Having problems connecting to the Net

I'm having difficulty maintaining a connection to the Internet so this blog will be short, mainly of photos of Hestercombe Gardens, which I visited Tuesday, August 12th.

The gardens were lovely but the main complaint we had was the admission price 7-80 GBP. Quite steep, especially as a part of the gardens are currently closed. Yesterday I went to Cleeve Abbey, which is a very well preserved Cistercian abbey from the 13th to 15th centuries and the admission was only 3-80 GBP.

So, at that price I took loads of photos; here are a few of them.

Swan settled in the grass. This is such a typically English scene, isn't it? Somerset is such a beautiful county.

The sunlight was so intense that I had to play with the contrast a bit on my iPhoto program. I've come out looking a bit blue but you get the picture (hahahahaahaa).

These terraced gardens were designed by Lutyens/Jekyll. Famous for their gardens. I felt like I was in a Rosemary and Thyme episode and any moment I'd discover a body :)

I always enjoy looking at the play of sunlight down these long cloisters. This one led to the keyhole window below.

I've lightened the photo several notches to give it a more "ethereal" look and to show the detail of the plantings in this little corner.

Two long "alleys" of water border the terraced gardens pictured above; one is pictured below the terraced gardens picture and this is the other. I took one shot looking one way and the other, looking back. It would be interesting to know their symbolism. Eternity? The river in Eden? I noticed, in rereading the blog before posting, that I used the word "long" a few times. They did seem quite long and i think it's a question of perspective--my eyes seem to travel and travel but it was all so restful. These water features are, to me, way more lovely than the so-called water features we have in Las Vegas. These don't seem to be forced or phony; they seem to be so much a part of the natural, well, flow. That's the way I felt, that these gardens flowed and were so tranquil. We've been lucky in our travels that most of the tourists, when it's a nice day, seem to head for the beaches and so the gardens were very quiet. The alleys lead to (or from, depending on which end of the alley you are standing at) two fountains.

This one.

And this one. I thought the carved head was quite beautiful and the way that the fountain curves like a shell with the tracery around it. It all led to a feeling of peace.

There is a house on the grounds, a kind of "stately home" type house. But it's been taken over for Council offices--what a nice place to work in!--and so isn't open to the public. There was of course a shop and small cafe which were also quite expensive.

August 9th day out to Brean Down

I am taking a break from updating my holiday in Scotland to update what I've been doing the past few days. So today I will post about Brean Down and tonight about Hestercombe Gardens.

On Monday, Sheila and Dave and I thought we would go visit a much-advertised gardens near here, Hestercombe Gardens. But there was an accident that snarled up the M-5 and, after sitting in traffic on the side roads, we decided to go to Brean Down instead. (We did make it to Hestercombe the next day.)

No, Brean Down is not a racetrack and it also isn't "down"--it's a promontory that is 520' high above sea level and juts out 1.5 miles into the Bristol Channel. The Down has been used for defence since pre-Roman times. In modern times, a fort was built in 1859 that first guarded the coast against the French and then in the last two world wars against the Nazis. Marconi also used the Down for some of his early wireless transmissions.

When we first arrived the sky was quite overcast but after we climbed the 100+ steps up the side of the Down, the weather began to clear. It was still quite windy, however, as you'll see from some of the photos.

Starting off along the path, Sheila, Dave and the dogs. The signs warned that dogs should be kept on the lead because at least one dog a month is lost over the cliff edge.

Looking down at the beach on the left side of the promontory. To the left is a large caravan park. The English (and Scots) like to go caravanning to the beach in the summer.

Looking down below the right side of the promontory. You can see how strong the winds are by the way that the trees have grown. That's Weston-super-Mare across the beach.

One of the lookout positions belonging to the old fort.

Me fooling around. Rightyho, sir! I won't fall asleep! That's the wind and not styling gel whipping my hair back.

Sleepwalking could prove fatal.

What remains of the fort.

The Brits tested out a few secret weapons here during WWII. The track that you see in the photo was for the "bouncing bomb". The idea was that a trolley was to take the bomb down the track and when it reached the end, launch it into the air. A new idea on the catapult? Anyway, the problem was that trolley travelled too fast, burst into flames and the whole lot went over the edge and into the sea. I think they gave up on that idea and then moved on to the "expendable noisemaker" rocket that unfortunately acted like a boomerang. No more news about further testing.

