Memories of Scotland

Megan and me at Culloden,
Can't you just feel the wet cold on that vast battlefield?

If you know me, you know I’m not a traveler. I’m just too content tucked away in my cottage with good friends coming to visit me. Oh, maybe before quarantine, I was a bit more inclined to get out, but quarantine worked a number on me when I saw how easy it was to stay home. But there’s another side to me—and that’s my ferocious love for Scotland. Believe me, in my younger years I traveled enough to see a lot of America though never Europe, and I loved many places. But the trip of a lifetime, for me, was 2012 when I went to Scotland with Colin and Megan, my two oldest children.

I don’t care what 23 And Me says about my having no Scottish blood about—I am a member of Clan MacBean, as was my father. And I’m proud that I have been to the MacBean Memorial Park above Loch Ness and that I have signed the clan registry at the Inn of Dores. In the fifties, Hughston MacBain, chairman of the board of Marshall Field & Company, was the MacBain of MacBain, and he used to call Dad and talk about how they were related. My dad loved every minute of it—and I love inheriting that tradition.

So in 2012 we flew to Edinburgh (the only time I stepped foot in England at Heathrow, which had too many escalators for my comfort). We spent a day in Edinburgh, including a wonderful bus tour of the city in a double decker. And then the next day we drove to Inverness, with a stop at Stirling to see the castle and hear the story of William Wallace, hero of the Battle of Stirling (and yes, I ate haggis). What impressed me was the contrast between the intellectual atmosphere of Edinburgh with the university that was the cradle of so much intellectual advancement in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century and the bloody history of Stirling. They don’t call if bloody Scotland for nothing.

What brings this all up now is that it was mid-May when we traveled, and now my computer is spitting up pictures of Scotland every day. I would repeat that trip in a heartbeat. But what dismays me is that many of the images on my computer are not jpegs but something called JSON which I can’t reproduce. So there are wonderful pictures, I can share with you—Megan and me in the door to the Inn of Dores, for instance.

But I can show you the two of us at Culloden, scene of the decisive battle between the forces of England and the followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie who sought autonomy for Scotland. The Scot were technologically outdoor, armed with claymores (swords) while the Brits had rifles and an amazing technique—they lined up three men at a time: one lay flat on the ground, the next knelt, and the third stood and they all fired at the Scots—the guy on the bottom knew not to raise his head or he’d be shot. The Scots had amazing heart and bravery but no rifles.

The display in the visitors’ center at Culloden was amazing—we walked down a corridor, with audio tapes playing on both sides depicting the troops readying for battle: Scots on one side, Brits on the other. Men muttering around campfires as they talked the next day. Then we saw a demonstration of the rifle technique and saw a video that absolutely broke my heart as all those brave Scots rushed to their death. Hero of the battle? Gilles McBain, who killed fifteen or more of the enemy before he was cut down. The Duke of Cumberland, British commander, was said to express regret at the death of so brave a man.

The day we visited Culloden was cold and rainy, and we never ventured out to walk the battlefield, though I would much have liked to. Today it is a peaceful looking, grassy plain, but stone pillars serve as monuments to mark the battlefield. It gave me the shivers and made an enormous impression on me. Note: I’ve heard Americans pronounce the name with equal emphasis on all three syllables, but the Scots emphasize the second: Cul loden.

If I were to travel again, I would go back to Scotland. My heart truly is in the highlands but I am okay with the memories of one glorious trip: eating haggis in pubs in small villages, taking a ferry from the Isle of Skye to the mainland, visiting a different castle every day including Urquhart which was blown up by its defenders to keep it out of the hands of the enemy (most dramatic end to a video I’ve ever seen), tasting Scotch at ten in the morning at a distillery (I am not a Scotch drinker!). It was wonderful, every minute.

Sláinte!

Scottish heritage

I'm a Scot and proud of it, an enrolled member of Clan McBean (only my father spelled it MacBain). Today I brought home a piece of Scotland that I'd taken to a metal shop to have polished. I'm not sure what to call it--I think my parents called it a trivet--but it's a solid brass small stand. I think it was meant for holding your mulled cider in a heavy glass mug as you sat by the fire and, when not in use, tilted upward. You can't see it in the picture, but the MacBain Clan Crest is in the center--Touch Not the Cat Bot a Targe (Touch not the cat without a glove, or beware of messing with the MacBains). I've had this whatever-it-is for years, getting more tarnished by the year. When Jordan and I rearranged the living room, I decided it should sit by the fireplace in the living room and took it to be polished. They put protective lacquer on it, which is the reason, I think, that the crest is hard to see.
The crest shows plainly, however, on a hooked wall hanging that my mother did when she and Dad lived in North Carolina. Hooking, the old fashioned way with a punch needle, was one of the things she took up in retirement. One of the prizes in my house is a quilt made by my oldest son, Colin, who ordered the MacBain plaid fabric and a gold crest from Scotland, and his wife who did all the tedious work of quilting. I proudly hang it in my living room, amidst the mostly southwestern/territorial theme of my house. It's hard to see the plaid in the picture, so there's a close-up of it. (I'm getting more pictures than text.)

One more picture if I can figure out how to fit it in. It's a drawing portraying Gillies McBean at the Battle of Culloden when Bonnie Prince Charles and his Highlanders were soundly defeated (slaughtered is a better word) by the English who had rifles--they had only their claymores. Gillies, however, was a hero/martyr and reportedly slew fourteen men before he was killed. An apocryphal quote from the British general in charge (his name escapes me) is that he wished his men hadn't killed that brave man. The print hangs in my bedroom. Scotland the Brave--forever!