I have nothing profound to say other than Happy Labor Day Weekend. I hope you don’t labor too hard. Be like Buddy, who is demonstrating his Upward-Facing Dog With a Spinal Twist yoga pose.
Poor Zika Babies
It happened again tonight. Every time I see a TV news report about the Zika virus and the babies it affects with microencephaly (small brains), they are crying. Surely the babies don’t cry all the time, do they?
I suppose it’s more dramatic to show a crying baby, especially one that has been born with such a harmful defect. But in showing the crying babies in every newscast about the disease, I fear that news editors are stereotyping the babies forever in viewers’ minds as always crying.
At first I was going to rail that nobody’s produced or written a story about the quality of life these babies have, but I did a search and found that is not the case. There are balanced stories out there, but I doubt the average person will ever see them.
Poor Zika babies. They not only have brains that work differently, they will also have to overcome the stereotypes these newscasts are creating.
Radio Interview About Writing
Me doing my radio thang.
Hello! I was interviewed earlier this month by for a show on the local Wisconsin Public Radio affiliate station, KUWS. The show is called the “Nine O’Clock Meltdown, ” and it’s hosted by “Simply C,” who I met at an open mic poetry reading.
She allowed me gobs of time on her show to talk about my novels, writing, and creativity in general. The file is so large, she had to divide it into two parts so I could post it. Give a listen to find out what I’m up to in my writing life…
Shunned by the World’s Largest Rubber Duckie
The World’s Largest Rubber Duck turns its back on me.
Duluth is hosting a Tall Ships Festival this weekend. A newcomer to the event is the “World’s Largest Rubber Duck.” I put that in quotes because equally large or larger rubber ducks exist in the world overseas. It’s just that the U.S. creator (who happens to be a Duluthian, too) of this particular duck trademarked the phrase.
Even so, I was intrigued to view this giant yellow floating bathtub toy – in part to see if it could nudge me out of my doldrums following my father’s death – but also just because it’s novel. Like others who have attended these festivals over the years, I’ve seen plenty of tall ships, but never a sci-fi movie-sized duck. Also, I needed to attend the festival for work, to deliver some keys to a co-worker who was on one of the tall ships (the Denis Sullivan).
A crew member barks orders on the Denis Sullivan.
The duck was participating in the opening ceremony for the festival, called the Parade of Sail. For this spectacle, all of the ships sail into the Duluth-Superior Harbor through the ship canal and under Duluth’s iconic Aerial Lift Bridge.
I left in what I thought was enough time to catch the parade. But I didn’t anticipate the number of other people who also wanted to attend. I expected a lot of people, and planned my travel route to the festival via a back way, but there were not just a lot of people. There were HORDES.
After being turned away from one event parking lot because I didn’t pre-pay a parking ticket, I ended up waiting in line for 40-something minutes for another lot.
I knew I was going to miss the beginning of the parade, so enterprising me got out of line to bribe a local business to let me park in their lot. They weren’t open to my bribe (or perhaps it was not large enough!), so I got back in line, even father back.
The chart room, below decks in the Denis Sullivan.
As I was waiting, and gazing out my car window through a fence and a tangle of tansy weed, I saw the head of a large yellow duck gliding past in the nearby harbor. I was missing the duck!
Alas, failed bribery attempt already past, there was nothing more I could do to improve my situation. I could only hope the duck would still be around once I made my way to the event grounds.
By the time I got to the parking lot entrance, the attendants were only letting cars in once other cars came out. After another 15 minutes or so, I finally got to park my car in a swampy spot and hoof it to the harbor.
The duck apparently did not like that I was late, and would not show its face to me. It was far away by this time, across the harbor at its docking site — its back turned in disapproval at my lack of strategic event attendance planning skills. Sigh.
A crew member climbs the rigging on the Denis Sullivan as it sails under Duluth’s Aerial Lift Bridge. Image courtesy of Kathy Kline, Wisconsin Sea Grant.
But my spirits lifted when I ended up getting a free tour of the Denis Sullivan. I found my co-worker among the hordes and she let me aboard. The Sullivan’s home port is Milwaukee, and the ship is used for educational purposes. My co-worker had just completed a five-day sail with about a dozen Great Lakes teachers, instructing them on lake ecology and maritime history.