Once again the wind is whipping what there is of my hair around. Daisy wanted to see over the wall. Ummm, I don't think so. Don't want to have dog overboard.

The sun came out as we were walking back. You could almost think that was the Mediterranean coast. It's a huge beach with very high tides, some of the highest in the world Dave said. This was low tide however.

Daisy wasn't sure which way to go since Sheila was behind us taking a photo.

Weston-super-Mare in the sun.

And the walk ends in brilliant sunshine.

Cupar, Kingdom of Fife. Monday, July 27th

Sunday night I caught the train to Cupar. I had one glitch on the train. Thinking I'd avoid a last-minute panic for buying a ticket, I'd bought my ticket on Saturday. The Anyday ticket. I thought that meant I could travel Anyday on it. Ummm, no. What it meant that I could buy it any day for travel ON that day. So when I happily presented it to the train conductor, he said I was supposed to have used it the day before. So I had to ante up another 10 GBP. Luckily I always carry cash with me. He was sympathetic though and said I should ask about getting a partial refund on my first ticket. (I did but there was a 10 GBP administration charge on that kind of transaction....)

Cupar is across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh. A firth is an estuary; so the Firth of Forth is an estuary of the river Forth that separates Lothian (where Edinburgh is) from Fife. It's actually also a fjord which is kind of neat; I've only heard of fjords in connection with Norway. Then again Norway is only a boat ride across the North Sea from Scotland.

My dad sometimes told me about the bridges in that area of Scotland, especially the Tay bridge which for a time had been the longest bridge in the world until it collapsed in 1879 killing many people. I have an idea he thought one of our relatives was killed in that disaster but I haven't found any information on that in my research. He liked bridges though and, shortly before he died at 87, told me that he'd started dreaming of bridges. He would have liked the bridge we crossed on. The sun had come out and the Forth was sparkling with pleasure boats. We passed through Dundee, where my grandparents lived for many years and where Dad spent a year when he was a little boy.

But my destination was Cupar and after about an hour and a bit on the train, I arrived at the train station. I was really tired, it was 8:00 on a Sunday evening and the town was virtually deserted. I dragged my baggage several blocks to my b&b and was welcomed by the Wards with sympathy for my long journey and gingerbread delivered to my room. It was a large comfy room and I really appreciated it. Had dinner at the Golf Pub down the street and read some Cupar history before I fell asleep.

Cupar has been a bustling town for centuries. It used to be the seat of the sheriff and a market town; records go back to the 11th century. I was interested to read all of that but my focus was on my own family's time here. My great great grandfather was actually born in Leith, a suburb of Edinburgh, in 1821. I've found that my great great great grandmother stayed in the Edinburgh area, dying in 1868 at the ripe old age of 82. There's a possibility, though, that she was actually born in England because the only marriage record that matches up the right names for my ggggm and ggggf have them being married in Pocklington, Yorkshire. But the records that far back are very sketchy so I am not sure. So back to my gggps and how they came to Cupar.

I think that my great great grandfather may have moved to the other side of the river from Edinburgh because of his job as a railway plate layer--perhaps he followed the railway work. After his birth, the next record that I have that I can say fairly certainly is "his" is his marriage to my gggm in Strathmiglo, Fife, in 1847, a village that's very close to Cupar. My gggm was born in Bonhill, also very close. According to the 1851 census, they were living in King's Kettle (about 7 miles from Cupar) and he was working as a railway laborer. By 1861, they'd moved to Cupar and that's where the family stayed. Sadly my gggf died of a heart attack in 1873, probably on the job as his death certificate says that he died at St. Clair railway station, a little way down the line from Cupar. My gggm continued to live in Cupar, eventually with one of her sons, until her death in 1904. When I first started researching all of this fifteen years ago, these places meant nothing to me.

