Monday, August 11, 2008

Why a Thistle?

Google “Scottish thistle” for a nanosecond and you’ll find some very diverse explanations for Scotland’s unlikely choice of the thistle as its national “flower.”

Several sites refer to a night landing by King Haken of Norway in 1263. His men – trying to surprise the sleeping Scots – took off their shoes, walked straight into a bunch of thistles, and gave themselves away with their Norwegian ouches. The Scots ran them off in what many historians have called a "fierce" battle – even a rout, say some – and others have called a “mild skirmish.” The thankful Scots developed a deep appreciation for their thorny little weed and, as they say, the rest is history. As you wander through these websites, you can spot all kinds of inconsistencies and versions of this story – some not even involving the Norse or the Battle of Largs.

A digitized book by Google – A Handy-Book of Curiosities by William S. Walsh – published in 1893, gives an equally interesting reason for the humble thistle’s status as national flower. According to this version, Queen Scotia, after a battle victory, sat down to rest in a nest of thistles – with the predictable and painful result. Because of the discomfort it caused, she realized that in her mind the thistle would always be associated with that victorious battle. She placed it her helmet and – again – as they say, the rest is history.

According to Walsh, the first time the thistle is mentioned as the national flower is in William Dunbar’s lengthy poem, The Thistle and Rose, published in 1503. One website claims James III issued coins struck with the image of a thistle as early as 1470.

So who knows which story is the real reason for the lowly thistle’s lofty position in Scotland or how soon in Scotland’s history it gains such unlikely prominence? I sure don’t. I also don’t know much about the reasons behind the sculpture on The Pencil (below), and I'm hoping some more learned Scottish aficionado readers can enlighten me.













As you can see from its inscription above the memorial's door on the close-up below, this structure was erected to commemorate the 1263 Battle of Largs, a battle that forever changed the history of Scotland by ending Viking raiding in this area. Though it appears ancient, The Pencil (called this for obvious reasons but not, apparently, by its designer, J.S. Kay from Newton Stewart), was actually completed in 1912.

When my husband shot these photos of The Pencil in 2004, we never noticed that the beast in the sculpture to the lower right of the door obviously sports a thistle.

In fact, we never paid much attention to the sculptures at all. Now that we are, we wonder, “What in the world are they?" Do they have any connection to a thistle-as-Scottish-national-flower story? Was the designer, J.S. Kay, using Scottish shorthand to remind his viewers of another ancient thistle story that they knew – and we don't?

Why do I care? Simple. Our website stats tell us that the vast majority of visitors to our site use “thistle” as part of their search term. Clearly, today’s Scottish aficionados are just as enamored of the thistle as those Scottish clansmen who owed their lives to the thistle in 1263 (if that version of the story is the true one). Always wanting to create artwork that Scots-lovers will find it easy to love, we feel the more we know about thistles and, in particular, about this monument, the better. (Besides, our thistle painting inventory is very low, and Bruce might paint this sculpture of a ??? and thistle – if we knew a little more about it.)

So how about it? Do you know anything about this well-known monument at Largs, Scotland – and its interesting sculptures – that you can share with us?

Five Tips for Traveling in Scotland

Here’s the disclaimer right up front. My husband and I have traveled in the British Isles for a total of 17 weeks. During all that time, we had to rely on public transportation for only a handful of days. The rest of the time, we drove ourselves around – and lived to write about it, which we think is quite a feat.

That said, our tips our strictly our tips; they’re what we learned – sometimes the hard way – from our driving experiences. They're not a compilation of anything we've read in any tour guide. They don't include friends' experiences. As such, they may not jive with what Great Aunt Harriet told you, or what someone who took public transportation might have told you. Can’t help it. Our experience is our experience.

Our hope is that you’ll pick up something from our UK travel experiences that will help when you make that trip you’ve been longing to make to that special section of the British Isles that calls you. Sure hope so; we’d like for someone else to profit from our pain besides us!