Enjoy the photos!
What the duck looked like to everyone else. Image courtesy of WDSE-TV.
My Father’s Passing
My father is inside this piece of ham radio equipment. Note: This is not a commercially available urn! It’s made from an extra piece of equipment from my father’s radio.
My dad died last week. I’ve been wrestling with whether I should write anything about it, and if so, how deep I should get into our relationship. As you can perhaps tell from the photo, I’ve opted for quirkiness over soul-bearing.
My father lived a good long life, made longer because he took care of himself. His body continued to function even when his brain didn’t work so well. He was father to four children and grandfather to six. He recently got to see his first great-grandchild, but I don’t think it really registered.
In addition to his passions for stamp collecting, coin collecting, listening to classical music, and jogging, was my father’s passion for ham radio (amateur radio). He contacted people all over the world with the radio he made by himself. My childhood home was notable in the neighborhood for the tall radio antenna in the back yard.
My father wanted to be cremated. When my family was at the cremation society office talking about details, the topic of an urn for our father’s ashes came up. One of my brothers had the idea of using a piece of our dad’s ham radio equipment as a container instead.
It might seem weird, but we all agreed immediately to this unusual container. And I’m sure my dad would approve too, if he knew.
Movies in a Barn and Medical Emergencies
The Free Range Film Fest movie barn in Wrenshall, Minn.
Not far from Duluth out on a farm, a large barn is home to the annual Free Range Film Fest. The weekend fest features “any film, video or kinescope nurtured without the use of pesticides, growth hormones or a distribution deal from a fancy-pants Hollywood studio.”
This is the thirteenth year for the festival run by local artsy types with good hearts. The films are simulcast on three screens – two in the lower level of the barn, and in the hayloft on a 24-foot-wide screen. The barn is a hundred years old this year.
This was my first time attending the Free Range Film Fest. I went with some friends and our car trip to and from the barn provided a classic slice of small-town Minnesota. We got delayed on the way there by a running race in the town of Carlton, which was celebrating “Carlton Daze.” On the way back, we got delayed in Carlton again, but this time for a train that seemed to blow its horn more often than necessary.
Once we arrived and paid the $10 free-will entrance fee, we quickly made our way up into the hayloft for the prime viewing experience. We only had time to view eight of the films, but even so, we left with sated senses. Our favorites were “Bacon & God’s Wrath,” which documented the first time a ninety-year-old Jewish woman tried bacon. Directed by Sol Friedman, a Toronto-based filmmaker and animator, the film delves into the woman’s thinking surrounding her faith more than it does on her gustatory reaction to the bacon. She blamed her newfound mind- and soul-expansion on the internet. Needless to say, God did not strike her down for eating bacon. “It was a good breakfast,” she said.
Another fave was “Pickle,” which featured a well-meaning couple who rescue animals, which all seem to die from weird conditions. From all the energy they put into their animals, I can only assume they don’t have children.
The 100-year-old barn at night.
Then there was “They Crawl Amongst Us,” a stop-motion documentary about life in New York City as told by flies, cockroaches, pigeons and other creepy crawlies. Although the stories are from the perspective of bugs, the viewpoints are suspiciously human.
Although the temperature in the hayloft was comfortable, apparently it was just stuffy enough to cause one of the patrons to faint in the middle of a film director Q & A after one of the movies. We were too far away to see what was happening, but the shuffling of chairs and a shout to “Call 9-1-1!” alerted us.
A man a few rows away from us made the call. As he was talking to the dispatcher, another voice from the crowd said, “He’s declining.”
We thought that meant the person’s situation (whatever it was) was getting worse, and so did the caller, so he kept on giving the dispatcher information. But shortly afterward came the clarification that the person didn’t want medical assistance. He was able to stand and leave the barn, sweaty, but under his own power.
We were glad to see that his free-range experience caused no lasting damage.
