Scottish ABC's

Now Playing: Susie reading aloud to me King Ottokar's Sceptre, a Tintin comic strip adventure by Herge. She's sitting in the huge leather armchair in the living room with a pale purple scarf wrapped around her head.

Arrived safely here in Airdrie last night to visit the Spitlers for the weekend. I slept in Rachel's room at the very top of the house under the steeply-slanting roof, with the skylight looking out toward Glasgow above the bed. This morning I woke up at seven o'clock under the white duvet, with rain rattling on the glass pane above me. I dressed, wrote in my journal, and did my devotions while the rest of the household woke up. We had breakfast, cereal and crumpets, sitting at the table in the expansive kitchen. Crumpets are a new experience to me, despite my months in the U.K.: a round, honeycomb-like pastry, soft, and best served warm so that the butter melts through all the little holes. After we ate breakfast, we threw together packed lunches. While Mr. and Mrs. S took care of things, I sat in the living room with the girls. Sis bounced off the walls; Hannah did Rachel's hair; Rebekah and I inspected the calendars hanging on the living room walls. LOTR, "Dr. Who", and Oklahoma.

Our day began as we set out from Airdrie at about half nine. The Spitlers have a silver almost-minivan car, seating seven. We had to fold up the very back seats for Sis and Rebekah; Hannah, Rachel, and I squeezed into the middle bench. Mrs. S, in the front seat, turned on "Becky", the GPS navigating system, and with Mr. S at the wheel we headed out from Airdrie in the direction of Linlithgow. Since the Spitlers have already visited Linlithgow, our destination was Blackness Castle, beyond Linlithgow on the Firth of Forth.

At Becky's directing, we set out on a maze of country roads. "I love British B roads," Mrs. S groaned as the lanes twisted haphazardly through fields or dived suddenly down little hills. We drove past a grey loch with dark wind-kicked waters, through open moors, where last year's grass bent brown and dun under the wind, then into more tended areas, green fields full of woolly sheep. Through small villages, through Linlithgow itself, and beyond. Blackness Castle wasn't too much further: standing out on a peninsula of land jutting into the Firth, surrounded by broad mudflats. The tide was out. Two sailboats sat stranded, keels cut upright into the bank, brown seaweed around them. It began to rain hard as we pulled into the castle cark park.

The proprietor in the little tourist shop was very cheerful and friendly, and let me in for free since my friends were friends of Scotland (or something like that). He rattled off the history of the castle in a broad Scottish accent. Then we went to explore the castle. Cold rain poured down over us as we crossed the green garth, went through a low deep tunnel, and came out in the castle courtyard. The rock of the cliff-boss on which the castle sits jutted up raggedly through the uneven paving stones, stones gleaming polished grey-green in the rain. We clambered all over the keep, from ground floor to roof, and then all over the main tower, exploring the kitchen, great hall, armories, cellars, dungeons, bedrooms, and storerooms. I found a hole in one of the walls just big enough for me to crawl into. Up and down the narrow spiral staircases, treading carefully on the treacherous foot-smoothed stones. In the massive thick walls we found holes for canons to shoot through, holes bored through walls at least ten feet thick.

We walked around the parapets, the rain sheeting into our faces and trickling over the stones. The tide was coming in, brown water washing deeper and deeper over the seaweed and shining mud beaches. On either side of the castle promontory, deep bays jutted back, and on their far sides were wooded arms flung out from the coast, trees black against the grey sky. On the far side of the firth we could see shipyards, white cranes standing over docks. A big bridge swung in long pointed curves, crossing the water. We went out on the jetty that runs from the castle into the firth. The boards were slippery, and there was a strong sea-smell. The rain pelted us, cold and heavy, and so at last, having made thorough tour of the castle, we went back into the little gift shop to dry off.

After Blackness Castle, Mr. and Mrs. S decided to take us next to Campbell Castle. As we set off again, the rain lifted and the sun came out. Mrs. S produced a bag of toffees in white papery wrappers, and for awhile the car was full of the sound of contented sucking. Our route took us across the flatlands and up into the foothills of the Highlands. Campbell Castle is strikingly situated in a narrow valley, perched like a great grey hawk on the brink of the steep brown fells. Behind it rise the Highlands, height on height, brown shaggy masses like huge brooding animals guarding the margins of a known world.

