Scotland and Aye
Sophia Wasiak Butler
I dedicate this book to my Mum and Dad, for never ever giving up.
Acknowledgements
A London girl falls in love with a Scotsman and moves to a remote hamlet in Scotland.
These articles came out of the cultural shock of living in a rural place forgotten by time. Writing became my most faithful, dependable and nonjudgemental companion together with cigarettes and cheap wine.
The Polish newspaper in London ‘Nowy Czas’, decided to publish my musings on the experience and gave me a permanent presence in it’s pages. The multicultural theme, very much in vogue at the time and ever present in the media opened the door for my type of writing.
I got immediate feed back from a varied readership. The repeating phrases for my ‘adventures’ were: “Bridget Jones goes rural in Scotland,” “From party girl to country bumpkin in a couple of months.” My misfortunes seemed to strike a chord with my readers. After all, everybody loved watching Bridget Jones fall flat on her face in a mudd puddle! I was a fish out of water, but even that was the understatement of the century!
Humour aside, my heart was on the line. I was in love, but in foreign waters and insecure on all fronts. My readers’ emotional reaction to my story was seriously overwhelming, some people were willing to come and help start my garden, some gave practical advice on how to handle animals, and later in the story, I even got a marriage proposal to get me away from that ‘brute’ Scotsman!
They say, if God loves you, he’ll grant you your wish. So I got the man of my dreams (then) and I got eco, self-sustainable country life. I did everything I could with the resources I had at the time. My deepest desire is that no-one should be stopped in following their heart and taking a chance. Each journey is unique and yes, it hurts, to realise that yours itsn’t the one paved with roses. There is no shame in learning, in trying and those who tell you otherwise have probably never taken a chance in their lives. The likelihood is that their dreams are far more troubling than yours.
My gratitude goes to life itself because it is the source of everything. To all the people who crossed my path, because nobody is ever the sole creator of themselves. I thank my editors at ‘Nowy Czas’ for taking a chance on me. As for my readers, I’m holding them fully responsible for the enthusiastic encouragement which kept me going. My gratitude also goes to the Polonia Aid Foundation Trust for believing in me and for their support. I am very grateful to Frank Taylor for the gift of some of his photos to liven up these pages. A heartfelt thank-you to Curro Marcos for his unwaivering support, patience and endless supply of delicious tortillas and guitar music without which I could not have completed the book! Thank you to my wonderful Auntie Regina who would never stop reminding me: “Sophie, live cleverly, so you’ll always find time for love and writing”. I want to say the biggest thank you to my friends, whose contribution to my life is priceless and who know me like nobody else knows me. And finally, I would like to bow to my wonderful parents, my dad who put me on the path to spiritual growth and my mum, who embodies life’s grace and beauty. My first and most vital teachers.
Have fun on the journey. I’ll see you at the other end.
Sophia Wasiak Butler.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Before the Beginning
The Call of the Wild
The Goat Chronicles
Caine Meets His Match and Zosia Ponders on Scottish Soil
A Long Way From Home
The End of a Goat Era
A Wish for Joy on the Journey
Free Falling
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Looking Into the Crystal Ball
How to Beat the Winter Blues
A Lesson in Love from Hamish
A Wild Goose Chase for a Book and a Whisky
Time for a Spring Clean
A Handful of Ash
Message in a Bottle
The Price of Elegance
The Bonds of Matrimony
Fatherly Love
A New Chapter
After the End
Copyright
Before the Beginning
Trip on the River (Spływ Dunajcem)
If it’s true that we only have two choices in life: what we do and who we do it with, I didn’t know what I wanted to do and had nobody to do it with. As a literature graduate, I felt like a soldier in the Foreign Legion ready for hire. We were the generation of over-educated losers, because we lost out on the times when the economy was thriving, money was easy to make, jobs were plentiful and love was an easily obtainable commodity. My friends and I threw ourselves into revelling over the summer, anticipating the beginning of ‘real’ life. Those who chose more practical degrees found their three-year stint qualified them to do something – literature proved that I could read and write coherently and structure an opinion of a text – not skills which appear in an employer’s top ten which seems to read ‘Experience x10’. I was at a loss, my friends were either bogged down in further academia and the mire of a life-consuming Masters degree, or working jobs which made them want to ‘end-it-all’. By chance a friend told me about the programme at the Uniwersytet Jagiellonski (Jagiellonian University): a six month to one-year course in the Polish language with a choice of subjects from cooking to Polish history. I knew I had to go, Kraków is my favourite city, far outweighing Venice or Paris in my humble opinion. It is truly romantic with its cobbled streets steeped in history, enchanting tiny alleyways and dungeon-like stone basements.