Facebook Photos I’d Rather Not See
Although I love my Facebook friends, sometimes they post photos I’d rather not see. These include anything with pustules, blisters, leaking pus, ports, blood, outrageous swelling, compound fractures, or catheters. I shouldn’t have to say this, but please . . . keep those images to yourself. Not even your own children want to see them.
The Clueless and Apologetic American: Adventures in Scotland, Part 11 – the Grand Finale
Aer Lingus, the airline that makes you pay for water (on short flights, anyway).
I should have listened to the birds.
When I left Kelso in the wee hours of the morning to drive to Edinburgh Airport to catch my flight home, at least five birds flung themselves from the hedgerows in front of my car. This included one huge pheasant I had to swerve to avoid.
It was like the birds didn’t want me to leave, or they were warning me, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I awoke at 4:30 a.m. – too early for breakfast at my B&B, but with only an hour’s drive to Edinburgh — plenty of time to catch my 8:30 a.m. flight.
A highland “coo” from a happier day in Scotland.
My B&B host had given me excellent written directions to the airport (plus I had looked it up online), so I felt confident in my ability to find my way.
Everything went fine until I got closer to the airport and had to rely on traffic signs. The signs had all read “Edinburgh International Airport” (this way). But when I got to a huge roundabout three miles from the airport, suddenly the sign just said “Airport” with the name of a town below it that started with an “I.”
Now, in Minnesota, our airport has two terminals – one for domestic flights and one for international flights. Clueless Minnesotan that I am, I thought maybe I missed a sign for the international airport. So I decided to go around the roundabout again to make sure I didn’t miss a sign. That’s what roundabouts are for, right? You can just keep driving around in circles until you find your correct exit.
A pony from yet another happier day in Scotland at Delgatie Castle.
The problem was, I was so intent on reading the signs that I neglected to notice the freakin’ stop lights INSIDE the roundabout.
I had been in roundabouts that had stop lights for entering the roundabout, but I had never in my life been in one that had stoplights inside it. I didn’t even know that was possible! Whose bright idea was it to put stoplights inside a roundabout??????
Needless to say, I ran a few red lights and had a crash. Two cars entering the roundabout on a green light weren’t expecting a clueless American not to obey the traffic signals and crashed into me.
After some yelling (one driver was really pissed, the other not so much) we were able to limp our cars over to a safe spot and wait for the police. That took about an hour. During that time, I was able to overcome my clueless shock and figure out what happened. My mouth was so dry! I also spoke with the not-so-mad driver and asked him which exit to take for the airport. (Which was the one that just said “Airport,” duh.)
Haggis, neaps and tatties. Oh, and BACON.
The police officer was courteous and interviewed me first since I had a plane to catch. Luckily, my car was still drivable, so I was able to climb back inside and continue on my slow, cautious way for the last three miles. Once I returned the car to the rental agency, got done with apologizing for wrecking it, and filled out the required reports, I had an hour before my flight left.
I trotted from the rental car agency to the Aer Lingus ticketing desk, worried that they would not allow me on my connecting flight to Dublin with such a short time window. A bit of my Kelso Luck must have still been left because they said I could still catch it. By the time I made it through security, it was time to board my plane. I sprinted to the gate number printed on my ticket, but the gate was empty. Deserted. Nada.
Urquhart Castle on Loch Ness.
I stood there, panting and sweating. Over the loudspeakers, I heard my name being called. The voice said the doors to my flight would be closing in a few minutes. I didn’t catch the gate number, though, and ran around in circles looking for a flight directory sign. I found one, but couldn’t find my flight number on it. So I ran back to the original wrong gate and looked around. It seemed like there were people a few gates down, so I ran there. It was the right gate!
I was the last one on the plane before the doors closed. I apologized to the flight attendant, but he said it was okay, I hadn’t delayed the flight. I found my seat and heaved a relieved sigh. It looked like I would be making it home to America today, after all. But I was uncomfortable, what with all the sweat and a huge thirst.
I asked if I could have some water, but the attendant said I would have to pay for it. (The flight to Dublin was so short, they figure people don’t really need water, I guess.) I didn’t feel like telling him my car crash sob story, and it pissed me off that I had to pay for water, so I just told him to forget it.
