Islands On The Edge Of The World And Ewan McGregor
Without Prejudice
I want to go there, to The Islands On The Edge, The Hebrides in Scotland. After watching most of the series narrated most superbly by Ewan McGregor I long to go there. As a little girl I knew that I was born in Scotland but remember nothing of it. Only what my Dad told me and that was as I was growing up in my adopted homeland of Australia.
Perversely when my parents returned to the U.K. I was then homesick for my adopted country. We were there for nearly four years where I did all my secondary schooling and wrote a short novel for English on Australia.
I won a prize for it which secretly thrilled me and somehow made home seem all that closer. But I grew tired of grey skies and snow. Snow seems so picturesque for about five minutes when you are not living with it every day. Slipping in black slush on your way to school, wetting your paper thin soled boots that you try to dry near radiators that never seem to throw out enough heat is one sort of hell.
I have returned to the U.K. many times since then but always go in the Summer. When the green grass is so green it seems almost cartoonish and the shops are heated anyway whether it's hot or not. That's when I love it and feel part of it and know that I am, with relatives to visit and old friends from Thornes House Grammar School that never seem to age nor lose their Yorkshire wit.
When the twilight is endless and warm and it seems so normal to have a dinner of a salad and then a supper at 9 of fish, chips, mushy peas, bits and bread and butter. And a huge pot of tea. And to go to pubs that are full of laughter and noise and characters that soak up warm beer and ask if you are from New Zealand and pretend to not understand a word you utter.
But Scotland is a world away from all that. It's lowering skies and cold and lochs and heather. Quaint fishing villages that cling to the shore and houses that run in rows and literally seem to be ready to slide into the sea. It's long roads that meander and are not to be traversed in a car with a crazy Aunty that runs red lights and thinks the big red stop sign says " Go On"
But then makes you a meal of Scottish Salmon and new boiled potatoes dripping in butter with fresh asparagus, finished with black bun that has cayenne pepper in it. Perhaps a little Scottish tablet to go with your tea and a dram of fine old whiskey. And when you have rolled off to bed you hear her cackling to herself from other rooms, a modern day Lady Macbeth. And we had to tell on her to a relative who lives in London and she was carted away to a nursing home for the permanently addled shortly after.
Now that I have seen the series Islands On The Edge all the songs of my childhood come back to haunt me. Ye'll take the high road, Bonnie Prince Charlie or The Skye Boat Song and The Scottish Soldier. I see a rowing boat with the Bonnie Prince on it, facing the sea and an uncertain future. A song woven into my memory from a tiny child of 2.
And when I see the wildness of the sea on the little islands, the wildlife of geese and Eagles, seals and seal pups, the wild deer. That mate and rut, I long to walk up those desolate hills scoured by wind and rain, sea and sand and be part of that. Put my face to that wind that in summer can reach speeds of 100 kms an hour. Stand as a frail human in all that savagery and feel alive and scared to death all at the same time.
Have a map and a travel companion, a backpack and warm sturdy boots. A balaclava on my head and a bulky coat that threatens to tip me backwards as I try to climb. Bliss. To shelter in stone cottages that have stood solid for hundreds of years. A peat fire on the hearth and ceilings so low you know you are going to crack your nut on it sooner or later.
To talk with locals as few as they are on some of the Islands and to be able to understand them because of my Dads Scottish burr. Hear their hardships and their stories, they must have great stories, maybe drink a dram or two of whiskey, maybe, just maybe as I don't drink any more. Fall into a warm bed exhausted, my face burned from wind and expect porridge the next morning made with oats, water and salt and topped with cold milk and sugar.
The solitary nature of the place will suit my solitary nature and I will be so fit from the walking and the fresh air I am likely to get skinnier than I am now but with bulging calves. A very Scottish look.
The only headache I expect is the flight from here to there. I forgot to mention I hate flying. Maybe sedatives are the answer. Lots of them. The traveling would be long and arduous but the ending would be worth it. Excuse me as I check out travel web sites. And Mr MC Gregor I am a McKenzie.
