Whisky, Kilts, and the Loch Ness Monster

by William W. Starr

  I beg your indulgence for one other little matter to be discussed before getting on with this narrative. Boswell and Johnson began their Scottish journey in Edinburgh in the Scottish Lowlands. They proceeded up the east coast through Dundee, St. Andrews, and Aberdeen. They turned northwest toward the Highlands and Inverness before snaking southwest past Loch Ness into Fort Augustus and then by boat to the Isle of Skye, part of the Inner Hebrides chain. By land and boat they explored Skye and then the isles of Coll and Mull and Iona, getting back to the mainland near the end of their journey, passing through Glasgow to the south and Boswell’s father’s home at Auchinleck. Their trip finished where it began, back in Edinburgh. There was a logic behind what they did; it was all Boswell’s, for the itinerary and everything else the travelers did was carried out under his guiding hand. Johnson acquiesced in everything that Boswell proposed. Boswell knew that he and Johnson would need to be away from the northernmost outposts before the worst of the fall weather hit in late October and November. I had similar concerns which altered my itinerary.

  Like my earlier companions, I started and ended my trip at Edinburgh. But I had decided to retrace their journey backwards. My reasoning was calculated on the weather; I wanted to defer the most northerly portions of my journey to a time closer to spring in anticipation of less angry weather. No apologies for that, although I would find the weather I encountered to be nonetheless surprising almost every day. In addition my journey would carry me places Boswell and Johnson—indeed, hardly anyone in the eighteenth century and not many since—had no desire to go: to the Outer Hebrides and to the Orkney Islands, two of the most remote, isolated, and unimaginably different places to be found in all of Scotland. They were key parts of my belief that a greater familiarity with all of Scotland would give my accounts of Boswell and Johnson a sense of deeper knowledge and a wider perspective. Happily that plan proved providential, and I’m glad I did it; I believe it has broadened this book in many ways. What I found in visiting those extraordinary and out-of-the-way places gave me a greater sensitivity to what Boswell and Johnson experienced, the discovery of the new and the unexpected, as they shaped my awareness of Scotland’s remarkable people, its history, and its culture.

  So this will not be an exact re-creation of where and how Boswell and Johnson moved in 1773. Such a journey lies beyond my capacity, and I’m not convinced that an attempt at a geographic and geological re-creation of their experiences would hold readers’ attention today. I like to think I have good company in not following the two men slavishly. Those books written since 1773 that have chronicled the journey have usually done so on their author’s own terms and according to their personal inclinations, at least part of the way. Some authors have attempted a minute, precise re-creation of the journey; others have written more generally, and still others have been considerably more casual, hitting only a few high points here and there. A few authors seem to have used the trip as a backdrop for commentary only loosely connected to Boswell, Johnson, or even Scotland.

  Whatever the merits of those authors, and whatever their motivations, I do believe that all of us came to Scotland, to this journey under the inspiration of Boswell and Johnson. All of us carried in our baggage a series of expectations, hopes, and our own gifts of observation and artistry. The earliest followers didn’t have the benefit of Boswell’s uncensored entries and so missed out on many of the pleasures to be found in the modern editions. Their advantage was that they were closer to the time of both men, and what they saw physically existed in much different form than what could be seen in the early twenty-first century. A house where the two men stayed overnight, perhaps, or a landing where they went ashore—those have disappeared through the wear of time or human carelessness. It’s a trade-off, since the twenty-first century gives us an easier physical access that earlier writers would have envied. But all of us who have pursued the trail of Boswell and Johnson know we have been fortunate to been able to make the journey to whatever degree accomplished. We are the lucky ones.

  I also believe that all of us have drawn solace and confidence and truth in one way or another from the words of Johnson, which serve both as a close to this chapter and a preface to the next: “I know not any thing more pleasant, or more instructive, than to compare experience with expectation, or to register from time to time the difference between idea and reality.”

