We had fallen into a pattern of sameness. What we said, what we wore, what we did each day, down to waking at 7am, coffee at 7.30am, lunch at 11am, nap at 2pm, bed at 9pm. After twenty years of togetherness, we had found ourselves moving in regular cycles of: I love you. I like you. I tolerate you and back again.
My retirement from my out-of-the-house day-to-day job in 2022 had proved to be the catalyst that intensified this cyclical war by placing us daily, directly in each other’s line of fire. Both, now working exclusively from home, led to us getting on each other’s very last nerve. We were every cliché we’d ever heard in regard to long marriages; war buddies, roommates, chained for life. We had become… The Bickersons.
It was Lil’ Gran that actually saved us from the mundane and led us on our trip to Scotland. Our first grandchild, already an international traveller at barely 17 months, a dual citizen of the U.K. and U.S.A., fair and funny, and our favourite person. The one thing in our life—together—we could always agree upon.
I wanted to be in the U.K. when Lil’ Gran was there visiting her paternal Gran, now 82, in Northumberland. We had never met, and I worried we were all growing old and running out of time.
Stephen had wanted to go to Scotland for years. Part of Clan Shaw, he had pored over historical maps, connected with his clan in groups on social media sites, and yet… the trip to see it all in person had never been planned. In fact, we had never even taken an international trip together, and I wanted him to experience what I had in my many solo travels over the years: the awe of a new place—the unusual encounters along the way. Travelling had changed me, opening me up, and I was sure that if Stephen experienced that too, we might find our way out of this rut at home.
So, I approached Stephen, grand babe on my hip, barefaced, hair in a messy bun, braless, in my holey pyjamas, to find my spouse in a ratty old shirt and torn up shorts, sitting at the dining room table, biting at a corner of his beard absentmindedly and typing on his computer.
“We are going to Scotland,” I said.
He looked up, a bit startled and confused, his eyes magnified tenfold through his massively thick prescription lenses.
“Who’s going to Scotland?” He asked.
“We are.”
He made a face, seemed concerned. He was hobbitish, a reluctant traveller, especially in contentious political times.
“Who will watch the animals?”
“I have someone to stay at the house the entire time.”
He looked back at his computer as if to end the conversation and ignore me, but then he pecked out a few more words with his index fingers and came back again.
“What about the money? Plane tickets? Hotels? Rental car? Tickets to historic sites?”
“Look at us!” I said.
He stared at me, not sure what he was supposed to look at, until I gestured back and forth at our unkempt appearance, then, made a broad sweeping gesture from floor to ceiling at the half finished remodeling projects, the stack of laundry piled high on the couch, the dishes waiting to be washed in the sink, his makeshift office spilling all over the dining room table, before I flipped the baby to my opposite hip exasperated with what our life together had become.
“Stephen,” I said. “We can always find ways to make more money, but we are in our 60s. You have always wanted to go to Scotland, and now is the time.”
He looked around. He grew quiet. I knew him well enough to know what he was thinking: heavy thoughts. I could see him weighing his father’s early death, my father’s early death, the grandbaby’s grandpa in the U.K.’s early death, powerful reminders in grief of his own mortality, and I knew—right then—he would go. He would step out of the complacency of our daily life and go.
We followed the baby from LAX on the jet stream: Lil Gran leaving the day before us with her parents to London, and us following a day after. I had plied Stephen with Xanax on the plane, and after an uneventful flight, we landed at Heathrow and made our way on the Underground to King’s Cross. There, we would meet Lil’ Gran and her parents for a quick hello before boarding our train to Scotland.
We walked from our platform to Granary Square, where we could see Lil’ Gran toddling about, waving at every passenger along the way, completely open to everyone and every encounter as children often are. Her eye caught Grandpa. She pointed, looked around as if someone could explain how he had magically appeared, then ran forward and touched him—reality testing—before seeing me and lifting her arms above her head—her signal to be picked up—which of course, I did.
My dark red lipstick confused her. I appeared to be a doppelgänger of her Gran. She had never seen me with a full face of make-up or wearing brightly colored jewelry. She had never seen me in anything other than my ratty pyjamas and worn-out house dresses, and as she looked me up and down, examining every speck of my appearance, I swear I could hear her say in a thick cockney accent: Who does she think she is givin’ it airs and graces?
I thought about this interaction on the train after we said our goodbyes, us to Edinburgh, the family, onto Bristol and then Northumberland. Who did I think I was? What did I want my Lil’ Gran to remember about me? I looked over at Stephen. What did I want her to remember about us?
I nodded off, tired from the long flight, and slept my way through Sheffield and Leeds, waking at Newcastle to find Stephen wide awake with a good beer and a good meal. He was animated—something I hadn’t seen in a very long time—conversing with locals on their way home from work, hoping to learn more about Newcastle United, as a way to bond with our Geordie son-in-law. He seemed relaxed, happily cocooned in his favourite mode of transportation, and I was happy for him, as we crossed the border into Scotland.
We arrived at Waverly Station a little after 8pm, and having packed light, walked from the Scott Monument to the Parliament Hotel down Princes Street. Stephen watched the movement of the city, excited, nervous, yet following my lead, never a doubt related to my ability to get us to where we were going. We checked in quickly, dropped our bags in the room, and then I took him straight across the cobbled street and up the steep incline of Calton Hill.
We walked the long way round, winding past the dark hillside, coming to the Parthenon-like National Monument, built to honour soldiers who died in the Napoleonic War. There, teenagers were taking selfies, making out, jumping and climbing, and the historian in me couldn’t help but be amused by this perfect set of activities happening at a place nicknamed “Scotland’s Folly”.
