Scotland and Aye

by Sophia Wasiak Butler

  We arrive somewhere along the North Thompson River in the Canadian wilderness and the similarities to home are astounding, if you can imagine pristine Scotland 100 years ago. The five-year-old girl inside chuckled long and hard at what sounded like the ‘Cocacola’ road, being the Coquihalla highway. Angus is William’s dear friend and a wild man of the hills. Although I was forewarned about his nature, I couldn’t have imagined so charming a heart. A man who dedicates his life to necessities such as chopping wood and tending his land (which includes a swamp, beaver colony, bear feeding ground and wolf through-road), whilst his girlfriend makes candles and soaps. Angus often takes his dogs and heads into the snow for a week of skiing during which time he digs a cave for shelter. An eye-opener for me was that he doesn’t have huskies, his dogs are literally half-wolf. They come and lay by the fire, but have savage exchanges between themselves and are not keen for affection. They dig holes outside as their beds, but have names and come when called (most effectively when it involves food). We were taken for a walk in Wells Gray Park, which is as big as England! We watch huge waterfalls frozen in flow and most worryingly, notice big paw prints in our tracks on the way back to the car. I mention this to Angus and he estimates that a pack of eight wolves took advantage of our trail (though we novices could only see one print). Cleverly, only one wolf does the hard job of breaking through the snow and the others follow in their pawprints.

  As I trudge in waist deep snow, I am filled with childlike delight for this way of life. Time has not moved here, it is a hundred years behind for Angus – the economic crisis has no bearing on him as he is self-sufficient. Who cares if his shower water is yellow and smells of rotten eggs, it’s natural, straight from the Earth. This is the next level up from our life in the country and everyone at home thinks we are hippies! Are we happier accumulating material comforts? Buddha said that busyness and laziness are the two enemies of peace. I wonder what it is all for because the mania of doing things and accumulating objects does not add any time to our lives.

  As most travellers, we come home as patriots (temporarily), tired of the car, a new motel every night and the long road each day. We are delighted and our hairy ‘babies’ are overjoyed to see us. William and I settle into earning some hard cash before Christmas arrives, as the trip was an unplanned budget-attack. Everyone is however warned that this one will be a modest and recycled-wrapping-paper event. Rather than making a Christmas list I will be making a list of Commandments: not to forget that the world is my mirror and a wish for joy on the journey. I have begun to see, that as in travel, so in life: the destination is not really important, it is the getting there that counts.

  Benny the Buick

  The drive-through-tree

  Ben the carthorse

  Free Falling

  As I sit looking out at snow-capped hills, through Ladyholm’s misty windows, I cannot believe how quickly the pace of life back home has enveloped me. Having spent five weeks away travelling the USA and Canada, something which struck me were the low speed limits; 40 mph in some places and people actually sticking to them! Scotland has been virtually swimming these last weeks. It is dark and I am driving at 20 mph because I cannot see a thing in front of me – the windscreen wipers are on full and the road keeps vanishing from view round the tight bends. Yet, there is still someone driving with their car as close to my posterior as possible, flashing me to go faster. Instead of speeding up slightly to minimise the glare off their headlights I think to myself – “No!” I have just returned from Hawaii and a workshop entitled ‘The Restoration of Peace’. I will not be harassed into this crazy pace! I have to keep reinforcing this as I walk around the supermarket and even with the dogs at the Loch, there is a manic energy in the UK which infiltrates us everywhere, pushing forward all the time.

