To Scotland- A Journey to the Home of my Soul
The first impression of Scotland as the airplane begins to descend from above the pillowy clouds onto the Edinburgh runway is how green it is. The earthy, deep tones of green and charcoal grey stone that seems to welcome you and warn you of the strength and foundation you are about to step foot on.
This is the land of the enduring. Those with strong spirit and a history of surviving harsh conditions with a heart of jovial merriment that can turn murderous if necessary. The land and the people, offer rustic beauty, deep soul while also a challenge to meet them head on.
As I wandered up and down the cobblestone streets in Edinburgh on the Royal Mile, my mind zig zagged between modern day and history.
Bagpipes play in the background by street musicians in full Scottish Regalia, their cases on the ground filling with coins. Tourists from all over the world swarm the bistros, pubs, and souvenir shops in a symphony of languages and yet, on every building you can see plaques that denote their origin.
Born and raised in the western United States, it's hard to comprehend the ancient history all around you on the streets of Scotland and beyond the city. I wondered if the local residents took for granted living among iconic landmarks with the stories of our civilization etched across them. It's normal to pass by a convenient store with sodas while next door a medieval tower stands. I was shocked to see graffiti on some of the sites, as if a vandal had desecrated a DaVinci.
Growing up in the States, where our history is a mere few hundred years old, and in Utah, where a 100 year old building is rare and listed on the historical registry; to see inns and restaurants from the 1100's was humbling.
As the people and tourists jumbled and crowded and streamed around us, it was hard not to imagine the bustling life of Edinburgh in the centuries before. It was rumored to be one of the filthiest and smelliest areas due to lack of sanitation and disregard for sewage being thrown from chamberpots out windows. The elite and wealthy aristocrats lived in stately houses and often their servants lived on the highest floors. People would be carrying water and grains, produce and supplies up and and down the pathways regularly. Small alleyways would have been shortcuts up the steep inclines and hidden passages for nefarious characters.
All of the important visitors and military attempts at gaining the city would have been on these hills and streets. Along the castle road, blood would have been pouring down gutters from the inclines of this stronghold built upon the pinnacle of a dormant volcano.
The echo of the lives lived here, sacrificed here, whispers through the stones; you can hear the faint clop of horse hooves from ages gone by beneath the strum of passing cars.
Stories of the heroes and villains of this lands long history are told and repeated by every Scotsman you meet, and they have a deep pride and mild animosity that speckles their tales.
The sky misted us continually, and no one pays it any mind. It is just the way the weather is. "There's no such thing as bad weather- just bad clothing." One local told me. And it was true. The clouds rolled in and fog cloaked the edges of mountains and outskirts of population with mysterious beauty- just as quickly the sky cleared with bright blue and rainbows flew across the vista like shooting stars. Appearing and disappearing with inconsistency and ease.
I can see how this land is in the heart and blood of those who live there, who travel there, or whose heritage stems from there as mine does.
I have been home now less than a month- and my heart aches to return. I feel as though I was home there, the cells in my body, the heart that beats inside me, the beckon of my ancestors that call me from those moors.
I will see you again Scotland.
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