I have always felt a sense of being torn between two cultures and names: Sophia and Zosia. As a child I grew up in what we affectionately termed the ‘United Nations’: of all my inner city friends, not one was completely English, so the whole business of being picked up by relations and prszyszywane Ciocie1 who did not speak English was an ordinary experience. I much preferred the freedom of Poland, spending every holiday there with my Ciocia and Wujek2 who live in a small town. Each day I was let out to run free with all the children on the street, knowing I had to come back for obiad3 at two o’clock and kolacja4 followed by ‘Dobranocka’5 at seven. It was so much more relaxed than the London way of mums ringing each other and driving to surgically accurate playdates, until a quarter past four and not a minute more.
The freedom of expressing myself in two languages has been a discovery – I am completely different in each language and culture, but my identification had been primarily with Poland. Whether that is because my mother is Polish and I grew up with her, I am not sure. Yet, I felt that I had not completely immersed myself in ‘Polishness’ because I had never lived there. As I progressed through my okres buntu6, I was able to stop fighting being English and accept that I am mixed, which allows me the possibility of picking the best qualities from each culture. It took me a long time to realise that in rejecting being English, I was rejecting half of myself, not to mention my father. Over time, having reconciled myself to being a ‘mongrel’ and embracing Britishness, I felt that I would like to live in Poland in order to meet the practicalities of being a citizen, such as the procedure for paying bills and opening a bank account. This opportunity was perfect. I trusted that I would have a wonderful six months because the city itself promotes contentedness in its beauty, but I could not have known that I would meet friends who I hope to know for the rest of my life.
At the Uniwersytet Jagiellonski we were told to walk around Kraków looking up and down from the kamiennice7 to the dachy8 in order to appreciate the richness of the city. Whilst there I met many mieszanki9 like myself of all shapes and ages, with Polish heritage. There were students from Egypt, America, Australia and all over Europe
. It was wonderful to interact with so many ‘mixed’ people who could all relate to the stereotypical bossy Polish mother and the Ciocie who kept you well fed over the holidays. Attending our school there were also a couple of men who had married Polish women and wished to learn the language (this greatly impressed everyone) and more than a few Japanese students who wished to be able to read Polish pedagogues who were not often translated into Japanese. One character who I remember with a smile, was a sixty-something retired Japanese man who was dismayed to find that his wife did not take to suddenly having him around the house with nothing to do. He therefore went to a language school, in pursuit of a hobby and the first teacher he had the opportunity to speak to, being a Polish one, sent him to Kraków where he was happily studying whilst living with a family.
