the giftie gie us

To see ourselves as others see us -- the "giftie" Robert Burns famously recommended -- is not always pleasant as a plum pudding. And that special kind of sight probably is not the gift a blog gives one, anyway. We bloggers get to examine ourselves by presenting ourselves any way we want into the vast, yet infinitesimal, world of the internet.

It's Christmas Day as I write. The blog I intended ain't gonna happen. I was going to show my grandchildren what Christmas at Aunt Rachel's and Uncle Rob's looks like this year. But for some reason my trusty little cell phone camera only recorded one of the many pictures I took at the Feeney's charmingly Christmased condo.

Feeney poinsettia

This is the only picture that survived, and it is the most unrepresentative of the Feeney decor. NO dwarf Santa standing watch in the hall. No nine-foot tree. No lights, no candles. No stockings festooned around.

Here's another kind a giftie, from an earlier occasion:

Anniversary mailbox receives a touch of red.

I gave Roy a dark green mailbox, green because the dark red one (which would have matched our household color scheme) did not come in this larger size.  Being "Roy", he immediately saw it in glowing yellow and proceeded to make it so. And, being Roy, he reset the post before screwing the box to the platform, then took down the long-unused newspaper box and added its post to our garden stair. Our newspaper delivery drivers need a huge target, it seems -- the driveway.

Wayland has been bit by the "wellness" bug. Even Santa and his elves are put through a fitness workout. This is a giftie of good humor.

Outside the chiropracter's, I think.

My art-shot of our tiny, lit, evergreen reflected
 on the hood and windshield of the Accord.

In a small way, this shows the giftie of colored lights and the beauty
of many man-made objects and situations.  

And here, my Valentine gift bear, Henri Hatherill Pritchard, rides our Christmas train
around our tree. This year's magnificent tree had branches so low to the ground
that they touched the carpet full circle. We had to trim branches over
and over to allow Henri room to stay seated for the whole circuit.
Roy didn't have enough curved track to make a wider circle. Next Christmas . . . 

Roy, a great gifter, has taking to gie-ing me embroidered
cards with his own verses inside. And still occasional flowers. 

And then there are God's gifts, such as this glowing moon seeking us through gusting clouds.

THANK YOU

Color Her Scotland

As I said in an earlier post, my trip to Scotland was slated to be an art trip. Rather than rush from scene to scene, snapping pictures right and left, experiencing this new land primarily through a lens, we planned to slow ourselves down by learning Scotland through the elongated act of drawing by hand.

This is the study I was working on in the photo below

This shows me in heaven, above Castle Campbell.

Castle Campbell is near the town of Dollar, but backs up into a wild ravine cut into these lonesome hills. By taking the opportubity to study the ruin through sketching, I had time to notice all sorts of details of the past and present. Inside, we had seen the trap door just steps from the great hall that had once made it so easy for the laird to drop visitors who displeased him into the deep dungeon in the basement. Some of that harshness remains in the ruined stonework. On a lighter note, I studied the current caretaker's wing, with homely signs of family life in the back yard. As the Campbells' seat, this ruin had a tremendously bloody history, but that turmoil all drops away as one sits sketching in the sun, listening to the calls of birds and to the breeze rustling the grasses.

Melrose Abbey -- ruins in all shades of dusty pink, rose,
cream of orange, and caramel -- and its modern-day gatehouse.

This remarkable ruin is a ravishing pile of colored stones. The bells of the cattle, represented by my two brown dots, could be heard on the abbey grounds as they grazed their way across the far mountain pasture, adding musical depth to the memory of the afternoon. The gatekeeper's tiny office was graceless by comparison. The pretty town nearby was decked with flowers, in fact had won a national contest for its beauty.

Tom went for the rocks. Here he is at the edge of Moray Firth.

This was the eager traveler who needed to be slowed down. Unfortunately, his eagerness morphed into a compulsion to do large, finished drawings instead of sketches. I'm not sure if there are any works from his hand finished enough to commemorate the trip, but he did drink deeply of the essences of Scotland.

Here is the entrance to St. Fillan's Cave in Pittenweem,
which is also represented by a photo in an earlier blog. 

I was trying so hard to give the hillside its intruding weight that I went overboard and made it look like it's eating the village!  St. Fillan is said to have been able to light his cave enough to do his writing by the supernatural glow emanating from his left arm.

And here is the fishing harbor at Pittenweem.

Does there exist anywhere a more picture-worthy village?

Two views of Elgol School, at the end of a long,
lonesome road on the Isle of Skye..

You may remember from the caption to this photo, taken by Rachel and inserted in an earlier posting, that we visited Skye during the tag end of a cross-Atlantic hurricane. I had to draw this sketch from the car, through a waterfall down the windshield, while occasional gusts rocked the car. Rachel owns professional fisherman's rain gear, so she was well prepared for the day. When we flew out of Boston, we had been relieved that Hurricane Olivia had turned away from the coast of New England and headed into the Atlantic where -- we thought -- it couldn't interfere with our vacation. We were fascinated to see how she had traversed the ocean during our visit to Scotland and thus was able to visit her last gusts and mists upon us during our last couple of days there.