Leanach Cottage on the Culloden Battlefield on a somber evening in Scotland.
I endured, thirsty, hungry and de-stressing until my flight reached the Dublin Airport – home to drinking water fountains and breakfast. By now it was 11:30 a.m. I drank a lot.
Eventually, I reached Minnesota – glad to be alive, and even gladder that my son was picking me up from the airport so that I wouldn’t have to drive.
I was a little worried that my crash would make me skittish of driving in America. But when I drove myself to work the next day, it was just like riding a bike (you never forget how). So easy! And OMG, the roads in America are so wide! The drivers so (relatively) courteous! The signs so easy to interpret! If anything, I’ve had to guard against having another crash because I am too complacent.
I began this series of postings by apologizing to all Scottish drivers for the rough start my friend and I had driving in their country (see Cruising in the Crawler Lane). And I shall end the series with the same apology.
I am sorry, Scotland, that my lack of U.K. driving savvy endangered your citizens. I am relieved that only cars got hurt, not people. I would love to visit your country again. But the next time, I’ll let somebody else do the driving. 🙂
I should have listened to those birds.
Mermaid Cottage, Crovie.
Mary Queen of Scots and Kelso Luck: Adventures in Scotland, Part 10
Mary Queen of Scots’ death mask.
Just to forewarn you – this is a long entry. I made the most of my last full day in Scotland. Have a cup of tea and enjoy the read! I’ve highlighted important names to remember for this story to make sense.
My last day in Kelso began with a short drive to the Mary Queen of Scots Visitor Centre in Jedburgh – on the advice of one of my blogging acquaintances. (Thank you James of “Walking with a Smacked Pentax!”)
The approach to the center is through a narrow alleyway, so the building doesn’t look all that impressive (especially for a former queen to have stayed there) until you walk around to the front, where you can see its stately tower. Having watched a public television series on the queen when I was young, I was interested to learn more and to refresh my memory.
The Mary Queen of Scots Visitor Centre
Entrance to the center is free, although the written guide costs a few pence. Mary (whose French name is Marie) stayed there for about a year. She almost died there, too, after a trip to visit her secret lover, and encountering bad weather and falling into a bog on her way back to Jedburgh. It was the last place in Scotland she was to live before becoming Queen Elizabeth’s prisoner in England for eighteen years.
Her sad and devious story is laid out clearly in the various rooms. Walking among the artifacts – a buckle, a shoe with a broken heel, a lock of her strawberry blonde hair – I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic toward this woman whose life started out with so much promise, only to disintegrate after marrying the wrong man and trusting people she shouldn’t have.
By the time I reached the room that features her final letter, addressed to her brother-in-law King Henry III, my heart was heavy and quiet. Mean old Queen Elizabeth wouldn’t even allow Mary the comfort of her own chaplain in her final hours. And then I came upon her death mask on display. It was common practice to take a cast of the face of beheaded prisoners. Mary really was beautiful.
*
The drive back to Kelso allowed me enough time to shake off the sadness. After all, I had a mission to fulfill: I was going to try and find two homes associated with my great-great-great grandmother. Her name was Margaret Gray. She was the mother of Susan Gray, who married William Dick (my great-great grandfather) who worked at Floors Castle.
My mother and/or aunts had requested a report on Margaret from the Scots Ancestry Research Society in the early 1990s. They found that she was listed in the 1841 census as being widowed, 75 years old, and living in a house with her son-in-law and his young daughter. There is no wife listed in the report. One could assume that perhaps the wife died and that Margaret was helping with the child.
The house had a name and location, which, to protect the privacy of the people currently living there, I am not going to divulge. Let’s just call it Pinnacle Cottage. When I was still at home in the U.S. before my trip, I had wondered if a house important enough to have its own name might still be there. I did some Google searches and found a house in the right location.
Graham, the super-helpful host at my B&B, the Bellevue Guest House, also took a look at the name of the house and pointed me in the same direction.