  1

  Stirling

  After a brief exchange of pleasantries with the rental car agent and reminders of the differences between American English and Scottish English (the luggage goes into the boot, not the trunk, and the engine is housed under the bonnet, not the hood), and armed with directions to a nearby mobile phone store, I departed Edinburgh Airport to begin my journey. Thirty minutes later I was back at the airport after driving in a narrowing series of circles in hopeless search of the exit to the phone store, a trip made all the more exciting by the necessity of driving on the wrong side of the road.

  The day was warm with temperatures near seventy, but I was sweating like a high schooler on exam day after attempting to negotiate one roundabout after another, keeping my car in the correct lane while searching for the proper exit. I didn’t spot a person I could ask for help, although, as an overconfident male I’d never descend to actually asking anyone for directions. Besides, I couldn’t find any place to slow the car, so help was out of the question. The thought did occur to me that in a bizarre way this experience was related to some unanticipated problems encountered by Boswell and Johnson, and that we were already becoming united by a similarity of travel stresses. Either that or I was getting tired really fast.

  After nearly an hour of this foolishness, asking myself how important could a mobile phone be, I spotted a sign to Stirling, my planned first night’s stop, and I abandoned plans for phoning in favor of a shower, some clean clothes, food, and a wee dram of Scotch. The M9 and M80 obliged, and with growing levels of confidence and weariness, I drove to my refuge near the base of the commanding presence that is Stirling Castle.

  My home for the night would be an attractive, two-story bed and breakfast tucked into the side of the mountain of Stirling Castle Rock, several hundred feet below the castle walls. It certainly felt safe. It was operated by a pleasant couple; he offered to help me get my bags into the room, and she offered helpful advice about getting around the neighborhood. It would be the last time I would see him. He remained glued to the telly for football the entire period of my stay. Boswell and Johnson never got to Stirling, unfortunately, so I was on my own for a bit, shaking jet lag and getting to know this small piece of Scotland better.

  This was not my first trip to Scotland—that occurred about thirty years ago when I spent ten days in Tayside, perambulating around some castles and historic scenery while demonstrating a keen knowledge of single malts. I was in the company of a small group of mean-spirited travel writers who seemed to regard me with nearly as much affection as Norwegians lavish on the Germans. In a bus in Oslo several years ago, a German couple boarded, speaking their native language. I’m not sure they heard the driver call them “fucking Nazi whores.” I later asked the driver why he was so upset. “Ever heard of the Second World War?” he snarled back to me. There are a lot of long memories out there, obviously. My travel writer companions played a nasty trick, cashing in on my naiveté (witless even by ordinary standards of naiveté) when we visited gorgeous Blair Castle to meet its owner, the duke of Atholl. The duke was a delightful man, charming in a nonfussy sort of way, and rather laid back. Asking my “friends” how I should properly address the duke, I was told by several that I should be certain to call him Duke. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Oh, yes,” they reassured me, suppressing giggles I ignored.

  And so, when my turn arrived I stepped forward and confidently, even loudly, blurted out, “Good morning, Duke.” Not “Your Lordship.” Not “Sir.” Not nothing at all. Just “Good morning, Duke.” It remains a low point in a life filled with them, and I still hear the raucous laught
er from the writers as clearly as I see the duke’s raised eyebrows and startled, then half-smiling response. He was a really nice duke, but can you say cringe?

  Mercifully, let me change the subject. My first evening’s dinner in Scotland took place in a small stone pub located a few feet higher up on the rock. No bangers and mash here, just garlic chicken, perfectly roasted, with a side of fresh beans. It was not to be the last gustatory treat I’d find in Scottish restaurants. There was one slightly curious moment when I realized the music being piped in was not Scottish. In fact it was Glen Campbell, tune after tune after tune, followed by Ricky Nelson and the Byrds in an all-American 1960s pop fest, sounding ever more odd in a pub almost inside a centuries-old castle.

