Stirling Castle

The visit to Bannockburn concluded; it was on then to Stirling Castle, one of the largest and historically most important castles in Britain. Its strategic location, guarding the crossing of the River Forth, and therefore, to all intents and purposes, the highlands of Scotland, made it an important fortification from the earliest times. Surrounded on three sides by steep volcanic cliffs, it commands a strong defensive position.

Even today, getting in proved harder than one might expect, although that was mainly due to my Mum and I being unable to grasp the concept of a ticket counter and trying very hard to purchase our admission in the gift shop. To be fair, the ticket counter was clearly and obviously marked with a large sign saying "Ticket Counter" but that hardly makes it our fault that we walked right past it (twice).

Somewhat exhausted with the effort of getting in, we retired to the café for a quick Irn Bru and a natter, before agreeing to explore at our own speed and meet up a little later to swap notes.


You can't help but feel the history in a place like Stirling Castle. Overrun with camera wielding tourists it may be, (I don't include myself in that category of course, I'm a seasoned travel writer, merely documenting evidence for my loyal readers), every building, every wall, every walkway, simply exudes the whispers of its past. Most of the principal buildings of the Castle date from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, although a few structures of the fourteenth century remain. The outer defenses, the ones fronting the town date from the early eighteenth century.

In addition to that of Edward Longshanks (Braveheart reference again, dang I hated that movie) in the 13th century, there have been several sieges of Stirling Castle, the last being in 1746, when Charles Edward Stuart, "Bonnie Prince Charlie", and his Jacobite force tried unsuccessfully to take the castle. However, from 1800 until 1964 the Castle was owned by the British Army and run as a barracks.


The army made many alterations to the castle, including the Great Hall, which became an accommodation block; the Chapel Royal, which became a lecture theatre and dining hall; the King's Old Building, which became an infirmary; and the Royal Palace, which became the Officer's Mess. Efforts to restore all these buildings to their original state are still ongoing, and evidence of this work was all around.

A group called Historic Scotland run the place today and they had provided a series of helpful signs, recordings and videos to explain exactly what you're observing at any given time. Although I have to say, fascinating though the buildings were, it was the views from the walls that fascinated me.

High atop its volcanic crag, the castle commands an imposing view over the vale of Stirling, the last really flat portion of Scotland before the highlands begin and by strolling around the walls, one is able to observe a huge area of central Scotland. There was a time when Stirling Bridge was the only passage across the river forth and therefore, whoever controlled Stirling Castle, controlled Scotland - hence the numerous sieges. In fact, one of the most famous battles of the Scottish Wars of Independence took place here in 1297.

Wallace was the high heid yin this time, with help from Andrew de Moray and their combined forces were deployed in a commanding position dominating the soft, flat ground to the north of the river. The small bridge at Stirling was only broad enough to allow two horsemen to cross abreast so the Scots waited as the English knights and infantry made their slow progress across the bridge on the morning of 11 September. Wallace and Moray had held back earlier in the day when many of the English and Welsh archers had crossed, (only to be recalled because their leader, the Earl of Surrey had overslept) and now waited, until the vanguard, comprising around 5,400 English and Welsh infantry and several hundred cavalry had crossed the Bridge. Only then did they order the attack.

The Scots spearmen came down from the high ground in rapid advance towards Stirling Bridge, quickly seizing control of the English bridgehead. Surrey's vanguard was now cut off from the rest of the army. The heavy cavalry to the north of the river was trapped and cut to pieces, their comrades to the south powerless to help. With no escape route available, losses among the English forces were enormous, with many plunging into the river where the weight of their armor meant an inevitable death by drowning.

Surrey, who still had a formidable contingent of archers, had remained to the south of the river and was still in a strong position. The bulk of his army still remained intact and he could have held the line of the Forth, denying the triumphant Scots a passage to the south. But his confidence was gone. Surrey ordered the bridge's destruction and retreated, leaving the garrison at Stirling Castle isolated and abandoning the Lowlands to the rebels.