In that same census, another Margaret Gray is listed as being younger (60 years old) and working as a servant in another named house not far from Pinnacle Cottage. Let’s call it Forest Lodge. Could it be that Margaret lived in Pinnacle Cottage and worked in Forest Lodge? (Maybe the lodge owners didn’t know her real age or didn’t want to admit to making a seventy-five-year-old work for them.) Or maybe Margaret lived in Pinnacle Cottage and one of her daughters named Margaret (who she must have had when she was 15 years old!) worked at the lodge. In any event, it seems likely there was some kind of connection.
I was also able to find the lodge with Google, and Graham again pointed me in the same direction. Forest Lodge was within easy walking distance from Pinnacle Cottage.
As I drove back into Kelso, I did so from the Pinnacle Hill direction and parked across a bridge from the hill. I figured I could find the cottage more easily by walking than driving. I crossed the bridge into a neighborhood full of houses, which soon thinned as the area became more wooded. I came to a house with a driveway gate and a sign that had the owner’s last name and “Pinnacle Hill” on it. Not exactly “Pinnacle Cottage,” but close. I walked down the road a bit farther to see if there were any other houses. As I did, I passed another gate where I caught a glimpse of the Pinnacle Hill house through the trees. It was low-slung and covered in white stucco with blue and yellow trim around its many windows.
No other houses stood beyond it – just a natural area with a trail. So I walked back. As I stood near the gate and took a photo of what I could see of the house, I heard the clip of hedge trimmers. I called out a “hullo” and was met by the gardener. (How lucky was that?)
I told him my quest and asked him if he thought this house had been around since 1841. He said he’d ask the owner – an elderly gentleman who was a retired doctor. He went inside to ask and came out with the explanation that the doctor was in his nineties and wasn’t open to having company (actually, he said the doctor liked to hang out naked most of the time, and I laughed and said I wanted to do that when I got old, too) BUT he thought this could be the right house.
Cool. I asked the gardener if it would be all right if I came into the yard to take photos of the house. He said that would be fine, and opened the gate to let me in. The house and yard were well-kept and it looked like another small house was attached behind it. A mother-in-law’s cottage, perhaps??
As I was raising my camera for a shot, I glimpsed a figure that looked like an old man in one of the far windows . When he saw that I saw him, he scuttled from view. (He had clothes on!)
The gardener and I chatted a while longer, then I was off to find Forest Lodge. I continued down the road, past the nature trail and to a sign for the town of “Forest.” I followed the sign and eventually came to a house with an impressive gate and a gatehouse. The name on the gate was “Forest House.” Not exactly Forest Lodge, but it would do.
Another sign on the gate said PRIVATE in big letters. Hmmm. How brave was I? Apparently, I was medium-brave. I knocked on the gatehouse, but nobody answered. I decided to walk down the long driveway to at least see if I could view the house from a distance and take a photo. But as I walked upon the smooth blacktop, past the immaculately groomed flowers and towering trees, I started to lose my nerve. My nerve fled farther upon seeing a beautiful dapple grey horse gazing at me placidly from over a fence. These people were equestrians. Just how much money did they have? I stopped behind a trimmed tree for a moment and the rest of my nerve fled.
I turned and walked back down the driveway toward the road. As I approached the gatehouse, I saw a car parked by it. But nerveless me couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door again. I reached the road and started back toward my car. As I walked, the sky darkened and rain threatened, matching my mood.
It wasn’t long before I noticed a woman walking a dog in a field. I could see her through the thin hedgerow and it looked like she came from the gatehouse. I gave my bravery a kick in the pants and told myself I HAD to talk to her. So I did. The sun came out and the sky brightened. She said she was the mother of the woman who lived in the gatehouse. She just happened to visit to walk her daughter’s dog. (How lucky was that?)
I told her of my quest and hesitancy to invade privacy, and she encouraged me to ignore the PRIVATE sign and walk to the house. She said the owner was really nice and wouldn’t mind. It did seem silly to come so far and not try harder to see the house, so I followed her advice.
As I walked down the fancy driveway, more horses came into view and yet more spectacular shrubbery. Then I saw a gardener at work across the yard. He didn’t seem to notice me, so I continued on to the house. What a house! It was a big grey castle-like structure with green climbing vines and roses covering the front. I walked past the two marble dogs guarding the door and rang the bell.