Tip #1:
Street signs are often hard to find – and optional, apparently.
You must remember that people walk in the UK. They don’t drive two blocks for a carton of milk as we Yanks are prone to do. In fact, you may be as surprised as we were by the large amount of pedestrian traffic at all hours of the day and night. Most all their signage is printed and posted with foot traffic in mind – down low – where pedestrians can easily see it.

That having been said, UK cities’ and villages’ solicitous concern for all who are trying to find their way around stops right there. Evidently, their cities and villages have few or no rules or codes for street signs. You’ll have to keep a sharp lookout, as they don’t uniformly show up on posts at street intersections. While walking, you have plenty of time to search all over each intersection for these signs. While driving – on the left side of the road from the right side of the car in an unfamiliar city – you don't.

You might find one a couple of feet up from the sidewalk on the front of a building on the SW corner of an intersection. The next one might be at chest height on the opposite side of the street, again, on a building – but in a different color and completely different style. The next one might be an actual street sign on a pole at the NE corner of the intersection. But there might be none at all at the next intersection.

That brings me to my next tip.

Tip #2:
Streets change names.
If you live on our East Coast in an older city or town that sort of evolved higgledy-piggledy over the two or three centuries of our nation's brief history, then you’re already accustomed to this.

We live in the West, where most towns were carefully platted in nice, neat squares. Newly annexed properties and subdivisions are very carefully mated into the original town or city plan, for the most part. Very seldom do streets change names in our neck of the woods.

You can imagine our surprise when we kept coming across new names every other block or so. Apparently, in the UK and Europe, this is rather common. Streets, especially in Edinburgh, can – and do – change names A LOT. Look sharp. As some streets intersect others at odd angles, we assumed, when we found a different street name at the next block, that we must’ve unknowingly left the street we meant to stay on. Most of the time, we hadn’t; the street had just changed names.

We haven’t used GPS in the UK yet, so I’m not sure how accurate GPS devices are, given the multiple intricacies of older UK cities. If you have, add your two bits.

Tip #3:
Signs aren't always visible from both directions.
Get used to rubber-necking it. When you see the back of a sign on the opposite side of the road, as soon as you pass it, quickly whip around and read it.

We learned this the hard way on our first trip to Scotland. We must’ve driven the same road five times before we noticed one teeny little sign pointing the way. We ran into this phenomenon many times. Don’t know if it’s misguided thriftiness, careless maintenance, or what.

Doesn’t matter: your job is to pay attention to ALL signs – the ones facing you and the ones facing the oncoming traffic. A sign facing oncoming traffic may be the only sign you’re going to find telling you where Castle ----- is located.

Tip #4:
Signs in areas where we Yanks would expect only vehicular traffic may be positioned/sized for foot traffic.
The sign scenario I just mentioned was complicated by the fact that the one-and-only sign was about eight inches wide, two inches high, and about 18 inches off the ground. If we'd been walking, we no doubt would've seen it. But it was almost invisible to us while sitting in our car, traveling 35 mph. While 35 mph isn't fast, it's too fast to see such teensy little signs.

In general, signage is considerably smaller than the comparative billboards we’re accustomed to reading to find our way through an unfamiliar part of the US. If you wear glasses or contacts, make sure you have your most current Rx in your glasses or contact lenses because, honey, you’re gonna need to SEE teensy little type as you’re driving down those B roads. Dual carriageways, on the other hand, have signage comparable to our interstate signs – most of the time.

Tip #5:
Keep your eyes peeled for brown-and-white signs.
As in the US, there does seem to be some consistency in signposting government-owned or government-sponsored tourist destinations in these colors. You’d be surprised how fast your reticular activating system will catch on; you’ll be an expert at spotting brown-and-white signs, no matter how small, by the time you fly back across the pond.

That said, many of the homes, castles, and museums that you may want to see may well be privately owned. If so, their signs will look however they jolly well please.

Bottom line: LOOK SHARP!

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

The Scottish Attitude

Have you read James Webb's Born Fighting – How the Scots-Irish Shaped America?

How about Albion's Seed – Four British Folkways in America by David Hackett Fischer?