Of course, it hasn't been all doom, gloom and bloodshed at Stirling Castle. It's been the site for the coronations of multiple Scottish Kings and Queens, including Mary, Queen of Scots. And it's been home to many of them. The Great Hall was the largest secular building in Europe at the time it was built and it contains some of the finest architecture of its period.


And here, on a warm, sunny, 21st century day, it's hard to look at these neatly tended fields and truly imagine the carnage that took place all those years ago. It's also hard to imagine how cold, drafty and grindingly touch life in a castle must have been, especially for the serving classes. I suspect there were no helpful sign posts back in the day, or be-tartaned staff cheerfully directing visitors around the castle. I don't imagine there were neatly tended lawns, or central heating, or comfortably furnished rooms back then either.

But still, to stand on these battlement walls and look down over this huge area of central Scotland, and know that you controlled the whole lot and then some, then it must have been pretty good to call Stirling Castle home.

Doon by Stirling Brig,
The Wallace lay a-hiding,
As the English host,
Frae the sooth cam riding,
Lood the River Forth,
Atween them baith was roaring,
Nerra were the sides,
O' the Brig o' Stirling.

Watching frae the the wid,
Wallace and the Moray,
As the English cam,
Wi' the Earl o' Surrey,
Ane by ane they crossed,
As the bridge was birlin,
Still they onward cam,
Ower the Brig o' Stirling.

Wallace gied a shout,
Oot his men cam rinning,
Stopped the English host,
On the Brig o' Stirling,
Cressingham turned roon,
The Brig was sma' for turning,
Moray cut him doon,
On the Brig o' Stirling.

A' the English men,
Ran intil each other,
Nane could turn aboot,
Nane could gae much further,
Some fell ower the side,
An' in the Forth were drowning,
Some were left to die,
On the Brig o' Stirling

Surrey he was wild,
Couldnae ford the river,
Wished wi' a' his micht,
That the Brig was bigger,
Then he rade awa',
Lood the man was cursing,
Wallace and his men,
And the Brig 0' Stirling.

Bannockburn

Two castles in two days - are we a cultured bunch or what? Today, we're off to Stirling Castle and while yesterday's trip to Culzean makes one think of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen disembarking from carriages rolling up the driveway, Stirling conjures up images of medieval warriors knocking lumps out of one another with swords and maces.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first stop of the day was Bannockburn, site of the battle of. This, as I'm sure you know, was a pivotal battle in the wars between England and Scotland and took place in 1314, when Edward came north with some 2,000 horse and 16,000 foot soldiers. The stated intent was to relieve Stirling Castle, just down the road and currently under siege but in reality, he wanted to knock the rhubarb out of the Scottish army in the field, and thus, end the war. Of course, it didn't turn out like that.

Despite his wimpy portrayal in Braveheart (which for the record, is not a documentary), Robert de Brus was one hard bastard and a brilliant military tactician. His army numbered only around 9,000 but they were in place long before the English arrived. Brus peppered both sides of the approach road with small pits, three feet deep and covered with brush, which forced the enemy to take the route he wanted, away from solid ground and onto a wet, boggy area called the Carse.

Legend has it that one of the English commanders, one Henry de Bohun, saw Brus mounted on a small horse, without armor and armed only with a battle-axe. Bohun lowered his lance and charged his war-horse into history. For Brus, totally unfazed, merely stood on his stirrups, and beaned him with the axe, splitting not only Bohun's helmet, but his head in two. Cheered by the heroism of their leader, Brus' troops rushed forward to engage the main enemy force.

The battle raged for two days, but Brus' tactics, plus his command of the strong ground made the Englishmen's task almost impossible. Time and again the mobile Scottish spearmen were able to withstand the attacks of the more cumbersome English horsemen. The very size and strength of the English army was working against them. It took time to move the forces into position and the Scots were picking them off almost at will.