All I'd known from my dad was that his parents came from Dundee and that when he was a wee boy visiting Scotland he'd been taken to see family but he didn't know who they were or where they lived. It's really only our generation that's become interested in family history but even my sister wasn't particularly interested although if she were still alive, she might have been interested in all that I've uncovered. Fifteen years ago I started looking through the International Genealogical Index, an index that the Mormon Church had put together of data they had microfilmed. I was amazed to find names that matched up with the few records I had and then, like a jigsaw puzzle, more than more pieces began to fit. I now have over 350 people linked together in my "tree" on ancestry.com and the next stage I wanted to achieve was to put "pictures" to the words on paper. And so I was here, just as I've been in Ireland and in Dingwall. Eventually I'll merge those photos into this blog and complete a kind of "history" for my daughter and grandchildren.

Anyway, here I was on a Monday morning, walking the paths that my ggg's had walked, seeing the houses they'd lived in, the pub my gggf had enjoyed after his day's work, the bakery my ggf had worked in as a journeyman baker, and the cemetery where my gggps and at least one of the gga's and ggu's are buried. Here we go:

This is the house that my gggps were listed in on the 1871 and 1881 censuses. With 7 children. It is actually the back of a row of houses. I wonder how big it is inside; it certainly looked small from the outside. I had a difficult time finding it and had to go down a narrow alley that I worried might be private. There was a young man in his 20s sitting on the stoop of the house next to this and putting on my best "American" accent (figuring that Americans might be forgiven for being where they're not supposed to be) I asked them if this was the house number. He said yes and I explained what I was doing. He was fascinated and called his flatmates out to meet me. They all thought it was great and amazing that I was looking at a house that my family had lived in almost 150 years ago. Of course the windows are new and the door as well. A lot has changed but that's still the bones of the house. They lived there. Wow.

The house faces on to the Eden River (you can't really see the house, it's behind the first house on the left). I was standing on a small bridge when I took this photo. The house is down a very small street just across the road from the railway station. So my gggf wouldn't have had far to walk to work. The river flows through the town and is very pretty but my b&b hosts say that it floods every few years and causes havoc when it does. With these houses so close to the river, I wonder if they were flooded back when my relatives lived there. Probably.

Eventually my gggm moved in with one of my ggu's in a larger house just up the street. By 1891 most of my other ggu's and gga's had married and were living elsewhere, but several were still close by. My own ggm had married and gone to Dundee but my gggm visited her; she was there at the 1901 census. I have a living cousin who actually knew my ggm and said she would take him to visit my gga's and ggu's in Cupar. He doesn't remember much, just that they were kind and loving. He says that my ggm told him that her mother would send her to the pub some nights to tell my gggf that it was time to come home. When she got there, he'd laugh and hoist her up on a chair and say "Gi' us a song then Maggie and we'll go hame." And she'd sing and they'd go. Precious stories because there are so few of them and they give a small glimpse into a simple life back then. They were very poor but they made do. I've recently found out that at least one of my gga's married and went to the U.S.

This is the pub my gggf probably went to (lower right hand side, you can barely see the small sign sticking out from the side of the building). It's the pub that is closest to the railway station and is called, appropriately enough, The Railway. I went inside; it was empty at that time of the day (just before noon) and it's very plain. The barmaid couldn't tell me much about what it might have looked like 150 years ago but she, like so many others I met, was fascinated that I was coming back. She thought it was lovely. I tried to imagine it filled with men after a day's work, all chatting and laughing. But it was hard.

So I headed for the library hoping that the advertised "come to the library and discover your family's roots" posting on its website would prove true. But, sadly, it really didn't. Unfortunately the librarian who was staffing the "history centre" was new to Cupar and couldn't tell me much about what it had been like. She gave me four photo albums of historical photos but they didn't give many clues about it either. Most of the photos were from the era of the Great War, celebrating its end. Or of rich families. Guess they were the ones who could afford to either have their photos taken or take part in official openings and all. Not my family.

But one of the other librarians was helpful in pointing me to the Burials Office in the nearby government office and, although she was supposed to be at lunch, the woman there was so kind in looking through the burial records for me. Luckily Cupar was and is a small town so there weren't a lot of records to search through. She found my gggps' lair number as well as nearby ggas' and ggus'. So I started walking over to the cemetery. First, however, I stopped in at a bakery that was existent when my ggf worked as a journeyman baker when he courted and married my ggm in 1878. He actually wasn't from Cupar though, he was from Dundee and after my ggps married, they moved to Dundee. Maybe he did his apprenticeship in Cupar. However way it happened, he did come here and met my ggm who was working in the linen factory (that building doesn't exist anymore) and good thing too--if he hadn't I wouldn't be here.