Rotten (sic) Wynd, Falkland. 

A quick sketch of the city of  Falkland, from the front yard of its palace. 

The building entrance fee was too expensive for us, so we missed any gems displayed therein. But we did climb the hill behind the city at sunset and drank in the glorious view. Oh, well, if I must confess -- we drove halfway up and climbed only the last few hundred yards due to encroaching nightfall. Even so, it was just a trifle eerie picking our way back down to the parking lot in the dark, after all the sensible visitors had left.

Thus closes this posting, with a strong recommendation to sketch your way through your next trip. Your memories will be amazingly rich.

Scots "Heiress," Part II

This is sequel to yesterday's post, which began to make public my private claim to the throne of Scotland.  No, I am not an heir by birthline, but by loveline.

Here I am resting in front of St. Fillan's cave, on Cove Wynd, Pittenweem.

My daughter Leah had visited Pittenweem while an art student in college.  She took a picture of a fishing boat in the harbor. The reflections she captured took my breath away. Visiting the cave of the earliest Christian evangelist to this part of Scotland also took my breath away, not so much from the steep climb up the Wynd but from imagining LIVING across the street from such an ancient, sacred site.

Me, starting to climb Glen Nevis in heavy mist.

We started the climb in rain and fog, but as we climbed, the sun came out. By the time we reached the height of the mountain pass the valley was a wonderland of glittering droplets on every leaf and blade of grass.

We had finished sketching rockbound Dunnotar Castle, and then
finished napping in the hayfield overlooking the North Sea.

Hints in this post may bring out the question of the drawings and sketches mentioned.
      Will I ever show them?
             OK, when I find them. Wait for another posting.

And here we are, playing Laird and Lady of Dunnotar.

Young Scots may spring into impromptu dance in joy or in mockery, but they definitely
respond to the traditional music.

We stopped in Elgin ("g" as in "good") just as some public festival was breaking up. The two figures visible beyond the raised hand of the boy in the striped sweater are me and my daughter Rachel. She had gone to Scotland to give a paper at an international marine affairs conference in Aberdeen, and then joined us. It always adds wonderful dimensions to a trip to have the companionship of the children.

Here I am, drawing sketches of Castle Campbell in the valley below.

This road was sometime used for driving cattle to market.  It was hard to imagine it going anywhere , but instead tapering off into heather and ledge.

Rachel in full rain gear, crossing a mountain stream on a rope bridge.

And here am I, on the same rig, on my way back across.

No, it didn't always rain, Here I am at the river
Clyde, back to the rainbow of the day.

There are many more photos of this trip. I will end with a couple of scenics that should clinch my claim to my heritage.

Seaside farm near Stonehaven.

A capitalist's folly, now the Youth Hostel near Loch Lomond.

A remote school on the Isle of Skye. We were there during the last bluff and blow of Hurricane  Olivia. 

Tom and Sara occupying Glencoe. I mean, what else could we do after arriving at one of the most famous sites in Scotland only to find the rain pouring down?  But tell me, does she not look like the queen of Scotland?

A Scots Heritage in Search of an Heiress

You might as well know, right off, that I consider myself the rightful heir to the throne of Scotland. If this seems preposterous, or at least fictional, please read on. I will attempt to explain.

Here is a brief overview of the official status of that throne, according to Wikipedia:

James VII continued to claim the thrones of England, Scotland, and Ireland. When he died in 1701, his son James inherited his father's claims, and called himself James VIII of Scotland and III of England and Ireland. He would continue to do so all his life, even after the Kingdoms of England and Scotland were ended by their merging as the Kingdom of Great Britain. In 1715, a year after the death of his sister, Queen Anne, and the accession of their cousin George of Hanover, James landed in Scotland and attempted to claim the throne; he failed, and was forced to flee back to the Continent. A second attempt by his son, Charles, in 1745, also failed. Both James's children died without legitimate issue, bringing the Stuart family to an end.

• James VIII (Seumas VIII), also known as The Old Pretender, son of James VII, was claimant from 1701 until his death in 1766.
• Charles III (Teàrlach III), also known as The Young Pretender and often called Bonnie Prince Charlie, son of James VIII, was claimant from his father's death until his own death in 1788 without legitimate issue.
• Henry I (Eanraig I), brother of Charles III and youngest son of James VIII. Died unmarried in 1807.

After 1807, the Jacobite claims passed first to the House of Savoy (1807–1840), then to the Modenese branch of the House of Habsburg-Lorraine (1840–1919), and finally to the House of Wittelsbach (since 1919). The current heir is Franz, Duke of Bavaria. Neither he nor any of his predecessors since 1807 have pursued their claim.

        and ----


Franz Bonaventura Adalbert Maria Herzog von Bayern (born 14 July 1933, as Franz Bonaventura Adalbert Maria Prinz von Bayern), styled as His Royal Highness The Duke of Bavaria, is head of the Wittelsbach family, the former ruling family of the Kingdom of Bavaria. His great-grandfather Ludwig III was the last King of Bavaria before being deposed in 1918.
     Franz is also the current senior co-heir-general of King Charles I of England and Scotland, and thus is considered by Jacobites to be the legitimate heir of the House of Stuart as king of England, France, Scotland, and Ireland. "HRM [sic] the Duke generally does not comment on issues concerning his familiar [sic] relationship to the Royal House of Stuart," a spokesman told the media.