The six months that I spent there were golden; full of pierogi ruskie10, piwko11, friends, dancing and walks by the Wisla. Nasza paczka12 consisted of four girls: Detta from Australia, Ania from Germany but living in Italy, Basia from Hungary and of course myself from England. The two boys were Mateusz from America and Stefan from Holland. Together we were ‘The Snobs’ (ironically named because we had tried to encourage others to party with us and break-up language and ability groups, but without success). We were all on different language levels; some had been forced into Polish Sunday school, some had two parents at home speaking Polish and some had spent many holidays in the native land. The school provided classes for people from ‘Dziendobry!’13 to Mickiewicz14 and was situated on the Ulica Grodzka15. For me this meant a daily walk across the rynek16, at eight in the morning when the locals could be seen, hurrying to work and re-stocking the much frequented bars, cafes and restaurants in the central square and a very different walk in the early evening when the strolling tourists would take-over. Kraków is the only city I have seen, apart from London, where there is no noticeable ebb and flow of tourism in the rynek – come snow or sun, they are out in their droves. This is potentially annoying if you live in the city, but it does mean that there are lots of young international people to feed the club and bar scene.
One particular club which stood out was the legendary ‘Kitsch’ which has since made it’s way into the guidebooks and the news. The huge concrete staircase where we had stood many a time in gridlocked traffic collapsed in November of 2010, leaving eleven injured and 2,000 evacuated. When we first started going, there was only the occasional arrow sticker on a street corner as a clue to finding it. This towering building housed three different musical offerings from rock to cheese to pop heaven. It was a health and safety nightmare with no visible fire escape routes, a murky interior and three storeys of beer-coated, narrow stairways. A grimy fest of sweat, smoke and terrible music usually playing the same tunes repeatedly, so why did we go almost every night? Because it was at ‘Kitsch’ that I discovered it did not take chemical substances to dance until 6 a.m.!
Aside from the partying, Kraków inspired me to explore its crevices, which are full of tiny coffee shops where you can imagine ladies in velvet gloves smoking dainty cigarettes out of long holders. Detta and I decided to be cultured by agreeing on one night a week when we played chess in a coffee shop or bar – the loser had to buy the beers. One of the interesting things we found, was how many men would stare in disbelief at two young women using their brains. Sometimes they were polite and asked if they could watch, others just hovered around us, and some directly informed us of what our next play should be, presuming of course, that we were in desperate need of help. In the main however, we met some locals and made some friends this way (with a few checkmates being avoided). Although – truth be told, it was admittedly fun to shock people – it was only men who seemed to react, I do not recall a woman ever studying us like evolving monkeys in a zoo. The implications are quite worrying. Are women not expected to be able to play chess? Has our media promotion of bimbos lowered women’s image? Or do two people sitting and playing a game seem old-fashioned now – would it be less conspicuous if we had our heads plugged into game consoles? I know that at my brother’s school for example (he is eight), there is no chess club and he will not readily play a board game. Understandably he prefers to run around with his Nintendo Wii, than listen to his big sister laboriously explain how the horse is different from the rook.
Our group of friends all came together at different times in life, in order to take the next step in meeting ourselves. Poland gave us all a wonderful experience, a sense of connection to our roots that reached beyond childhood and family and into an immediate contemporary experience. The school part was more demanding than I had anticipated. I thought I was getting a break from serious study, but the Polish system is more rigorous than our own. I now thoroughly understand the widespread use of sciagi17 by students of all ages in Poland. We were in the classroom from eight-thirty sharp for ‘meldowanie’, or the roll-call ritual with Pan Pyzik (the best wychowawca18 if you are ever going to do the course, pray to be in his class), sometimes until seven at night.
‘The Snobs’ are all in touch, we have planned several big reunions over the years, the most important is for Ania’s wedding in two years time. The week when everyone left was full of tears but also of laughs, at how lucky we were to have taken the decision to come back to the native land when we did. Certainly, Kraków marked a before and after for each of us. For me, it was a reminder that there are wonderful people all over the world, who can be found on many different paths. My conviction to step out and dare to try my dreams has led me to a cottage in a remote Scottish hamlet, from where I write this. Once you’ve heard the call of the wild it’s enough to set you out on a journey. The wind howls at the windows and the dogs sleep at my feet. I must still be young because my excitement is greater than my anxiety. I feel I have arrived. The voice in my head tells me: “I belong to be here.” And so begins my Scottish life.