There is nothing quite like Scottish baking. Oh my goodness, the sight of all those lovely cakes and rolls took me back to when I was a little girl in Montreal. Woolworths used to do cakes and rolls like that. I didn't realize the influence was Scottish although it's true I haven't seen such cakes in England yet. And it's quite different from French patisserie. I love it all, I love sugar :) So of course I bought a cake and chatted with the woman behind the counter. She confirmed that was probably the bakery that my ggf would have worked for although he probably worked out of the main bakery up the way. It's loads of fun meeting people this way. Something for them to talk about with their families at tea time "I met this very odd American who said...."

Now for the sombre moment. The green patch between the headstone with the cross and the headstone in the foreground is where my Cupar relations are buried. No headstones at all. They couldn't afford them I suppose or there was no one to erect one when the last died. But what remains of them is there; my DNA is buried in that soil. I said a little prayer for them and told them I remembered them and looked forward to when I'll meet them in the next life. And then I walked down the hill, picked up my bags and headed back to the railway station, on to Glasgow with the song "Bitter Green" in my head:

"But now the bitter green is gone, the hills have turned to rust

There comes a weary stranger, his tears fall in the dust

Kneeling by the churchyard in the autumn mist

Dreaming of a kiss"

(Gordon Lightfoot, 1968)

Why isn't Canada part of the United States? Sunday, July 26th

No my Canadian friends, I am not suggesting that it should be that way! I was just musing about it this morning as I continued chronicling my trip to Scotland. Scotland and England fought so many battles and ended up (grudgingly) becoming one country, the United Kingdom/Great Britain. Although, to be strictly fair, Wales and Scotland have certainly maintained their identities. I wondered how it was that Canada hasn't yet been swallowed up--politically, we won't talk about economically--by the United States. I think that might make an interesting comparison some time, to write a paper on the differences between the Scotland/England issue and the Canada/U.S. Especially as so many Scots and English formed the original government of both countries. But that will be for another time.

Back to July 26th. After the exhilaration of Saturday night and returning very late to the residence, I woke up to a familiar sound--pounding rain. Hmmm, what was that going to do to the Gathering, I wondered. It seemed to me that those heavy events--putting the shot and throwing the hammer--were difficult enough on solid ground. They'd be much dicier in slippery mud. In fact I'd seen one contestant lose his grip on the hammer on Saturday and it went flying to the side, almost hitting a woman who'd unwisely decided to get up close to watch.

I mentioned the weather to one of the contestants I met at breakfast on Sunday, a huge African American man from South Carolina wearing a kilt. I'd seen him compete, I think he was in third place and I also think that's where he remained at the end of Sunday's competition. He said that the contestants just coped with whatever weather presented itself. And we agreed that the original Highlanders would probably have competed in the rain more often than not anyway.

But by the time I'd finished breakfast, repacked all my belongings and dragged them down the three flights of stairs and across the campus to the left luggage, the rain had stopped and the sky was variable. Could go one way, could go the other. I checked out and walked down to Holyrood once again. I really had no idea of what I wanted to see so once again I wandered. I sat in on a discussion by the Scottish Records Office of what kind of old records are available to family history researchers, then I poked around some of the genealogical exhibits. Learned some new things about family research that I will investigate further. Sampled some of the Scottish food that was being sold at the various stands--strawberries and cream, handmade chocolates, boar sausage.

And I watched a few more Highland heavies like throwing the hammer

I think that photographer is in a rather dangerous place. I shot this with my zoom ;)

Tug of war. These are the amateurs, recruited from the audience to match their strength against

the so-called world champion tug of war team. I don't think these were the real world champions (which, according to Google are a team from Switzerland, ironically, another country in my family tree), I think they were probably Scotland's champions. Whatever they were, they won virtually every match against the amateurs bar one where either they let them win or they got a bit cocky. If you've never seen tug of war, this position is the beginning one. Once the tugging really gets going, the teams dig their heels in and lean very far back so they are almost parallel to, and touching, the ground. Actually quite fun to watch.