I just finished Born Fighting and slogged my way through Albion's Seed a few years ago. Very different in style and written for different audiences, they tell a similar tale. And that tale helped me understand myself a little better. If you're an American of Scottish, Irish, or Scots-Irish descent, you may well want to read these two labors of love for the same reason.

Though Albion's Seed is a bit on the scholarly side (much of its 902 pages are more footnotes, charts, and graphs than body copy), it was well worth wading through. Born Fighting, on the other hand, with 343 pages and nary a footnote, was a much easier, more anecdotal read. Webb's and Fischer's different approaches to Americans' Celtic heritage helped me understand a lot about why my core values are what they are. Oddly enough, it also explained my raging faux-pas – actually two of them! – during our first trip to Scotland nine years ago.

We were exchanging homes with a nice couple in a little village just south of Edinburgh. It was a lovely second-floor flat in an early 1700s stone great house that had been gutted to its stone walls and entirely rebuilt into two mod-con flats. The first-floor owners were an 80-ish mother and her 40-50-ish daughter. Mum was an Englishwoman; I don't recall if daughter had been raised in Scotland or not. They were very hospitable, inviting us down for tea and conversation a couple of times, in a valiant effort to get to know some Yanks up close and personal.

Here's where it gets messy.

During one of these pleasant August-evening conversations, Mum volunteered information about us (meaning US citizens in the aggregate) that was so out in left field, I simply could not let it fly past. Now, if 'd let it go, the rest of the evening might not have been quite so awkward. But noooo, I had to snag that sucker and fling it back.

What did she say that was so offensive? How's this for starters? "You know, you Americans really wish you had a queen."

"A what?? Really? And what makes you think that?"

"Look at how you read all those celebrity magazines that treat Hollywood stars like royalty and how your newspapers cover our royal family so closely. You're just as enthralled with royalty as we are." (You'll remember Princess Di had been killed two years earlier, and she and Dodi were still in the news waaaay too often.)

Yes. Well. I couldn't argue with the whole media thing. That was all true. But to deduce from that that US Americans were pining away for a 1999 version of King George III . . . ? What errant flight of fancy took her to that conclusion? Possibly her very deep English roots?

"Umm, Mrs. _____, I think you may be a little off base there."

"Oh, no. I've read your magazines and watched your movies. We even watch your news reports. You really do wish you had a queen and king, just like ours." This, from a woman who'd never set foot on the Lower 48, much less Hawaii or Alaska!

"Okay, Mrs. ______, I'm going to try to make this as plain as possible. When we learn someone is wealthy, we're impressed. Unless, of course, we learn that he/she didn't make the money; they just inherited it. They don't do anything. They don't work. They didn't create a nifty little widget and get filthy rich from it. They don't contribute to society. They just live off others' work and contributions – like Dad's successful widget business. Then we're not so impressed. Actually, we're not impressed at all. In fact, we're just plain disgusted with them and their trust-fund money. We're not into old money, old aristocracy, or old lineage as a power tool. We Americans may have very long wish lists, but "king and queen" isn't on any of them. Trust me."

I was just winding up for my a killer pitch when I noticed my husband's level-hand, across-the-neck motion. The horrified look on his face told me I'd probably breached some kind of polite-conversation rule. I didn't throw the pitch after all. That didn't stop Mum from taking another swing. I politely ignored it, and we moved on to the weather. Now there's a safe one, especially in a country where it swings radically from light gray to dark gray.

What made me break all the rules of polite conversation? I'm normally fairly well behaved. Answer: the same thing that made me do something equally aberrant two days later.

We were visiting nearby Rosslyn chapel, well before Da Vinci Code hit the bookstores, back when it was still a quiet, out-of-the-way tourist spot. We decided we hadn't seen enough when they locked us out at 5:00 on the dot. Furthermore, there was supposed to be a path through the woods to Rosslyn Castle, which we couldn't seem to locate. We wanted more.

The next day was Sunday, so we shamelessly decided to take the cheap route: attend an Episcopalian worship service in the chapel that morning. After services, we'd already be "inside" as the tour guides opened the site at noon to the lesser, godless mortals who would have to pay what we'd paid the day before.

