Until 2001, my mom thought our genealogy traced to England and Germany, but that year she and her brother discovered to their surprise that the ancestors they presumed were English actually came from Scotland. After tracing our family name to Kirkcudbright, where Robert Burns visited the Selkirk Inn and offered the famous “Selkirk Grace” (offered at the beginning of Burns Suppers), Mom began to refer to him as “Bobbie” Burns. Aye, once we knew we were Scottish, we felt a level of familiarity with Scotland’s national poet.
That year, Mom and her brother flew to Scotland and traipsed the countryside visiting cemeteries, museums, castles and libraries in search of more clues. Before long, they met distant relatives who called them “cousins” and welcomed them into their homes, shared stories, invited them to dinner and served them cookies.
While sitting behind a small church by the Kirkcudbright harbor, surrounded by “a host of golden daffodils, ” Mom wrote in her journal, “Are we drawn to this place because our roots are here? Or because it is so charming?” And my uncle felt such a draw to Scotland after that first trip, he returned many times over the years, staying for weeks at a time. He became such a regular, the locals greeted him by name when he stepped into the pub for a drink.
I’ve never been there myself, so I’ve had to find and form my connection to Scotland in other ways. The photos and stories my mom and uncle share provide a starting point, of course, but I’ve seen again and again how poetry crosses time and space to link heart and mind and place to person, so I recently perused the Scottish Poetry Library’s list of poets, in search of some links. The collection reminded me how many classic poets come from Scotland, such as Sir Walter Scott, Lord Byron, Robert Louis Stevenson, George MacDonald, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Scotland came to me on Poetry at Work Day, via Twitter, when the Scottish Parliament shared a poem by Edwin Morgan, written for opening of the Scottish Parliament building in 2004. And the Young Reporters for the Environment introduced me to several more contemporary Scottish poets, such as Hugh MacDiarmid, Sorley Maclean, and Iain Crichton Smith.
One of those mentioned, Norman MacCaig, offers a poetic glimpse of Scotland in his poem, “Assynt and Edinburgh”:
Assynt and Edinburgh
From the corner of Scotland I know so well
I see Edinburgh sprawling like seven cats
on its seven hills beside the Firth of Forth.
And when I’m in Edinburgh I walk
amongst the mountains and lochs of that corner
that looks across the Minch to the Hebrides.
Two places I belong to as though I was born
in both of them.
They make every day a birthday,
giving me gifts wrapped in the ribbons of memory.
I store them away, greedy as a miser.
Robert Louis Stevenson penned this poem far from his homeland, remembering the land of his birth.
To S. R. Crockett (On receiving a Dedication)
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
But “Bobbie” Burns is the one I feel I must attend to, and I’m sorry I missed the Burns Supper hosted by our local Scottish Society here in the States to commemorate Burns Night, January 25. I’m reminded Burns penned the poem we sing on New Year’s Eve, Auld Lang Syne and the classic poem “A Red, Red Rose”:
A Red, Red Rose
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair are thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
Lingering on the lochs and moors of Scotland, if only through verse, I sense the love of the land and language, the pride in the people and poets. Then I stumble on this brief poem from George MacDonald, and I hear the words all the way from Scotland, across time and space, linking poet and place to person.
The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs
Come
Home.
Photos by Moyan_Brenn, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Ann Kroeker.
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Maureen Doallas says
Lovely post, Ann. Scotland truly is a gorgeous place. I’d like to go back. I visited on my first trip to the UK and while I’ve been to England a number of times since, I haven’t gotten back to the lochs and moors.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you, Maureen. I do hope to make it there someday.
L. L. Barkat says
Breathtaking. I can only imagine what it would be like to go. (Team meeting there in a few years? 😉 )
This piece made me cry. You’ve touched heart-places.
Ann Kroeker says
I can only imagine, as well, and it’s lovely, even just imagining.
Diana Trautwein says
We toured the island – England/Scotland/Wales – by car for our 25th wedding anniversary. One of my favorite trips ever. Didn’t go as far north as we would have liked, however. It’s a gorgeous, haunting place – and the further in you go, the harder it is to understand what people are saying! This is lovely, Ann. And I think you might very much enjoy reading about this (very, VERY expensive) book: http://www.fromtheland.co.uk/
Ann Kroeker says
I didn’t say this in the piece, my uncle says that he’d step into the pubs, return the greeting, and then he couldn’t understand anything else they said after that. 🙂
I’ll poke around and see if any libraries might carry the expensive book you recommend–thank you, Diana, for taking time to read and comment.