So you see, the official heir takes no interest in his wild northern -- potential -- kingdom, and the items pictured below go wanting:

Crown Jewels of Scotland, Edinboro.

How did I come to feel these would be a cozy fit on my head and in my hand?

In 2005, Tom and I took a longed for trip to Scotland. I already felt an affinity, due to my exposure to things Scots here in America. My grandfather Mitchell had belonged to a clan in Massachusetts. I loved bagpipe music and mountains. A drumlin visible from my childhood home was named Little Scotland, for its likeness to agricultural scenery in Scotland. We could hear the cowbells when the wind was from the right direction.

But once on the ground in the mother country, I fell headlong in love with the place and the people (exceptions to be noted).

My great-grandmother Caroline Martin came to Massachusetts from Dundee. I have no photos of Dundee, because when we were there the streets were torn up for reconstruction leaving the city a confusion of orange pylons -- totally unphotogenic.

The next stop for ancestor research was Aberchirder and environs.  Here's a map of that part of Scotland:

Huntly, Keith, and Aberchirder are town names in my family history. My father was Alexander Innes Mitchell Jr. His Grandfather Mitchell came to Massachusetts from Aberchirder, also known as Foggieloan, met Caroline, married, and worked as gardener at the Forbes Estate in Milton, MA. They lived over the coach house.

Here's a postcard of old Aberchirder:

You think this history of my background does not equal royal descent? You're right. I don't make my claim on biological descent, but on my fit with the modern country coupled with the emptiness of the throne.

Testimony continues.

Falkirk Wheel, a precisely engineered lock on Scotland's
national canal system. Each circular opening contains buckets
of boats heading this way or that along the canal. The wheel as it turns
connects the section of canal coming down from a higher elevation
 with the lower canal, seen on the level
of the bystanders, who typically stand awestruck.

The Falkirk Wheel introduced me to Scotland's history of superb and innovative engineers and their feats. I'd had no idea of the worldwide role Scotland has played in the development of modern inventions.

Our search for the homeland of my Dad's people continued in Huntly. Our night there is a story for another blog, but an event happened which gave me my first sensation of being the object of a royal homecoming. While waiting for Tom to finish an errand, I was drawn into the city hall and up its tower by the skirl of bagpipes and roll of drums. I mounted turn after turn of a grand stairway, my whole body reverberating with the stirring music. Then I came face to face with the town band, in civvies at rehearsal, but it surely felt like they had turned out to welcome the Innes heir home.

Huntly town band, in a commercial photo.
I did not see them in uniform.

AN ASIDE:   Innes? Yes, that's my father's middle name, because an early Mitchell had married an Innes lady. The Inneses were and are the local gentry and hold what remains of a huge ancestral territory near Huntly. Years ago, in 1989, when Tom and I took our daughters to England, my Dad encouraged us to look up Mr. Innes at such and such address, such and such phone number in London. The two men had been in correspondence, and my father thought there would be a welcome. Ha. I called the number from one of those red phone booths, but was not allowed to connect with Mr. Innes. The male secretary (so I imagined the man answering the phone to be) seemed to think us bounders from abroad. So much for my Dad's dreams of connecting with his family.

BACK TO 2005.

A wide view of the Foggieloan region.

My shot of the Deveron River valley, near Creelwell and Aberchirder.

A farm at Fortrie, also near Creelwell, where we stayed
at the Creelwell Farm B&B.

Easter School at Fortrie, and our rental car.

In the village of Aberchirder, my husband double-dared me to try to find a Mitchell. It worked. Mr. Mitchell was at home inside the only house on the street with a potato garden in the front yard instead of flowers or a "car park".  Typical of my Dad's family. And when Mr. Mitchell answered our knock, I was eerily shocked to see how much he looked like my father and grandfather. They could have been cousins. But these Mitchells -- though the lady of the house was avid to show us her tartan book and collection of Scots paraphernalia -- knew of no connection to my family.

I'm sorry to say that the pictures my husband took at the Mitchells' have been lost. But below is a pic of me in front of the town post office. Sorry for the lack of focus. We took very informal cameras on the trip, in order to force us to draw pictures to record our experiences.

Sara musing beside an ancient ox ford, near Aberchirder.

After Foggieloan, we left off specific heritage research. What follows are excerpts from the rest of our trip, the rest of my falling deeper and deeper in love with Scotland.

This class of upper elementary school children is watching a re-enactor
bring alive the history behind the William Wallace monument. 

More impressive to me than the history or its monument was the attention given to the teachers. The children were relaxed and enjoying their field trip, but there was no horsing around, snickering, etc. And when the teacher gave the quiet signal to GO, the children were on their feet and in line immediately.

Technology has brought this blog to an end. I can't download any more pictures, even after reducing the resolution. Sad.

There are so many more reasons for loving Scotland, that I'll start another post.