We bought a booklet about the chapel in the gift shop, which I read that Saturday night. After services Sunday morning, who do I spy but the author of the booklet, the current Earl of Rosslyn? Though I know he lives and works in England and only occasionally holidays in the restored portion of Rosslyn Castle, I'm still pleasantly surprised to see him there. What luck!

Or not.

I saunter over to ask some questions. After all, we're practically kin, seeing as how the first of my ancestors to enter The Colonies (before they were officially The Colonies) was a Sinclair, and Sir William St. Clair – the current Earl's descendant – started building Rosslyn Chapel in 1446. The fact that my Sinclair ancestor sailed on the ship Ye Loyalty in 1698 as an indentured servant is a small matter. His will shows he died a rather well-to-do man, for his time, and his son did even better. (Reread my reply to Mrs. _____ for an explanation as to why this information makes the indentured-servant thing seem a "small matter" in my little Yank mind.)

By the time I arrive at the Earl's pew, he's chatting with someone else, so I introduce myself to his wife. Now, let's just back up a bit. The first page of the little booklet I'd read the night before shows a charming, smiling, young earl and his equally charming and smiling young wife, complete with charming and smiling children gathered 'round. I explain who I am and why I'm there, and get ready for an interesting conversation.

Or not.

Nope. Definitely not. Instead, it's ice. Crisp, rock-hard, chip-it-off ice.

Right here I need to point out that as conversationalists go, I'm right up there with the best of them. But no matter what I say, there's to be no conversation with Mrs. Earl of Rosslyn. Apparently, one does not introduce oneself to descendants of the landed aristocracy – even today – even if they're practically kin (well, maybe not strictly kin) – even in a Christ-centered building where the sinners' playing field is supposedly level. Apparently, one cowers on the outskirts (near the memorials honoring ancient St. Clairs) and hopes the aristocracy will greet one, and then – and only then – one might ask one's questions.

This one was so American and so naive, she was totally unprepared for this holdover of English snobbishness. This one was very disappointed. Not only did she never get a chance to ask her questions of the Earl, she also had the first-time pleasure of being icily dismissed. Dismissed. Yes, dismissed, as in all those corny old movies you've seen depicting the English jet-set – before there were jets – at their snootiest.

I was livid. I was seething. I was ranting – quietly, but ranting nevertheless – all the way out the picturesque West Door, as my husband hurried me along.

Why? Why had that little episode prompted the same over-the-top, heated response as Mum's certain knowledge that all we Americans ever really wanted for Christmas was a king and queen? I’ve pondered these two incidents many times since that unpleasant event, and I could never give myself a reasonable answer. For a while, I blamed myself for being unfamiliar with royalty protocol, though I certainly never thought I was approaching royalty or breaking the rules. Not till I read Webb’s and Fischer’s books (and several other British and Scottish history books) did I understand what sent me into such a heated fury.

James Webb in his Born Fighting says it better than I ever could, so let me quote him.

“These conflicts [from Roman times down to current times], from which they [the Scots-Irish] have never in two thousand years of history retreated, have followed a consistent cycle of, among other things, a values-based combativeness, an insistent egalitarianism, and a refusal to be dominated from above, no matter the cost.” – p. 20 (italics mine)

“The Scottish people did not care much for the larger world, and they especially did not care much for elites.” – p. 42 (italics mine)

“Who are we [the descendants of the Scots-Irish]? We are the molten core at the very center of the unbridled, raw, rebellious spirit of America. We helped build this nation, from the bottom up. We face the world on our feet and not on our knees. We were born fighting. And if the cause is right, we will never retreat.” – p. 343 (italics mine)

And that, dear reader, is why I’m quite certain neither I nor any of my Scots-Irish-descended, fellow Americans have “king and queen” on our collective wish list. It's why I’m equally certain we will never stand for impolite dismissal from someone who considers herself superior by right of landed-aristocracy lineage – or marriage into same – or anything else, for that matter.