  After some time I found out that our guardian angel’s name is Hamish, that he used to be a man of the sea and that he does not indulge in the comfort of footwear from April to November! He laughs at our nomadic culture, flying across the globe constantly, imagining that we will meet our trueselves thousands of feet above the clouds, or in a strange land. Hopes are dashed when people dream that they will return forever altered and more capable of handling the situation at home. I fear that when we take a trip for the wrong reasons – namely trying to escape from ourselves, we return home rested, but not revitalised and the same old thought patterns quickly capture us once again. The real reason to take a trip is to enjoy every step of the way, free-falling into the universe’s wise hands. Hamish cannot stop marvelling at us, he keeps saying we are uncovering part of our soul-purpose and it is shining brightly through our eyes, lending dignity and wholeheartedness to our speech. My attempts at country desserts still fail to impress him even though I experiment each time he is in the garden when ‘lectures’ have concluded. A ‘right good crumble’ is needed, so I speed over to my mother-in-law’s and get the most traditional recipe she has.

  One morning finds me taking the dogs for their daily circuit, a several mile jaunt around the fields surrounding our house. Here, the land works its own magic and William is temporarily abated from trying to convince me to emigrate to Canada – I am sure that he has lived a past life there as the land seems to resonate with his very cells. When he insists, I stamp my feet like a true Ślązaczka40 and affirm that I’m not leaving my beloved Mama, Dad, Scotland and Poland (only a short flight away.) I also know that no matter how far William could bend Mama’s ear, her might could set Cerberus free at the serious proposal of such an idea.

  All of a sudden, my reverie is broken – a BMW is swerving all over the road, racing towards me and I am wondering if my time is up – if I will have a life-review, see the white light and hear THE VOICE. I immediately think of my loved ones and the last things I said to them which is why I absolutely detest leaving things badly when it is over something small, imagine that the last spoken words were: “Fine!” “Whatever!” or “I don’t care.” Not exactly poetic, and yes, I realise that it might have been “Don’t forget to buy the milk,” but I would prefer that a million times.

  When I think about the death part I am mainly curious about the experience. I feel that I could leave the planet satisfied that I had known true love, made friends closer than family and thoroughly enjoyed the hybrid blood tribes I was born to. However, when I think of my family, I have to put the brakes on because this is not my time. I know it is too soon… The car screeches to a halt and a man jumps out, I recognise him as the usually soft spoken neighbour who maintains the wood paths. He looks mildly ridiculous, sporting a long waterproof trench coat, a thick band worn around the ears (always reminding me of Austrian women on skiing holidays) and he is so agitated that before he even begins speaking, he is jumping up and down. He is shorter than I am but for the length of this exchange I am unconscious of the fact. “Where is your other dog?” he screams as he comes closer to my face. I am standing with Caine by my side on a lead and I last saw Blue tearing through the trees a few minutes prior (a common occurrence seeing as she is a two year old Doberman who likes to run). I note his bloodshot eyes and the globules of saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, you don’t know where it is because it has just killed one of my chickens. I’ve a shotgun and I am tempted to use it”, at this point I am thinking he may mean on me as I look down and realise it’s in his hand. The man is hysterical as he declares that he will spread the word among the neighbours – if our dogs are ever seen off the lead they are to be shot dead whether accompanied or not. I wish that Caine would bite the man’s arm off and fight the urge to cry. He will not listen to anything I have to say, managing to shout some other unpleasant things at me before he jumps into his car with the shotgun and drives off screeching.

  It seems that whether you live on the banks of the North Thompson River in Canada or in a tiny hamlet in Scotland, your dog can be shot by your neighbour. An unfortunate event which befell William’s friend Angus the Wildman shortly after we arrived back. One of his wol
f dogs was shot dead on his neighbour’s property for chasing deer which happened to be on their land. This single event has shattered Angus’ belief in the benevolence of the human heart, challenged his relationship with his long-term girlfriend (as the dogs are the children they never had) and destroyed his paradise. The neighbours now have a dog of their own and it would be interesting to see their reactions if Angus took a gun to it next time it went after a bear on the riverbank (on his land). Not that this issue is about vengeance, which would not solve anything, it is simply recognising that so violent an act must spell disaster for neighbourly relations.

