay Hotel and we have a leisurely Scottish lunch in the pub. One woman tends bar, takes food orders, rushes back to the kitchen to cook the food. When it's ready, she serves it herself. Five tables are full of people and a couple men sit at the bar.

"You have your hands full," I say.

"I sure do," she says, but her attitude is upbeat and friendly.

When I pay the bill, she tells me how much she would like to visit America. "I understand everything costs only half as much there as it does here," she says.

"That's true," I say.

"I'd feel rich there," she says. "I could use a little of that."

On the way back to Edinburgh, we discuss what we're most looking forward to about returning home. Cheyenne can't wait to see her cat and dog and to call her friends, plus she claims to miss EVERYTHING about home.

Hunter wants to see his animals, his friends, play his video games and take a real shower with enough water pressure to get the shampoo out of his hair. After sharing a room with his sister for ten weeks, he's also looking forward to having his own room.

Tara looks forward to seeing the family, riding her horse, having more than one suitcase of clothes to wear, being back at the beach, good Mexican food, enjoying her flower gardens, being able to use our walk-in shower, and seeing our cats and dogs.

I too look forward to seeing the family and catching up on all the news. After that, I know I'll enjoy a regular work schedule and writing on a split keyboard and full-size computer. Also, walking the beaches, shifting my car through the switch-back mountains that separate our home and office, my music played loud, Malibu weather, American theaters with dozens of film choices, American TV, American prices. Southern California and Arizona culture permeates my soul and I anxiously anticipate experiencing favorite aspects of southwestern culture. 

As much as we've loved Scotland, living here has made us appreciate America and our lifestyle more than ever before. We will, however, anxiously look forward to our next Edinburgh visit.

This will be my last Road Diary entry from Scotland. I've enjoyed spending an hour or two each day, sharing the journey. And I want to thank everyone who has joined us on our travels through this medium. I hope I've inspired you to visit Scotland on your own. Our July photos will be posted the first week of August.

Thanks for reading.

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