The Snob club
1 People who you call Auntie but you have no actual blood relation to
2 Aunt and Uncle
3 Lunch
4 Dinner
5 A goodnight story religiously watched by all Polish children after dinner and before bed
6 Rebellious period
7 Stone basements
8 Rooves
9 People with mixed cultural origins
10 Traditional potato-flour dumplings stuffed with cheese and onion
11 Beer
12 Our gang
13 Hello in Polish
14 A renowned writer
15 Grodzka Street
16 Main Square
17 Cheat notes
18 Tutor
The Call of the Wild
What is home? Is it a place? Is it a feeling? Is it the people? I’m still looking for answers. I must have some Gypsy blood as my suitcase never gathers dust…I’ve heard that some people are homesick all their lives. Sitting on the train, going pretty much nowhere, with my diploma in my pocket, I was nervously biting my nails and looking around, I realised that life was not in good health. My life. The professional and the romantic. It was to be the end of the world according to Mayan prophecies, but it seemed like it was only the end of my preconceived ideals of success; the great job, the flat by the river and all the urban pleasures.
Remembering something from an American literature lecture, I went in search of Emerson’s ‘Nature’ as a remedy; I felt in need of a soul-cleanse and a break from consumerism, (because even if we do not want to be, we are all products of our commercial environment). A nature where ‘standing on the bare ground’; ‘all mean egotism vanishes’, and we become ‘part and parcel of God’, truly able to meet ourselves. A nature in which ‘nothing can befall [one] in life…which nature cannot repair’.19 I feel that we need to go back to basics as a culture in order to keep our cultural heritage in the shared psyche, so that we remember how to live from the land, repair old socks and very importantly, how to make vodka!
I cannot say for certain which happened first…the recognition of the desire to try a differen
t life, or the way my partner and I kind of stumbled into each other’s lives. I was fresh out of university, and still religiously wore a hat whenever I didn’t see the need to wash my hair. I hadn’t more than my collection of English literature books to my name and was famed for carting about my worldly possessions in my silver suitcase which accompanied me on all adventures. At exactly this moment of precipices, crossroads, indecision and endless possibilities, I encountered a towering, handsome and much older Scotsman. The attraction was immediate…chemistry led the way. So the ‘one’ finally arrived in my life! I was travelling on cloud nine and painting rainbows in the sky. The euphoria I was feeling defied all logic, the world was suddenly a much friendlier place, strangers were beautiful and spring appeared in the middle of winter! We each had what the other wanted. We were in love.
I like to think that our home found us. My partner’s father told us about an old cottage he had watched for years with a view to moving into, but it never seemed the right time. It had been standing empty for a year in a tiny hamlet that time forgot. We went to view ‘Ladyholm’ on a bleak and chilly winter’s day. The house seemed to reflect the milieu outside and did not inspire us. The ceilings felt low and constricting, the house felt dark and damp, as though it existed in permanent dusk – not to mention it’s state of disrepair. Nature had begun to claim the garden back for herself and the key to open the door could serve as a hefty weapon. Old, musky furniture solemnly adorned the inside, outdated and unused. We both left with a similar impression.
However, over the next days I noticed that Ladyholm became a presence in my thoughts, my dreams. I wanted to reanimate the house; to paint it and fill it with laughter and fresh flowers, it seemed such a shame for it to stand empty, falling deeper into neglect. Initially I did not share my thoughts with William, but slowly it emerged that the house had captured his imagination also. We decided to commit ourselves to one-year of (each other) and the country-side (to start with). Suddenly, I am filled with a deep respect for all those people who slave away at their dream home for years like the unsung heroes in the programme ‘Grand Designs’. Our project was only to make the house habitable, which took a couple of weeks. I was in my creative element, I was building a nest. Our daily mantra over coffee was: Make the place you live the place you love, whilst admiring our twig-spun heart hanging over the table.
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