  If a dog is violent to humans, it would be prudent to destroy it, but if all we are talking about are some ordinary chickens, then surely an agreement between the people responsible can be reached? My dog killed your chicken, fine, I shall buy you a new one and pay for the dead one. If you ever see my dog on your land again it shall be muzzled. Feel free to catch it and drag it home, alternatively you can shoot it in the leg with a shotgun shell full of rock salt which will certainly deter it from ever coming back and if you are still not happy then you can also shoot yourself with it for kicks, I hear it packs a mean sting!!!

  What we are really missing is the old way. William often talks about his Grandfather’s antics, he was a gamekeeper and repository for the wisdom we are losing and fast. When you purchased a dog in the countryside, you would ask the farmer if you could borrow one of his rams and put the puppy in a pen with it, the ram would charge a few times (without harming it) to scare the dog off farm animals for life. Alternatively, if a dog killed a chicken you would tie the dead chicken to its head for the whole day. These days, in our mania for personifying animals we are becoming rather foolish, sometimes the way it’s always been deserves a second thought.

  It is much easier to intimidate a woman with a shotgun than a 6’3 Scotsman. However, after the visit William paid the neighbour, I do not think he will be in a rush to do this again! I heard William ask him if he had a daughter, affirmative, “Would you want someone to talk to her the way you spoke to my girlfriend?” He could not agree. After this, the trees themselves were bending backwards not to hear the rest of the exchange. William returned proud of himself (I was too), he handled it. We’ll buy the neighbour some chickens and he’ll never come anywhere near me again with the shotgun. Problem solved.

  Old Hamish says “Eh, people will be people. They haven’t farmed this land for centuries they bought it with their ‘guilty’ gentry money, so they feel they must protect it. It is from this need to defend that all the evils from the world spring forth.” This is a beautiful philosophical thought, but it does not help us in this moment of panic when we begin to feel imprisoned by our home, no longer cradled by the surrounding area and I notice that both of us have become quietly fanatical about locking the doors.

  Blue has been re-Christened the ‘Stealth Assassin’ on account of her new muzzle which she wears at all times and these days we drive the few miles to the Loch where the dogs run carefree. Although she is prevented from causing any harm to animals, the Assassin is simply too good at what she does; yesterday, William and I witnessed her playing with something in the grass. It was a rabbit which had ventured out into the open space – between her muzzled nose and foot, Blue was stalling it. Suddenly, the direction of the wind changed and Caine came bounding over like a bear after the honey pot. He pushed Blue out of the way and administered the kiss of death. We can now see that Caine is overjoyed with Blue as things have got even better – before there was only sharing the catch, now there is the whole package plus delivery! Clearly this is something we will need to distract from in the future, I am however left thinking that if we are ever starving, our dogs could definitely hunt for us.

  My dear father gave himself the job of founding a course centre, employing local people and creating an optimum environment for personal growth. He jokes that like Victor Frankenstein, his monster will ultimately consume him. The financial crisis hits its apex and I cannot allow for that, the place and the vision are too special. I rush down there (two hours away), with my fresh if relatively useless university energy to help from Tuesday to Thursday each week. My job is to learn everything. When I have mastered the work of four people, I am to become dad’s personal assistant for the next six months. My father is something of a technological dinosaur and his is the only desk in the office which exhibits piles of papers rather than a computer! The time has come to work off the financial deficit I have been for the last twenty-four years and I have to say, I am looking forward to getting to know the business side of ‘Pops’.

  The rebounder

  A campaign launched at the local stables saw Ben the cart-horse about to be sold. He is known in the industry as being ‘bomb proof’ – as solid as a house. Here we see that it is never too late for a parent to try and fulfil the wishes of their children. My favourite weekends as a girl were spent riding with my Dad and I always dreamed of having my own horse, however, when this proved impossible I moved on and began enjoying inner city life as a teen. Dad has obviously never forgiven himself for the pony dream and at his suggestion I took some riding lessons with Ben. Here emerged a triumvirate – after singing Ben’s praises to me, both dad and his secretary inadvertently also fell for him. And so, the three of us became proud horse owners, we have never yet decided who owns which part! Ben has added some spring (and stretch) to our lives. Post-lessons see us walking like John Wayne as he is as wide as a sofa, but I think to myself, it is definitely worth it. Petroleum is fast dwindling, electric cars are not yet accessible and a horse is an economically viable method of transport!