But without anyone to go around with, I eventually lost interest in watching them and even the bagpipes were beginning to hurt my ears--I understand how they could be effective in battle. So I wandered out of Holyrood Park and up the Royal Mile and over to Princes Street, the modern "main street" in Edinburgh. It's completely torn up right now though because they are building a tramway, much to many of the Scots' disgust. More government money being spent. I looked back at Edinburgh across Princes Street Gardens from the bridge next to the Scottish National Gallery.

Scott (Sir Walter) Monument. I didn't climb up the monument although you can; there are several viewing decks. The reason it looks so dark is that it is built of shale which has leeched oil since it was built. Hence its dark look, very Victorian. Apparently Bill Bryson, the travel writer, has dubbed it a "gothic rocket ship" (from Notes from a Small Island) and I think that's a very good observation.

I've mentioned a couple of times the fact of being alone. I think that on that Sunday I felt somewhat sad. Again, it was the post-Saturday parade letdown, the end-of-the-event feeling. There's something about wandering around a strange city, seeing couples and families, that gives me a "why aren't I with my family" feeling. But bloom where I'm planted, this is a terrific opportunity to just be me.

Monument to the Black Watch, Royal Highland Regiment. Canada has its own Black Watch too and I remember as a small girl my dad taking me to see them parade. (No, the people weren't posing for me, they were waiting to cross the street.)

The front of Canongate kirk on the Royal Mile. This is the kirk (church) of Holyrood Palace, built in 1691 by the order of King James VII although he was off the throne by the time it was completed. Those are his coat of arms over the doorway and on the top of the building is the stag head. The stag represents the story of a stag that attacked Scotland's King David I. As the stag was attacking (I didn't know that deer attack), the King saw a vision of the Holy Cross (Rood) appear and, taking courage, fought off the stag. In thanksgiving, David built the original Abbey in 1128 which is in ruins in the grounds of Holyrood Palace. Canongate Kirk replaced that Abbey.

The inside of Canongate Kirk. Very simple, very minimalist. And peaceful.

Just outside the gates to the Kirk is a statue of Robert Fergusson, a poet who died at just 24 years of age. He wrote many poems, one of the most famous being "Auld Reekie," which celebrated Edinburgh (the words mean "Old Smoky," an affectionate term for the city, in Scots) and was an inspiration to Robbie Burns and several other Scots poets. The statue was erected in 2004 by the Friends of Robert Fergusson. Obviously not people who knew him personally but people who admired his work. Fergusson was originally buried in an unmarked grave in Canongate Kirk's cemetery but when Burns found that out, he commissioned a headstone for him. It was quite a nice one too although I don't seem to have taken a photo of it. Robert Louis Stevenson also paid for its maintenance.

My final photo of Edinburgh, Holyrood Palace. Another reason for my nostalgia on Sunday was that the last time I was in Edinburgh was in 2001 with dh. It was just after 9/11 and we were being put up by a wonderful 82 year old widow while we waited to find out what was happening with flights back to the U.S. When she heard that we hadn't really seen Edinburgh--that we'd just driven in to pick up dd and Sheila a few weeks prior and had promptly left to stay in Aberfeldy--she said "you canna leave Scotland wi'out seeing Edinburgh!" and at 7:30 a.m. the following day rousted us out and onto a bus. She walked us through the Prince Street Gardens, up to the Castle and down the Royal Mile, ending at the Palace. We happened across a memorial service going on in St. Giles Cathedral (I have photos that I took of St. Giles, and of Margaret, on another website.) I'll never forget her kindness and for me I will always think of her when I think of Edinburgh. Unfortunately, I couldn't get in touch with her this time but she was in my heart, as was dh who is financing this :)

With one last look at the Gathering which was winding up anyway, I walked back up to the university, collected all of my growing collection of bags and baggage and hailed a taxi. Off to Waverly train station and off to Cupar, to see where my great grandmother, Annie Young Wighton, was born and where her family lived from at least the mid 1800s up to the 1930s (that I know of).