SimplyDarlene says
this piece makes me long for something i don’t know
about
roots, ancestors, beginnings
(other than THE garden, of course).
father’s side – i never knew a single one
and he died when i was a babe,
far too young to wonder
about
roots, ancestors, beginnings.
mother’s side – all of the old-timers, gone
as of last autumn. and my momma
never took the time to consider or think
about
roots, ancestors, beginnings
because she was working too hard to feed us
and pay rent in the home where we
lived. in the place
that we knew something
about.
Ann Kroeker says
Darlene, thank you for sharing this very personal perspective. As you’ve mentioned here, it sounds like you know your truest genealogy and need not fret about following your earthly roots.
L. L. Barkat says
Hmmm. I think it is actually really important to reach into one’s past, one’s roots, to know what formed us and our sensibilities.
Especially if a longing was stirred. (And, Darlene, wow, I sense a really deep something having been stirred.) Your poem is achy in all the best ways.
Ann Kroeker says
I think so, too, if we have access to enough information. If you don’t know, though, and run up against dead ends, what then?
L. L. Barkat says
I’m thinking that one’s past needn’t be hindered by lack of information. There are clues that exist inside us, like Darlene’s poem finds. Curious what information you might be intrigued by. It might be more historical than what I’m thinking? 🙂
SimplyDarlene says
clues that exist inside of us – that’s where i’m at after some fruitless searching. it’s not the movies where everyone is gleeful to share their current life with those who share blood. i had a telephone conversation with a half-sister that could’ve been fodder for a soap opera. but, at least i did discover i have native american blood in these here veins. it explains something about my dark hair and hazel green eyes vs. the blonde, blue eyes of my other kin.
i’ve written on it. maybe i can share. sometime.
thanks for the dialogue and encouragement.
the best family sometimes are your friends. 😉
blessings.
David Rupert says
I love the photos and rich heritage of the Highlands. I WISH I was Scottish, but I’m not. But I go to every Celtic everything around here. Just love the culture and the way they kept the Gospel simple.
Our friend Jeff Johnson sang about Iona, a centuries-old vanguard of monasticism.
Maureen Doallas says
My priest has journeyed to Iona. She’s going back this summer, I think.
Ann Kroeker says
So nice to hear your thoughts, your draw to all things Celtic. Thank you for sharing…and reminding me of Jeff’s music.
Linda says
I have dreamed of going to Scotland (although not even one tiny branch of my family tree grew there). It seems a beautiful, enchanted place.
Ann Kroeker says
These photos certainly reinforce the enchantment! Thank you for taking time to read this, Linda, and to comment, sharing your dreams of the moors. My mom has been able to go several times, and we’ve enjoyed her photos and stories. It’s the next-best thing to going there myself–living vicariously. 🙂
Dugald MacGilp says
I enjoyed your post very much. I work for Keep Scotland Beautiful (an environmental charity) and I am the Development Officer for Eco-Schools Scotland responsible for our Young Reporters for the Environment programme. Many years ago Norman MacCaig was teaching at Stirling University when I was an undergraduate. I was not taking English Literature but did hear him read his work. He invited his old friend (and by then very frail) Hugh McDiarmid to give a guest lecture which I was priveleged to witness. It is wonderful that MacCaig’s works are now part of Scotland’s High School poetry syllabus.
Three men are pulling
at the starboard oar,
the man I am and was
and the man I’ll be.
The boat sails
to a blind horizon.
Who’s pulling on the port side oar
that keeps our course straight?
Pull as we may
We’re kept from turning
to port or starboard by that
invisible oarsman.
‘Crew’ by Norman MacCaig
Ann Kroeker says
Wonderful! So nice to meet you here, Dugald, and good to know someone is working hard to keep Scotland beautiful. As you can see, we all want that, even those of us on this side of the pond.
And thanks for sharing your personal story about Mr. MacCaig and Mr. McDiarmid and how their poetry impacted you.
This poem you shared–I’ll be thinking about that invisible oarsman keeping my course straight.