Nobody answered. However, a side door opened and a youngish blonde lady stepped out. I thought she looked too young to be the owner, but I gave her my spiel and asked her if she thought this could be the right place. She did. As we talked further and I showed her the census report, I discovered she was indeed the mistress of the house. And yes, she was very nice. I asked her if I could take some photos and she readily agreed. However, she stayed outside with the gardener the whole time. I don’t blame her.
Mission accomplished and copious thanks given, I walked back to the road, ready for my next quest, which was finding the gravestone of William Dick. I happened upon the gatehouse lady’s mother coming up the road, returning from her dog walk. She asked how my visit to the house went and I relayed the happy news.
Then I told her of my next quest and she showed me on my map exactly where the cemetery was. In fact, it was right near where I parked my car. (How lucky was that?)
Purpose clear, I walked down the road and across the bridge. The cemetery gate was open. I had a crude map my mother had drawn of the grave’s location. After a bit of looking, and concluding my mother must have been drunk when she drew the map, I found my great-great grandfather’s gravestone.
I was so happy, I took a selfie at the grave. The stone was in good shape, although moss was growing over the top and beginning to cover the words. I scraped it off and as I did so, the stone vibrated beneath my hands. It sort of freaked me out until I discovered the stone was a bit loose in its setting. That’s just how the gravestones were. I touched some others and the same sensation ensued. Nothing supernatural. Darn.
Feeling fortunate and lucky, I hoofed it back to my car and to Bellevue Guest House.
Bellevue Guest House, Kelso.
I would be remiss if I didn’t put in a plug for the guest house – Graham and his wife were super nice and helpful to me, the food was great (you can even order haggis for breakfast!) and the beds are comfortable. If you’re ever in Kelso, give it a try.
My luck was short-lived, however. My next post will detail the adventure I had catching my flight home the next day.
Floors Castle and Crying During Movies: Adventures in Scotland, Part 9
Floors Castle, Kelso, Scotland
My story about Floors Castle starts, not in Kelso, but a few months ago back on my couch in the U.S. (Yes, I’m doing it again – starting a story about Kelso someplace else.) This was before I knew about the newspaper story detailing my ancestor Isabella’s childhood in the castle and before I was convinced of my family’s ties to the castle.
I knew of rumors of the ties, so I was digging through the castle’s website when I noticed a movie had been filmed at Floors Castle, called “Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes” (1983).
I actually saw this movie when it came out since I am something of a Tarzan fan. (I watched way too many Johnny Weismuller Tarzan shows after school while growing up.) Plus, if you’ve read my novels, you know I have a thing for animal/human communication. But the movie was rather fuzzy in my brain since I saw it so long ago.
I decided to buy the movie for a look at the castle in preparation for my trip. When I eventually watched it (sitting on my couch), I recalled why it got panned orginally. Much of the first part of the movie features Tarzan (Christopher Lambert) grunting at apes. The critics didn’t like the lack of dialog, but hey, what are you going to do? It’s a movie about apes! Nonetheless, the movie did end up receiving three Academy Award nominations. It didn’t win any, though.
The last half of the movie is set in Scotland at Floors. My dear blogging audience, because I have no pride left, I will share my reaction to the movie with you. In short, I bawled like a baby. When the castle first appears in the opening credits and the duke and his doomed son (Tarzan’s father) race toward it on horseback, tears were coursing down my face and I didn’t know why. It’s not usual for me to burst into spontaneous copious tears at movies. I’m more of a leaky-tear-wipe-away person. And the castle scenes weren’t particularly emotional, either.
But once the movie was over, I realized the tears were from an overwhelming feeling that my ancestors loved the place and their time there.
A few months later, I found the newspaper story about how my great-great grandfather worked at the castle for over fifty years, and I decided that maybe I wasn’t so crazy after all. I mean, why would he work somewhere so long if he didn’t at least like the place and the people in it?
The castle gate.
