An
Invitation
But
first, before you see heaven’s glory,
May ye get mony a merry story.
Robert
Burns
“Liz,
are you off to Scotland again?”
I
blush to confess it. Aye.
But
when my visits became an annual pilgrimage, when every spare penny and
frequent-flier mile was earmarked “Glasgow,” when I had to build more
bookshelves to hold all my treasured tomes from you-know-where, one fact
became abundantly clear: Scotland had captured my heart and was not about to
let go.
So…let’s
go, shall we? Just the two of us?
Rather
than running breathlessly from one end of the country to the other, we’ll
take a leisurely turn around South West Scotland, known as Dumfries and
Galloway. Many travelers bypass this quiet corner, eager to experience the
stark beauty of the Highlands—a sight worth seeing, to be sure. But I
consider Galloway the country’s best-kept secret: a place where time holds
its breath, where ancient ruins dot the countryside in moss-covered splendor,
where the natives are friendly and the tourists are few, only because they don’t
know what they’re missing.
So,
ten days in bonny Scotland. You’ll join me, aye?
May
is the best month for a leap across the pond. The sun rises by five and
tarries past nine, providing ample time to wander down every footpath that
beckons. The air is scented with lilacs. Month-old lambs gambol along the
hedgerows, and the rolling hills and glens are covered with the greenest grass
you can imagine.
I’m
on tiptoe just thinking about it.
Don’t
worry about the driving; a steering wheel on the right side of the car and
traffic on the left side of the road feel perfectly natural to me. Besides, in
May we’ll have the place to ourselves. Students are still in school, and
most tourists wait for summer. English sightseers, however, barrel up the M6
motorway on the weekends, so we’ll plan to arrive on a Sunday and depart on
a Tuesday. That will give us lots of weekdays to poke about the village shops
and explore half a dozen castles and linger over pots of tea and nibble on
scones and…
Oh,
is it May yet?
Glasgow
Bound
It’s
always May, if only in our hearts.
Our
Continental flight leaves in an hour, and the passengers in the gate area are
growing restless. The novel stuffed in my purse remains untouched; my plane
ticket has been consulted many times. Still
safely in place. Still a 7:50 p.m. departure.
I
duck my head to hide a smile and see you do the same. No matter the dialect, a
mother’s words are universal.
When
the first wave of passengers begins to board, we gather our belongings and
follow the herd, trying not to be envious of all that legroom in the
business-class cabin. No matter. Business or coach, high road or low road, we’ll
all be in Scotland afore long.
Truly,
that’s all that matters.
“Why
Scotland,
Liz?”
I’m
asked that question so often I really should have a snappy answer at the
ready. “Because it’s the loveliest place on earth” is a beginning. “Because
I’m fascinated by the country’s history” offers some justification. “Because
men in kilts make my heart skip a beat” may be true, though it’s the skirl
of a lone bagpipe that brings a lump to my throat. Crawfords and Walkers, two
fine Lowland names, grow in my family tree, but we’ve yet to find our roots
definitively planted in Caledonian soil.
How
then to explain my abiding affection for Scotland, a country small enough to
fit inside the state of Indiana with room to spare?
Perhaps
because when I’m there, I have a sense of rightness, of completion, of
belonging.
The
verdant, rolling hills remind me of places I’ve lived—eastern Pennsylvania
and central Kentucky in particular—yet the angle of the sun falling across
the Lowland moors is uniquely Scottish. That slanted light works a kind of
magic on me. The misty air softens my complexion. Sleep comes easily.
Contentment seeps into my bones. I bite into a freshly baked oatcake, covered
with a generous slice of sharp Galloway cheese, then sip milk-laced tea, hot
enough to numb my lips, and I’m within walking distance of heaven.
I’ve
felt this way since May 1996 when I first crossed the English border, driving
north from Manchester Airport,
and was greeted by a sign shaped like an arched door bearing a regal red lion
and a single word in bold letters: SCOTLAND. I parked on the shoulder of the
road, hands trembling as I photographed the sign, and then I wept with joy.
Home,
home, home.
Bless
you for coming, my friend.
COUNTING
THE HOURS
As
we settle into our coach-cabin seats, the screen in front of us displays a map
of the eastern half of the United States and the western half of Europe, with
a dotted line showing our intended route arching over New England before
heading out to sea. We’ll cover a daunting number of miles tonight: more
than three thousand. Had fictional Jamie McKie, the hero from my Lowlands of
Scotland novels, sailed across the Atlantic in the late eighteenth century,
the crossing would have taken two months. Hard to fathom we’ll cover the
same distance in mere hours.
Dinner,
such as it is, will come and go soon after takeoff. Might be a good idea to
set our watches on Glasgow time—five hours later than New York—if only to
remind us it’s already 1:00 a.m. where we’re headed. Sleep is a must, or
we’ll spend our first day in a jet-lagged stupor.
I
gaze out the window as we taxi from the gate, anticipation thrumming inside
me. In little more than six hours we’ll begin our descent over
Sleep?
Who am I kidding?
We’re
flying toward Scotland. We’re flying toward dawn.
The
sky was a luminous dark blue with a faint pattern of clouds. As Leana watched,
the color changed to turquoise so gradually she could not discern how or when
it happened. Yet when she looked down for a moment to brush a leaf from her
lap, then looked up again, the sky was lighter. And fading to gray.
Leana
heard footsteps. Then Jamie’s voice. “’Tis a beautiful sight first thing
in the morning.”
Whence Came a Prince
Copyright
© 2007
Liz Curtis Higgs
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