  The lease on our house will run out soon and the year-long experiment with it. I am wondering what William is thinking, constantly second-guessing his looks (which I am sure is driving him crazy). However, I cannot shake the feeling of dread which rears its ugly head every now and then, making me wince when I recall the two occasions when he intimated that we may not be in this house for much longer. There was a definite assertion of independence in the statements and I feel suddenly as though the game is up. The referee has blown the whistle and pulled the red card – this whole experience has been too magical, too full of bathos; moving seamlessly between the sublime and the ridiculous daily. No, these kinds of things do not happen and girls from London do not fall for Scottish men and set up a rural life, as though by accident. I am reminded of a quote from one of my favourite films – Withnail and I, by the main character: “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake”, provided as an explanation for the ridiculous situations which transpire. So too, I feel I could explain all the laughs and the more serious casualties, namely the chickens, if anyone cared to ask. Neither of us are raised farmers and we do not intend to become deadly serious and morose about the whole business of animal keeping and tending the land.

  I find with some surprise that phrases such as “a wee bit” seem to be slipping out of my mouth all the time, however, they sound very much like an English girl speaking Scottish words. They do not roll off the tongue the way they do when pronounced by a true inhabitant of these lands. When William speaks in his really thick accent, the richness of the ‘r’s and the ‘o’s swirl around my head and I no longer seek a sense in the words. Quite forgetting where one ends and another begins I feel as though I am overhearing a conversation carried on the wind, between the hills, the mossy grass and the trees. I adore the way that the Scots refer to ‘the now’ as though it were a concrete time which exists in every moment. The power of ‘the now’ may have been a more encouraging title of Eckhardt Tolle’s The Power of Now!

  We decide not to travel anywhere over the festive season on account of our ailing budget and my decision that cheap travel no longer exists. Once all the airport taxes have been added and you have been charged for everything they can imagine from check-in baggage, every tiny kilo overweight, headphones and blankets – a satisfying price is a rare pleasure. In addition, any relaxation from the holiday is undone at the airp
ort on the way home, after waiting in a queue like a cow at market. I am always promising myself I will not fly long-haul again until I have saved the money to do so in comfort. Perhaps, I shall renew this one on my Resolution List and the New Year will find me sipping champagne from tulip-shaped glasses while a handsome steward reads me the options for dinner!

  40 A girl from the Silesian region in Poland where my family originate from

  I’ll Be Home for Christmas

  Winter wonderland

  When I think of Christmas, I am transported to being pulled along in a sledge by fourteen huskies, all foaming at the mouth whilst swaddled in furs and getting whisked off from Kiruna airport. The only thing I knew was that my dad and my stepmother were nearby and I could see some lights dancing in the sky – the Aurora Borealis or Northern Lights took my breath away. The Ice Hotel suddenly appeared; sculpted entirely from ice complete with bar, glasses, chandeliers, staircases and bed slabs. It is re-carved each winter. Winter wonderland

  Parallel to this recollection, I can hear my Wujek41 Boguś causing uproar; staggering around with a bottle of Wyborowa42 under one arm and a saw in the other, singing. William is not spared this tradition; in our town, the men marked out a tree for chopping under the cover of darkness. They would often have a few stiff drinks for encouragement, being at serious minus numbers outside. This would get them to the tree, perhaps even to chopping it down. They would however rarely make it back to the house. The women found themselves sitting at home with the decorations ready and waiting with no man and no tree for the night. The morning would find half-frozen husbands and brothers stumbling around for their loot. William enlisted a friend for the job as I, according to tradition, sat waiting at home.