A narrow road took us halfway up to the castle, and when we stopped in the car park, we had our lunch. The wind came blowing chill and strong over the great hills behind us, and us girls clustered together, shivering in the lee of the car while we ate our sandwiches and crisps. Somehow the penguins we'd brought along seemed appropriate.

After lunch we walked to the castle: down the side of the valley, over a creek running fast and full from the heights above, then up the spur of rock where the castle sits, at the point where two valleys come together. A huge oak tree stood in front of it. The castle gate was rather unimpressive, low and squat. As we entered, the rain lifted and the sun came out, the peculiar dramatic daffodil-brightness of Scottish sunshine after rain, glancing off the wet grey stones. We explored the terraced gardens behind the castle, where saxifrage, snowdrops, arum, and crocuses were beginning to bloom. One of the girls found a little path leading to an overlook in the woods just behind the castle, where we could stand on a wooden platform above the creek from the other valley as it plunged through the steep ravine below.

We climbed all over the castle again, of course. The south wing was roofless, the great hall standing open to the sunshine. But the main tower still had its roof, and in one of the big barrel-vaulted rooms, on the plank floor, Hannah did some of her Irish step dancing, her feet beating the wooden floor so that the whole tower thundered like a great drum. Mr. S took Sis around the castle on a quest to fill out a quiz about the castle's architecture and history, trying to sort out when Mary, Queen of Scots had visited the castle, and what a "loggia" was. Up and down, spiral stairs, halls, bedrooms, latrines. Old wall closets turned into entry areas when the staircases had been moved in the 1600s. Stone faces used as lamp embrasures carved into a ribbed, vaulted ceiling, their flowing hair and beards rippling out to melt into the stone again. Odd pointed windows for archers. Window seats carved into little alcoves under windows deep-set in the walls.

Rachel and I climbed up to the very top, where a walkway ran around the edge of the pointed roof. We could see out into the valley, with the firth shining on the edge of sight. On either side of us the big shoulders of the fells came down steeply, brown backs outflung. Rain was coming down over them again. Climbing down the last flight of spiral stairs, we found ourselves back out in the courtyard. In the sunny porch under the old carved pillars, a man was sitting with his dog. The dog wagged its tail at us, pricking its ears, and then rolling in foolish pleasure on its back in the sun as the man scratched its belly. Mrs. S grinned.

We left the castle as it began to rain again. With map in hand, Mr. S led us on a public path up onto the right (east) shoulder of the fells, in search of some waterfalls. The path was pretty mucky. We climbed through a sheep gate and came under the shelter of a howling fir wood. The wind roared in the trees. We were on the brink of the ravine where the creek jumped, white and grey, through bronze bracken. Beyond the ravine, the hill rose up steeply. Sheep were grazing in the bracken and brown grass. The sky behind was dark and ominous. We decided to turn back as the rain blew down over us.

From Castle Campbell, we drove to Doune Castle, our last stop of the day. The road skirted the edge of the foothills, around Stirling, and right under the big hogback of land where Stirling Castle sits perched. About six miles from Stirling, we found Doune Castle, nestled in a riverbottom with low hills rising around it. Not the most impressive setting, but the castle itself was probably the most fun of all the castles we visited today. Again we went up through a long entrance tunnel under massive walls, with the giftshop tucked into the room where the gate guards would've sat. This castle is made up of a green close surrounded by walls, and it has only one massive building built into the walls themselves. It was the most fun to explore. Rooms and rooms and rooms, one opening out of another. Two or three spiral staircases, with odd half-levels and niches and embrasures. We found a kitchen with an absolutely enormous fireplace, a fireplace the size of a room itself. Above that was a room with brown-and-yellow tiles set in the floor. Then there were halls and halls. In one of them was a big wooden bench intricately carved, dating from the 1600s. Another one of the halls had been restored, and in it were the remainders of a wedding, candles and flowers left behind from earlier in the day. We found all sorts of chambers and rooms and odd crannies. At last the spiral staircase we were following took us out onto the roof, where we could see down over the big walls. Beyond the walls was a band of brown woods, then a town, the church spire poking up through the trees, and beyond that the blue hills, with a windfarm on one of the distant ridges, the white arms of the windmills revolving eerily.