By the time Brus committed his entire army to an inexorable, bloody push, the English host was a disorganized mass and by mid-morning on the second day, Edward's army had been thoroughly routed. Out of the 16,000 infantrymen, only around 5,000 are believed to have survived, while the Scots losses were almost negligible. Full English recognition of Scots independence didn't happen for another ten years, but Robert de Brus' position as king were cemented by the events at Bannockburn.

The National Trust's visitor center was pleasant enough, with dioramas and wall mounted accounts of the battle. But the experience was marred by the inevitable hord of ill-behaved school children yelling and screaming while their teachers beamed indulgently. That said, I did get a kick out of hearing one of them explaining to the oblivious weans how William Wallace had led the Scots into battle here, "Remember...you saw it in Braveheart?". This would have a feat worthy of Hollywood indeed, considering Wallace was executed some 9 years before the battle took place. Even Mel Gibson didn't distort history quite as much as this alleged teacher.



I escaped into the sunshine, hoping that by standing beside the ugly, modern abstract monument, a few hundred yards away, I might feel a connection to the ghosts of the past, to my ancestors who fought for liberty all those centuries ago. But I can't say that I did. It's certainly a beautiful location for a battle, with rolling green hills sweeping down to the new houses in the distance. But there was no mystical, intangible presence to the place, no sense of the history that took place here. It was just a pretty field.

It wasn't until I was home again, and checking the accuracy of my notes that I learned why that might be. Apparently, there is some dispute amongst historians as to where the actual battle took place. Nobody really knows, but one thing about which they're in almost unanimous agreement is, it wasn't here. Maybe a couple of miles over a bit.

Ah well, Mel Gibson didn't get it right either.

Culzean Castle

Culzean Castle (pronounced cull-ANE) sits atop a cliff on the west coast of Scotland and was built in stages between 1777 and 1792, mostly by the architect Robert Adams. In 1945, the castle's owners gave the castle and its grounds to the National Trust for Scotland (thus avoiding inheritance tax), but in doing so, stipulated that the apartment at the top of the castle be given to General Dwight Eisenhower in recognition of his role as Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe during the Second World War.

He stayed there several times and I could see why. Not only is it down the road from a number of the world's most famous golf courses, it's also an impressive structure with breathtaking views up and down the coast. I'm no golfer of course, but I do like a good view and could happily have stared out of any of the windows for several hours.



However, impressive though the house was, it was the grounds that had me captivated. In times gone by, country people believed that woods contained spirits, and magical forests have been a staple of folk tales since time began. Walking through the woods surrounding Culzean Castle, it was easy to see why.

Not that it was claustrophobic, or threatening in any way; despite being lush and overgrown, the trees had a soft, friendly quality to them. For me, it was just the amount of character the trees had. Each seemed to have their own personality, and features completely different from all the rest. I love pine trees but after a while, one does start to look a bit like another. Here on the other hand, was a veritable smorgasbord of variety, with shades of green too numerous to count. Bluebells were everywhere and the aroma of wild garlic hung in the air.



My sister, the bossy one, is the leader of a Guide (Girl Scout) troop and my 12-year old niece Jenny is one of her pack members. They'd only just got back from a weekend's camp here, and have been here many times before that, but love the place so much they were happy to show us round. Jenny knows the castle better than some of the docents and even has an "in" with the resident ghost; a young boy who occasionally visits his old bedroom. She can't see him, but says she can tell when he's there. Each of the rooms is carefully climate controlled to protect the antiques and apparently his room is always 1 degree cooler than the rest of the house. Apparently he was there when we visited so we each gave him a polite "hello" and continued on our way.

One of the docents actually suggested Jenny get a job at the castle. Not as a guide, although she'd be good at it, but as a serving maid. She explained how this was a comparatively cushy number in that she would have a bed to herself and lots of good food. That all sounded appealing enough but once she learned she would need to get up early each morning, Jenny decided to pursue other opportunities. Smart choice; go with your strengths, that's what I say.