Love and best wishes,
Janette
I want to go there, to The Islands On The Edge, The Hebrides in Scotland. After watching most of the series narrated most superbly by Ewan McGregor I long to go there. As a little girl I knew that I was born in Scotland but remember nothing of it. Only what my Dad told me and that was as I was growing up in my adopted homeland of Australia.
Perversely when my parents returned to the U.K. I was then homesick for my adopted country. We were there for nearly four years where I did all my secondary schooling and wrote a short novel for English on Australia.
I won a prize for it which secretly thrilled me and somehow made home seem all that closer. But I grew tired of grey skies and snow. Snow seems so picturesque for about five minutes when you are not living with it every day. Slipping in black slush on your way to school, wetting your paper thin soled boots that you try to dry near radiators that never seem to throw out enough heat is one sort of hell.
I have returned to the U.K. many times since then but always go in the Summer. When the green grass is so green it seems almost cartoonish and the shops are heated anyway whether it's hot or not. That's when I love it and feel part of it and know that I am, with relatives to visit and old friends from Thornes House Grammar School that never seem to age nor lose their Yorkshire wit.
When the twilight is endless and warm and it seems so normal to have a dinner of a salad and then a supper at 9 of fish, chips, mushy peas, bits and bread and butter. And a huge pot of tea. And to go to pubs that are full of laughter and noise and characters that soak up warm beer and ask if you are from New Zealand and pretend to not understand a word you utter.
But Scotland is a world away from all that. It's lowering skies and cold and lochs and heather. Quaint fishing villages that cling to the shore and houses that run in rows and literally seem to be ready to slide into the sea. It's long roads that meander and are not to be traversed in a car with a crazy Aunty that runs red lights and thinks the big red stop sign says " Go On"
But then makes you a meal of Scottish Salmon and new boiled potatoes dripping in butter with fresh asparagus, finished with black bun that has cayenne pepper in it. Perhaps a little Scottish tablet to go with your tea and a dram of fine old whiskey. And when you have rolled off to bed you hear her cackling to herself from other rooms, a modern day Lady Macbeth. And we had to tell on her to a relative who lives in London and she was carted away to a nursing home for the permanently addled shortly after.
Now that I have seen the series Islands On The Edge all the songs of my childhood come back to haunt me. Ye'll take the high road, Bonnie Prince Charlie or The Skye Boat Song and The Scottish Soldier. I see a rowing boat with the Bonnie Prince on it, facing the sea and an uncertain future. A song woven into my memory from a tiny child of 2.
And when I see the wildness of the sea on the little islands, the wildlife of geese and Eagles, seals and seal pups, the wild deer. That mate and rut, I long to walk up those desolate hills scoured by wind and rain, sea and sand and be part of that. Put my face to that wind that in summer can reach speeds of 100 kms an hour. Stand as a frail human in all that savagery and feel alive and scared to death all at the same time.
Have a map and a travel companion, a backpack and warm sturdy boots. A balaclava on my head and a bulky coat that threatens to tip me backwards as I try to climb. Bliss. To shelter in stone cottages that have stood solid for hundreds of years. A peat fire on the hearth and ceilings so low you know you are going to crack your nut on it sooner or later.
To talk with locals as few as they are on some of the Islands and to be able to understand them because of my Dads Scottish burr. Hear their hardships and their stories, they must have great stories, maybe drink a dram or two of whiskey, maybe, just maybe as I don't drink any more. Fall into a warm bed exhausted, my face burned from wind and expect porridge the next morning made with oats, water and salt and topped with cold milk and sugar.
The solitary nature of the place will suit my solitary nature and I will be so fit from the walking and the fresh air I am likely to get skinnier than I am now but with bulging calves. A very Scottish look.
The only headache I expect is the flight from here to there. I forgot to mention I hate flying. Maybe sedatives are the answer. Lots of them. The traveling would be long and arduous but the ending would be worth it. Excuse me as I check out travel web sites. And Mr MC Gregor I am a McKenzie.
Love and best wishes,
Janette