March of the clans, Saturday July 25th

Here's Part 2 of Saturday, the march of the clans. According to the notice posted at Holyrood, members of clans were to gather starting at 7:00 at the South Gate of Holyrood Palace. The clans were grouped alphabetically--good thing that C for Campbell is far from M for Macdonald--and in clusters of clans. And each cluster was led by a pipe band. I don't know how many clans were in our cluster but the Duke told me--doesn't that sound posh, the "Duke" told me--that our clan alone had 200 people marching. It was difficult to get an idea of who was marching because we all milled about for what seemed like ages before we got going and once we were marching, I was so excited I was just aware of the people ahead and behind and all of the people lined up on the Mile. There are some good photos of the March, as well as of the Gathering on Flickr though.

This is my tartan shawl. I chose to wear the Campbell of Cawdor tartan. There are only four "official" (i.e., recognized by the Duke, the clan chief) Campbell tartans: the ancient Campbell tartan, Campbell of Breadalbane or Glenorchy, Campbell of Loudon and the Cawdor. I chose the Cawdor because Cawdor is much closer geographically to where my family originated than Argyll is. So I always had this feeling that we were part of the Cawdor Campbells rather than the Argyll Campbells. I also like the Cawdor family motto "Be mindful" rather than the Argyll "Do not forget" which has an unfortunate association in my mind with Quebec license plates.

Here's a photo of me with the Campbell banner in the background. I really did go all out, complete with Scottish brooch. I admit that I was quite sentimental about it all but it was a tremendous feeling of history participating with thousands of other descendants of Scottish emigrants--there was an estimate of 7,000 participating in the march. I checked to see if anything had been recorded on Youtube but it hasn't surfaced yet. I am tempted to buy the DVD of the proceedings, mainly to see the March again.

Here's where you can see the differences in tartans. The fellow with the white shirt and beard is wearing what is supposedly "Campbell dress tartan" but it's not one of the officially approved tartans. Funny, because I had a skirt in that tartan when I was a little girl and was photographed at my school when we had a "where did your family come from" day. Ah well, who knew and who knows. (And, some would say, who cares.) The other tartan that the fellow with his back to the camera is wearing is, I think, Campbell of Argyll Ancient. But don't quote me. Oh and you can just glimpse my proper footwear--sneakers! The best shoes I could think of for walking up that Mile.

Because I was in the middle--or maybe toward the end--of our clan, and our clan wasn't the first, I never did get to see which band led us off. I knew that the Duke and Duchess were at the head of the clan, carrying the banner though because I'd got a glimpse of her head below the banner and the feather in his cap. Hmmm feather in his cap....

I had thought I'd read that it would be the Atholl Highlanders (pictured) but then I read that these are an infantry group and not a pipe band. I think I really will have to get the DVD so I see what the March actually looked like apart from my little corner of the march.

The March begun, looking behind me at the clans following.

Meeting up with Ian Campbell, my dinner companion of the previous evening. He's wearing the Campbell tartan.

So many people lining the Mile to watch the clans march along! Cheering and waving flags. Well, a little booing at us, the Campbells. Some people will never let go of Glencoe. Another irony of the Argyll motto.

Sitting in the stands, waiting for the rest of the clans to enter, I took this photo of the entrance to Edinburgh castle. The pipe bands that led the clan groups went through the gates after piping the clans into the stadium. I think that the entire march lasted about 3 hours f

rom first pipe band to last clan member entering the stadium.

And at the end of the performance of Aisling's Children, the pipers marched back out again. Aisling's Children was good but not, in my opinion, great. It told the story of Scotland through the eyes of one family, the Macleans, from the first Maclean at the time of the Picts through the many wars Scotland fought with England and, ironically, for England in the World Wars, to the modern Maclean, a farmer in Australia. It touched on so many

incidents and themes that it seemed to hop from one tragedy to the next. Clan warfare was mainly referred to as warfare engendered by whether the clan was loyal to England or not. But I know from reading just a bit of history, and from seeing the Massacre Cave at Eigg where the MacLeods of Skye wiped out all of the inhabitants of Eigg (mostly MacDonalds), that the clans were fairly brutal on their own. There were also a number of technical problems with the production and the "music" for it was mostly unmemorable. Such criticism! Put it down to the fact that I was, by that time, cold and a bit tired. I'm still very glad to have been a part of it and to have seen it.