We tried to get my nephew Christopher hired on as a trainee-footman. At eleven, he's the right age. Unfortunately, we couldn't get him to make a decision as to whether or not he was going to grow tall - apparently tall is good when it comes to footmen and if you happen to have an identical twin, you can rake in the big bucks. (Butlers like symmetry.) But, Chris didn't grow by any visible amount while we were there so it looks like he'll have to stay in school for the time being too.

Tour finished, we headed back out into the sunshine and another stroll through those fascinating woods. Jenny plans to get married here one day (she has a shortlist of locations, but no potential husbands as yet) and I can't say I blame her. The place has a magical quality to which the photos don't do justice. What a fabulous place.



I came home from Britain with a £5 note in my wallet, issued by the Royal Bank of Scotland. It wasn't until I'd been back from my vacation for a week or two, that I pulled it out to show someone. And there on the back, to my surprise, was an engraved picture of Culzean Castle. I guess somebody else must like the place too.




If you're interested, more photos can be found by clicking
here:

You Can't Go Home Again - Part 1

In his posthumously published novel, Thomas Wolfe tells us "You can't go home again." Poppycock, if you ask me. All you need is the fare to get there and a phone call to let them know you're on your way and to can they make sure they have some beer in.


Of course, what he really meant was that once you've been away for any length of time, not only will you find the people you left behind have changed; you'll realize that so have you. The place itself will evolve physically too - perhaps not in a manner that's noticeable to those watching it happen, but anyone who hasn't visited for a while, will see a dramatic difference. Shops that will have changed hands, traffic flows that will have altered, buildings where there were none before, home will no longer be "home".

The first few times I returned to Britain after immigrating to the USA, it really was with a sense of "coming home". Back to the comfortable, the familiar, the known. Which was why it was something of a shock on my last trip, four years ago, to discover for the first time that the place felt...foreign. The driving on the wrong side of the road, the accents, the stuff in the shops, and the buildings, all looked strange. The money was unfamiliar, the telephone system was incomprehensible and as for the expressions the people used...they were just weird.

Interestingly, I didn't experience that emotion at all this time round, even though I was visiting places I haven't seen in some cases, for over a decade. I was on the other hand, struck by how much closer everything was. After fifteen years of the wide open spaces in the American west, and six living in the Rocky Mountains with my twenty-mile drive to the nearest supermarket, ten to the nearest pub, and five to the nearest takeaway food, I'd forgotten just how easy it is to walk to almost anywhere you want to go.


I'd set out for an explore, thinking it would take me the afternoon, and realize to my surprise that I was at my destination within a few minutes. One day I had to carry a heavy bag from the railway station to my friend Steve's house. It was a warm day and the bag seemed to weigh a ton, but I was still debating whether to go back and wait for the bus, when I realized I was 3/4 of the way there.

Every American journalist visiting Scotland for the British Open (they rarely report anything else that goes on there unless it involves football hooligans) reaches into his Bumper Book of Clichés and talks about the weather, the funny money, the ingredients of haggis and the tiny cars.


But the thing is; the cars are tiny! Much smaller than when I lived there. Gas prices that would make an American driver weep have encouraged the British to purchase smaller and smaller cars to the point where many of them now drive vehicles that would fit in the trunk of the average American behemoth. Within moments of leaving the airport we came upon a roundabout (traffic circle) and I had to try not to flinch as all these miniature cars came flying towards us from all angles. And the roads are narrow too. Far narrower than I'm used to.

One time my sister was driving me along a road that was about the same width as the one that takes me from the highway to my house. Mine has a 35 mph speed limit, which the polis enforce rigidly. I'm not sure how they ever manage to write anyone a ticket however, because most of the time, we all creep along at 20-25 mph behind some lamebrain who no doubt wonders why everyone else is in such a hurry. Except here was my sister hurtling along at 55-60 mph, while I tried not to scream in terror.