We climbed everywhere. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The castle, like the other two castles, dates from the late 1300s, early 1400s, but it had been partly restored by the Victorians, who had put beautiful diamond-paned glass in many of the windows. The outer walls of the castle, though, were in a state of disrepair, and are being renovated right now, so we weren't allowed to walk along the parapets. Instead, we went back out through the arched gateway, and walked along a path behind the castle. The River Teith ran full and fast beside us, roaring grey rapids foaming under grey trees. In a bend of the river was a ploughed field, dark earth gleaming damp, and behind it more woods, charcoal grey under the sunshine. We spotted rabbits in the undergrowth along the path, and Mrs. S saw a pheasant running ruddy along a fence. The air was sweetly cold, bracing. It felt good to be outside in the sky and wind, in the country, with the trees and water, and the smell of wet earth.

We walked back to the car and started back to Airdrie. On the way, we made a stop at a monument to David Stirling, a statue stuck (somewhat randomly) in the middle of some fields at the side of the road. The view was beautiful. To the north, the foothills of the Highlands, marching away west and east, their huge fells tumbling down to the fields. In the middle they were dark with clouds, and there on the edge of sight we could see the windfarm, the big white spindly windmills turning and turning. To the west, the sun struck through the clouds as it set, flashing on distant fields, gilding them so that they blazed like shook foil, white and silver. To the east, reflecting the sudden sun, the brown faces of the hills were a living, tawny gold against the dark blue sky behind.

Standing at the monument, gazing over the fields, I saw some stones out in the middle of one of them. "Want to come with?" I called to Hannah and Sis, and they trotted after me. The three of us went out to investigate. We went up a track and then out into the fields themselves, the fresh earth clinging to our shoes as we ran (as lightly as we could) over the new wheat. We ended up in the middle of the field on a sliver of ground left unploughed. Here years and years of grass grew tangled around three standing stones set up in a row. Orange lichen grew on their grey polls. We poked around among them. Standing stones, tilted at odd angles, perhaps, but standing stones nonetheless, jutting facelessly out of the dark earth. The cold wind started to bring tears to our eyes, and then we ran back to join the others.

We drove back to Airdrie. I was surprised at how quickly the drive went past. Back in the house, Mrs. S and Rachel made tea and hot chocolate. Us girls sat at the kitchen table with Mrs. S, who gave Rebekah a Lyle's Golden Syrup cake, which she divided into pieces for everyone. We sat sipping our hot drinks and savoring the sweet sticky cake, which reminded me of molasses. Rachel read the motto on the wrapper, "Out of the eater came something sweet," a quote from Judges.

After we had our snack, Mrs. S and Rachel started work on supper. I helped set the table. Sis was incredibly hyper, so I chased her into the living room, and she and I had a roaringly fun tickle fight, squealing and giggling, until we flopped onto the big leather sofa with a Tintin comic book. I sprawled on the sofa beside her and read over her shoulder, helping her with the big words, until Rachel called us to the table.

Mrs. S had fixed hamburgers and chips (French fries to you) for tea (or supper, whichever you prefer). We discussed hostels and traveling on the Continent. Also, the day's adventures. Mr. S pointed out that we'd gone in alphabetical order today: from Airdrie to Blackness to Campbell to Doune. For dessert, chocolate swiss roll and Mackie's strawberry ice cream. Then Mr. S led us in family worship. We sang Psalm 90, and closed in prayer. After family worship, I washed the dishes, Rachel dried, and Mrs. S put away the food. Rachel told me about the classes she took at OSU last semester.

Then Mr. and Mrs. S made a trip to Tesco. Rachel started to put her sisters through the shower, and loaned me her laptop to keep me occupied meanwhile. Sis was reading to me while I checked my e-mails, until it was her turn in the shower. I sit curled up on the faded velveteen loveseat. Mr. and Mrs. S are back now. Sis is reading an Asterix comic book to herself, turning over the brightly-colored pages. The house with its high ceilings is cold, and the rooms have a certain bareness to them, the bareness of a house temporarily lived in--only a few books on the mantelpiece; a couple of calendars instead of pictures on the walls; rather less than the usual homey clutter on furniture and floors; boxes stowed neatly in corners. I'm pleasantly tired from the day out, still a bit cold and damp, but soon it'll be my turn in the hot shower....

God be with you all, and to all a good-night.