Connections

In the late spring of 2001, my father died after a three-month battle with cancer. It was his fourth round, and I was crushed that he couldn’t kick its ass once again. I sought refuge in a two-week summer holiday to Scotland with my then-boyfriend (now my husband). We drove up, down, and across the countryside, logging over 1600 km, and soon fell in love with the stark and rugged beauty that surrounded us at every curve. We left to bury my father in his adopted German hometown, promising ourselves to return someday to this majestic land we had grown so attached to in such a short time. 

Loch Ryan in August, 2014, coming home from Belfast.

Last Sunday,  I spent over eleven hours making my way home from a weeklong school holiday to Scotland. After landing at London’s Heathrow from Edinburgh, it was obvious that my cider excesses of the previous afternoon had dulled my brain: instead of following the familiar purple sign for my “flight connection” to Canada, I stumbled out of a yellow door and found myself outside of all the security zones and among the general public. Luckily, I had plenty of time before the next leg of my journey and no real harm was done.

The concept of connection has been on my mind a lot lately. There has been gentle teasing from close friends and family about my current “Scottish phase”, and ongoing poking fun at my fondness for kilts and Biffy Clyro. Underneath the jokes lurks the deeper question of what exactly connects me to the land of the unicorns. I think I may have figured it out on this last trip.

In 2012, I published the first of four books that would comprise a series of rock novels inspired by The Who’s song Behind Blue Eyes. To date, three have been released and the last one is my current work-in-progress. When I sent an ebook to the local classic rock deejay I’d been listening to as I worked through my editing stages, he supported my writing, we formed a fast bond, and I began to engage in lively, witty banter with a small group of people on social media who were part of his intimate circle and would eventually become the core of my Scottish friends. Later on that fall, I appeared on a literary podcast featuring a rock fiction writer and another Scottish connection was made. The following year, a Glasgow Who fan became the last of the friends I would eventually meet for the first time face to face in August 2014.

George Square on March 20, 2015.

Friendship is measured in many different ways, but to me, is primarily rooted in laughter and in kindness. During my last two visits to Scotland, I’ve nearly drowned in the tears brought about by the verbal sparring and harmless antics of my new friends. Likewise, I’ve been humbled by the continuous care and hospitality they have each offered me at every turn, whether it be in accommodations, evenings out, or rides to and from airports. I can speak at length about their generosity and affection, for it seems at once so genuine and effortless on their part, and immensely touching to receive. Their big hearts make it so easy to want to be in their company, and to return their warmth with equal sincerity.

The Kelpies at Grangemouth.

The Old Oaks at Chatelherault.

Arria by Andy Scott at Cumbernauld.

Why has the connection been so immediate and so deep? I think we are all kindred spirits of sorts. Many of us are the first in our families to transcend our working class roots and become very successful professionals, but whose humble origins have kept us grounded and appreciative of our good fortune. We are, as far as I can tell, not only witty and clever, but also seem to be great storytellers: beyond the banter and gentle teasing, there is an ease in spinning yarns that keeps us all in stitches. Finally, I think what unites us that much like most middle-aged people, there is a small part of us that is broken or wounded by the battles of our past. We carry that hurt just under the surface, but the realization that we all wear a dented armour seems to have further cemented the bonds between us. It is perhaps why we care for each other with such protectiveness, and why we give of ourselves so freely to those in our circle. The Scots are not unlike the French culturally in that teasing, bantering, and even gentle mocking are displays of affection. The mutual giving and receiving of these intimate insults are signs of trust between friends, for only when we let down our guard and allow ourselves to be vulnerable do we appreciate how much we are loved and cared for. Twisted logic, maybe, but a code of behaviour that I can live with:

As I was told on Sunday as I made my way to the departure gates of Edinburgh Airport, “Haste ye back.” We’re hastening, we’re hastening. See you soon, Scotland, and those lovely, dear people inside your borders we are so blessed to call our friends.