My parents live in a small town called Largs, on the west coast of Scotland, south of Glasgow. They didn't move there until after they'd kicked me out of the nest so in a sense, I wasn't really returning home at all. But my experience last time round not withstanding, it certainly felt like it. Even though I've only stayed in that house as a visitor, it has a very welcoming, homely feel to it. From the mince and tatties at tea time, to the endless cups of milky tea, to my Dad complaining about the money the local council was spending, and my Mum nagging me to take a nap even though I'd told her I would recover from my jet-lag much quicker if I just stayed awake until bed time (about a hundred times), now that was familiar.



Everyone had a good laugh at my hybrid Anglo-American accent (several good laughs, actually), and my tie-dyed shirt, and my lack of vacation time, and got a lot of mileage out of the slang I use ("goofing off" was a particular favorite) but you know what? I loved every minute of it. I miss my family, I miss my friends and I miss the social network they still have.

Yes, I love Colorado, and am perfectly happy with my decision to become a US Citizen a couple of years ago. But it's fairly clear that no matter how long I live here, visiting Britain will always mean going home.

So Thomas Wolfe? You don't know what you're talking about.

Magic Time

I am not, and never will be, a morning person. There is a special place in hell for those freaks that get up in the middle of the night and have a million things accomplished before normal people have cracked an eyelid. An ever more special place for those sickos who are cheerful while they’re doing it.*

The words "bright" and "early" make no sense when paired together and if it wasn’t for the gift that is coffee, I doubt I would make it upright until at least lunchtime and pay check be damned. As I used to argue with my early-bird boss many years ago, "I’ll bet I had a lot more fun in the hours between 12 and 2 last night than you did in the hours between 5 and 7 this morning."

You get the picture? I don’t like mornings.

However…as some of you may know, I recently made a pilgrimage back to my homeland to see the folks, catch up with some old friends and pig out on fish and chips and Irn Bru. I had a fabulous time, thanks for asking (details will follow shortly, for anyone interested) and am feeling more than a little homesick now that I’m back in Colorado. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but my house in the mountains lacks certain simple comforts. A decent pub or twelve within walking distance for example.

Now I don’t normally suffer from jet lag. If I can simply force myself to stay awake until bed time, no matter how long that is since I got up, then I usually sleep like a log and am back on track by the next day. But this time around my aged body is taking a little longer to adjust than I’m used to, and I’ve been waking at around 4:30 each morning.

I’m still young enough to remember when that was a time for going to bed, not getting up but nonetheless, getting back to sleep before the alarm goes off has proven to be impossible so instead, I’ve found myself up and about and I have to say, enjoying the early mornings.

There’s a stillness to the air that can’t be found later in the day. Hardly any cars, no neighbors out working on their weekend projects, with loud music playing and power tools a-buzzing. Not only do I have the house to myself, I’ve pretty much got the whole darn neighborhood.

The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™ is up for a walk pretty much any time, day or night so it’s taken little persuasion to get her to join me for a brisk few miles round the neighborhood. Despite us being well into June, the mountains are still capped with snow, which makes them even more spectacular when the sun turns them blazing red. There are a few cars on the road, but far less than when we usually walk after work.

And coffee, my lifeblood, nectar of the Dogs, tastes even more wonderful when sipped out of doors, with a good book and the company of the birds, and deer and rabbits. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but even once my body has adjusted to Mountain Standard Time, I might even start setting the alarm a couple of hours earlier than usual, just so I can get up early and spend a couple of hours quality time with myself before reading my first e-mail of the day.

Mind you, if and when I do, it turns out to be a cold, wet morning. Well, then I reserve the right to pull the covers over my head, roll over with a big, fat smile on my face, and go back to sleep.

Just like any normal person.


* Or if there isn’t there bloody well ought to be.