  After dinner I drove to a grocery about a mile away to load up on water and snacks. The weather, curiously warm and sunny on my arrival, by now had collapsed into a very chilly rain followed by a drizzle and then by a hard rain. In the store I was paying for my stash when the cashier stopped and asked about my accent. “You from the States?” she inquired with her own Scottish accent. “I’ve got friends in Mount Pleasant near Charleston in South Carolina. You know them?” Well, no, but I lived for forty years in South Carolina and discovering a connection to the state through a cashier in the middle of Scotland was not what I had anticipated within my first hours in this country. And yes, I know, it’s a very small world. And so, as Mr. Pepys put it, to bed. And to dream right through a lunar eclipse, a phenomenon that might have been construed as some sort of omen for my trip, had I been awake to know about it.

  I awoke to a tasty Scottish breakfast of eggs, sausage, tomatoes, and tea. I would get used to that combination. Outside my window there was an interesting variety of wildlife: two owls on a tree, a fox lurking in the distance, and an unidentified rodent nearby. In the distance I could see a set of gorgeous snow-covered peaks. It was near freezing outside, but the rain had stopped. I decided first to resolve the issue with the phone, and my hostess directed me to a mall in downtown Stirling.

  Because of the strategic importance of Stirling Castle through the centuries, the royal burgh of Stirling at its base has always been a thriving market. With the castle drawing half a million visitors each year, there’s a splendid opportunity for merchants to make a little money. I located the mall with ease and negotiated a parking place with some unease given that the lines seemed drawn to fit bicycles more than automobiles. It took me a moment to realize with embarrassment that I had in fact tried to park in a slot reserved for bicycles.

  Inside the mall I found the phone store and several young clerks who spoke an incomprehensible language which occasionally sounded Scottish. As we discussed various phone cards, the first one seemed to be saying something like, “Yuk nae come t’ slip ’er here” while I repeatedly added, “What?” The first clerk then waved over a second clerk to better assist me. “Nae twim es ’er skurren?” he said pointing to the card. I figured they both must be immigrants from some bizarre planet until a just-arrived customer next to me explained, in a lovely, flowing brogue, “They’re from Glasgow.” With his assistance as translator, I got my phone card. I next acquired an umbrella and a toothbrush, decided I’d postpone the Glasgow portion of my trip until the very end, and headed for the castle as a cold rain began to fall.

  Boswell certainly knew of the castle, and Johnson, too, given the pivotal role it has played in Scottish history and the seemingly endless conflicts between the Scots and the English. Over the years it has been both a fortress and a royal residence perched high on a rocky crag commanding the road linking the Highlands and Lowlands. For much of the last eight hundred years the surrounding lands have been swampy, and that, together with the rushing waters of the River Forth and the nearby mountain peaks, has made passage though this area pretty much at the pleasure of the occupants of the castle. The first known existence of a fortress on this site goes back to the twelfth century, though given its prominence—that’s a pun, in case you failed to notice—it was likely occupied well before then.

  The buildings that now comprise the castle date to the 1400s and 1500s and offer a memorable impression of the architecture of medieval and Renaissance Scotland. The castle is a test for the slothful; its up and downs can take the breath away from the out-of-shape, but the views from the perimeter are always bracing. It must have given the soldiers stationed here an occasional lift; and since they used to wash their clothes in urine, I would imagine almost anything would perk up their spirits. My stroll through the castle came as winds buffeted the walls and cold rain poured down. It certainly kept the crowds down; there was no one else in sight as I ducked in and out of the buildings. At the gift shop I bought a guidebook and three tiny, single-shot bottles of single malts; who knew gift shops could be so gifted?

  Stirling Castle and Edinburgh Castle are the two most formidable castles in this nation, and one look tells you why: location, location, location. They are very high up, and to enemies they must have appeared mighty and impregnable. Trying to storm either one would have been folly. Stirling played a critical role in the Scottish resistance to invaders from England in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and for the next couple of centuries it was a royal residence. King James V was crowned in the castle in 1513; he probably didn’t remember much about it since he was seventeen months old at the time. Mary, queen of Scots, got her crown here in 1543. Once the kings departed—the English eventually won, you may know—the castle’s upkeep diminished, and it wasn’t until the twentieth century that efforts began to preserve and restore its undoubted grandeur.