My Bed and Breakfast was close enough that I could walk to Floors Castle. When I reached the gate, I asked the attendant if walkers got a reduced entrance fee, but she wasn’t buying it. 🙂
I meandered up the castle driveway with some trepidation. After all, if a movie could affect me so strongly, I wasn’t sure how I would react to seeing the real thing. This was after a search for my great-great grandfather’s gravestone at the Kelso Abbey that morning, which proved unfruitful. But I was told of another cemetery in town that I hoped to check on my next, and last day in Kelso.
The driveway was long and lined with tall trees and rhododendrons. It wound through fields and afforded views of the castle and the River Tweed in the distance. Set on a hill above the river, the castle appears to grow directly out of the lawn. I knew from my research that, in addition to the castle tour, Floors features a gift shop and two cafes (one with an outdoor terrace), plus a walled garden. It was still early in the day and I wasn’t hungry, so I planned to tour the castle first and eat later.
Built in 1721 for the First Duke of Roxburghe, Floors Castle is still home to the Roxburghe family and the Tenth Duke of Roxburghe. It is the largest inhabited castle in Scotland but parts of it are open to the public.
As I approached, I became confused about where to enter for the castle tour. It seemed as if the signs were pointing to the castle’s front door. Surely that couldn’t be right. Tourists entering through the impressive massive intimidatingly wealthy front door? What if I was mistaken and I walked in the front door and everyone turned to look at me in horror?
The front door. Intimidating, much?
I decided it was safer to enter the gift shop around the side of the castle first. I browsed the Floors Castle Christmas ornaments, Floors Castle honey, and Floors Castle dish towels, then asked the clerk where the entrance for the castle tours was. “The front door,” she said.
When I explained I couldn’t believe they’d let tourists in the front door she just laughed and said, “Of course, why not?”
Buoyed by newfound certainty, I walked to the front door. I did not get yelled at as I entered. Instead, the docent gave introductory remarks to the small group of us gathered in the entry, then he set us loose upon the castle. The tour is self-guided, although docents are in some of the rooms to answer questions and to ensure that nobody walks off with a priceless vase.
I wandered amid the tapestries, paintings and porcelain. There was even a room full of stuffed birds. Apparently one or two of the dukes were ornithologically inclined. One of the duchesses collected a few Matisse paintings. When I got to the dining room (which was originally a billiards room) I encountered a particularly friendly and knowledgeable docent named David.
The dining room where David and I talked. Image courtesy of Floors Castle.
I told him about my ancestral connections to the castle, and he was intrigued. He had a list of dates when the various dukes reigned, and we figured out my great-great grandfather must have worked for the sixth and seventh dukes of Roxburghe. David said a lot of building was going on during the reign of the sixth duke and that perhaps my grandfather was instrumental in it. The castle isn’t the only business on the estate, there’s also forests, fields, horses, wind farms and the like. It’s a huge operation.
We also got to talking about the Tarzan movie. He told me he was in the movie – he played a cleric. He said the rainy scenes at the castle were shot with the help of the local fire department up on the roof, spraying “rain” with their hoses. He also mentioned that the film directors were sticklers for historical accuracy. All the television antennas on the roof had to be hidden during the day, and were put back out in the evening so the residents could watch TV.
David promised to look into some things for me. I gave him my card. As yet, I haven’t heard anything from him, but who knows? So, although I didn’t get to totally “vindicate” my ancestors’ role with the castle estate office, at least David knows about him, and my family, and all of you!
My bird friend.
By now I was hungry. Thankful that I didn’t burst into tears during my castle tour, I made my way to the terrace café. I sat outside and indulged my sweet tooth in chocolate eclairs and meringues. A friendly (and hungry) bird kept me company – reminiscent of the Kelso Welcome Swan.
Sated and peaceful, I toured the walled gardens. But I must confess the flowers that truly impressed me were rhododendrons growing in the forest on the trail to the gardens (see photo below). After another visit to the gift shop to buy mementos, it was time to go.
As I left and walked down the drive, I couldn’t help but stop and turn back to look longingly at the castle several times. It was like the ancestors inside me didn’t want to leave just yet. I indulged them for a while, but then it was time for the next adventure.
Marie's Meanderings 