Monica Sharman says
I was scrolling through our past few posts and had Tolkien on my mind. Then I realized that scenes from the Tolkien movies were filmed in Scotland. 🙂
Monica Sharman says
P.S. And ohhhh . . . you really got me with that George MacDonald at the end.
L. L. Barkat says
Seriously? That is why I was thinking Tolkien when I was prepping this piece? Too fun. 🙂
Marilyn Yocum says
Oh, this was beautiful, Ann, especially the ending.
Ann Kroeker says
I’m so delighted you stopped by, Marilyn, and thank you for sharing this journey with me.
Megan Willome says
One more reason to like you, Ann. My maiden name is Drmmond. My dad’s been to the “family” castle in Perth.
Megan Willome says
Drummond!
Ann Kroeker says
Our families were miles apart, Megan: my family’s castle down in the southern part of Scotland; yours, farther north. Perhaps they brushed up against one another at a market in Edinburgh on cool autumn afternoon, when they both traveled there for something special?
Marcy Terwilliger says
I’m a Campbell with the big round eyes and my mother was Irish so I’m Scot/Irish and growing up heard many stories of my people in Scotland mostly. My grandmother was a Zwick and her parents were from Canada. We had one Grandfather who was a Preacher but the faith was never mentioned. We were told an Uncle who was a black sheep of the family was kicked out of Scotland. All I do know is growing up we had potatoes every night for dinner, seven days a week. If you’ve never read the story of potatoes and how they kept themselves and other’s alive because of growing them it makes for an interesting story. I long to go, to kiss the ground, to wallow in it. With each setback I see a sharp decline in my health. There’s no way my body could walk it, for even now to run errands lands me in bed for hours. Diseases are so awful to have but I have enjoyed writing, meeting each of you, pushing myself to do better, reading a poem everyday. These are things I will miss one day but I’m ever so thankful to have been a part of. Yo make me smile through the tears.
Marilyn, who isn't writing much these days says
I enjoyed reading your recollections, Marcy, especially the rumor about the black sheep who was kicked out. That would make an interesting theme to pursue as a community of writers – rumored black sheep in families……IF enough time has passed to do the telling. 🙂
Ann Kroeker says
Rumored black sheep would be perfect fodder for narrative. Interesting observation.
Ann Kroeker says
Oh, Marcy, I feel like you and I are walking the moors together in our hearts and minds, even if we never make it there in person. And I’m so sorry that you are going through struggles that keep you from living the way you want–but how beautiful that poetry–and those who love poetry–are helping you live a rich, creative, mentally stimulating life. I’m so thankful you’re here, that you’re part of our world here at Tweetspeak, and that we share these roots tracing to Scotland.
Thank you for reminding me how precious and essential potatoes were for sustenance. Bless you.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Though the lass be fair
with freckles and red hair
she skips among the rocks
near the cliffs that plunge
to the sea below.
Crashing waves
hit like thunder
their sound so loud
my ears doeth hurt.
I’m just a lass
encouraged to wander
the mighty giant green
earth.
Where dragons
once roamed
now men of stone.
Old churches in crumbles
castles take their tumbles.
Bits and pieces
stones broken
some cast aside.
Who lived in
this castle?
Follow the
stone walls
which go on
for miles
until I reach
my home.
Ann Kroeker says
Follow the stone walls until we reach home…yes, follow the stones, crumbled and tumbled. You created the path to our past. Beautifully done.
Dolly@Soulstops says
Ann,
What a rich poetic legacy and gorgeous landscapes…Thank you for taking me with you…I want to visit Scotland…George MacDonald is someone I have been wanting to read. Inspiring post 🙂
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you for visiting and reading, Dolly!
Marcy Terwilliger says
Marilyn, thank you, yes, much time has passed, sounds like a great idea. Baa, Baa, Black Sheep have you been any good?
Ann, we are walking those moors together as our long skirts bellow in a time when our heads were covered in black velvet hats with satin ties. The mind is so strong you can go anywhere, anytime and be at peace with the green at your feet. In real life before the disease started taking my body, I’m smiling right now because I built stone walls. Drove to places where empty old houses stood abandoned and there I walked and plucked the old stones and carried them home. My joy came from building old stone walls. They were my hand work, my fingerprints were all over them. Heck, that’s why I drive a truck girl.
Ann Kroeker says
🙂