  Moving about between the showers, I walked through the courtyards, the royal apartments, the lovely Chapel Royal (which looks like but isn’t the chapel where Mary was crowned), and finally the Great Hall, the largest ever built in Scotland. It is a huge rectangular space clearly designed for celebrations and great state occasions. Until 1964 it had been used as a military barracks for men of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders; now workers are returning it to its former glory, and already visitors can sense some of its earlier magnificence. Outside the rain stopped, and I walked over to the edge of a wall to get a better view of the countryside; there was a rainbow in front of me, and within minutes another developed to the north, and moments later one appeared to the south as well. The weather began clearing, and within fifteen minutes the rain had ceased, the sun was out, and the wind dropped. They weren’t kidding when they said Scotland’s weather was changeable. And quickly.

  The castle’s history and location have encompassed some of Scotland’s greatest—and worst—historical moments and personalities. Robert the Bruce, a celebrated king of the Scots, enjoyed a resounding triumph over the English at the famous battle of Bannockburn in 1314; the battle site is located just a short distance south of the castle. It was also home to the Stewarts (that would be the Jameses, not the Jimmys) and, of course, to Mary, queen of Scots, whose colorfully tragic life has made her a central figure in the burgeoning Scottish tourist industry. She was at the heart of clashes between the Scots and the English, between Catholics and Protestants, between the nobility and everyone else, and her life was filled with exciting fireworks until she was imprisoned in various castles and later beheaded by order of her cousin Queen Elizabeth I in 1587. Some of those fireworks—literally—occurred in Stirling Castle, which was the site of the first fireworks show in Scottish history when Mary celebrated the baptism of her son, Prince James, in 1566. While Mary’s historic significance is unquestioned, I should note that tourist operators in Scotland are not shy about connecting her to just about any place they can since it encourages more visitors to stop by. Americans do the same with George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Elvis.

  And speaking of icons, there is another Scottish figure impossible to overlook while you’re in Stirling, or anywhere else in Scotland these days. I’m speaking, of course, of William Wallace, the consummate Scottish hero, better known these days as Mel Gibson’s Braveheart. Of course there was a real Wal
lace, although actual information about him remains elusive, in part because he is a figure of the very distant past, and in part because almost everything we know about him contemporaneously derives from enemy sources. Their accounts, as you might imagine, are less than admiring. Bloody criminal, maybe, or thief and brigand. He was accused of everything but eating small English babies.

  The real Wallace was born about 1270 and was a genuine hero who led an unexpectedly successful rebellion against the much larger occupying army of the nasty English King Edward I in 1297 in a battle at Stirling Bridge, just down the street from the Castle. He was a warrior, and he could be brutal, but by one account he was “a multilingual diplomat who was sent on embassies to France and Rome.” Stories about Wallace began to appear in print just a few years after his death. One of the better known and most popular is Walter Bower’s Scotichronicon, written in the 1440s, that gives us a portrait of Wallace: he had the body of a giant with a wild but pleasing look about him. He was “most liberal in his gifts, very fair in his judgments, most compassionate in comforting the sad, a most skillful counsellor, very patient when suffering, a distinguished speaker, who above all hunted down falsehood and deceit and detested treachery.” Now we know why he didn’t eat small English babies—clearly he was way too busy to have free time to munch on children.

  Unfortunately his battlefield record was not unblemished. He had a rematch with King Edward’s army in 1298 at Falkirk, just a few miles from Stirling, and was defeated. The story is that Robert the Bruce played a big role in the failure of the Scots on that battlefield; defenders of Robert deny this vigorously. Wallace was an outlaw to the English, a man with a price on his head. Though the Scots eventually submitted to King Edward, the English finally seized Wallace—or he was betrayed, take your choice. Betrayal is big in Scottish history. He was taken to England to be torn limb from limb in 1305 on the eve of St. Bartholomew’s Fair at Smithfield, his remains said to be scattered around Scotland to discourage further disturbances. It was a terrible epiphany for Wallace, but he quickly became the greatest martyr in the cause of Scottish nationalism. He has been celebrated ever since. Robert Burns, Scotland’s national poet, wrote in 1786, after a visit to one of Wallace’s alleged safe havens in Ayrshire, “my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a Song on him equal to his merits.”