We walked on and over to the City Observatory, now The Collective Art Centre, where we climbed up and sat on the remnants of the Calton jail walls and looked out over the city. It was our first view of Edinburgh Castle, lit up, stunning in the clear October night. Stephen wrapped his arms around me, enjoying the evening with the rest of the crowd, who, like us, were unafraid to head up to the park at night for such a view.
The next morning, after a traditional Scottish breakfast, where we dared each other to try haggis hash, we walked back to Waverly Station and picked up our rental. Stephen had already refused to drive in a foreign country, on a foreign side of the road, and he took the opportunity to remind me that I was the one in the relationship who always performed well under pressure. I looked at his anxious face, so afraid I would force him to drive, and agreed.
It was a harrowing half-hour getting us out of the city, Stephen pumping his imaginary brakes, moaning at every almost mishap along the way. Me, doubting my abilities out loud repeatedly, shouting at Stephen to “Navigate for God’s Sake!” as I turned down narrow roads, tourists spilling off of every corner, through an immense number of roundabouts, something we have very little of in the States, until we were out of the city, and on the A9, laughing together over what had just happened, relieved to be on our way to St. Andrews, Perth, Aviemore, and Inverness.
The day was beautiful. We stopped at various locations. First, to walk by the sea at St Andrews Cathedral, the ruins vibrant under the blue crisp sky. Then on to The Hermitage in Perthshire, to hike through the forest pleasure grounds of the 18th century Dukes of Atholl—a fairy-like and magical world—where hand-in-hand we climbed the mossy stone steps to stand and hear the roar of the Black Linn Falls from Ossian’s Hall. Then, onto Aviemore, where we spent the early evening listening to accordion players on the patio of the Old Bridge Inn play favourites for the local crowd, before arriving in Inverness to our riverside room at the historic Palace Hotel.
We went to bed that night, full of traditional Scottish Tattie soup, made of potato and leeks, complemented by rough crust bread slathered in warm salted butter. It was our second night alone together in bed, something we hadn’t done in ages at home—either apart due to his snoring or my menopausal hot flashes—or, crowded by dogs or cats, or Lil’ Gran splayed wide between us. I folded myself into the moment, resting my head on his shoulder as I looked out over the River Ness to the castle Inverness, where Stephen’s progenitor of his family’s Clan, Shaw McDuff, the Earl of Fife’s son, served as the keeper of the royal stronghold in 1163. I lay there quietly, reflecting on the passage of time, the history of it all, as I watched until the landscape lighting was turned off, listening to Stephen’s breathing deepen, before drifting off to sleep.
The next morning, we made an early start out of town towards Elgin, Cawdor, Clava Cairns, and Culloden. We stopped roadside for fresh raspberry tarts at Maclean’s Highland Bakery, before climbing the tight spiral staircases of the towers, of the ruins, of Elgin Cathedral. There, we lay down upon the stone floor, unworried about what people might think, looking closely at each of the intricately carved bosses, wondering what secret message each mythical beast was holding.
Lunch was spent in the wild gardens of Cawdor Castle, eating homemade cheesy scones, carrot and coriander soup stewed from vegetables in the garden, and sticky sweet toffee pudding, before heading onto Clava Cairns, the Bronze Age Circles built to house the dead, sacred and complex. We entered, only after asking the spirits for permission to be invited in, touching the stones with reverence, paying our respects, honouring all interred there, honouring 4,000 years of time, before driving on to Culloden.
There in Culloden field, where Stephen’s ancestors had fought and died, I watched him walk quietly ahead of me in search of the Clan Shaw marker. I stayed back, walking slowly down the Jacobites’ battle line, steeped in history, hearing Robert Burns’ words, a whisper in this solemn place, Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growin’ green to see; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman’s e/e!
I could see Stephen way off in the distance by the tree line and thought how happy I was to have such a good partner; how sorry I was that a void had grown between us. How our bickering had led to us living Scotland’s own motto without even knowing it: Nemo me impune lacessit. No one attacks me with impunity, and I admitted to myself that I had also needed to travel again to change my short-tempered ways. I walked towards him and circled my arms around him as we stood together, watching the sun dip down in the sky, and I silently pledged to myself to have a bit more patience with the man I loved when we returned home.
We left the next morning for the Isle of Skye, stopping first at the Sligachan Bridge, where legend has it, if you dip your face in the water for 7 seconds and let it dry in the Scottish wind, the fae folk will bless you with eternal beauty.
The wind was fiercely blowing that day, and the sky was heavy with dark, looming clouds as I threw on my slicker and jumped from the car, Stephen following right behind me. He helped me down the steep bankside to lie on the wet rocks under the bridge as people from numerous countries watched this older, chubby, grey-haired American woman, in a long black dress and cheap Skechers walking shoes, brave the weather and the water to live out the dare.
An Indian college student from our own UCLA, perched on a stone in the middle of the stream, counted the seconds out loud for everyone to hear and there I was, rain now falling on me, wet and winded, down on the rocks, my face underwater, then up for air, smiling at Stephen, laughing with everyone, happy when I heard someone shout from the bridge, You two look right at home here.
People from the Netherlands on a photo journey snapped photos of us, and the Indian college student introduced us to his large extended family, ranging from 3 months to 80 years old. We caught sight of a U.K. couple, on the far side of the bridge, that we had met earlier and adored, and after joyful conversations with all, we chose to travel on as a group and hike the Fairy Pools of Skye together.
There, the more robust marched off down the steep hillside that stretched across the highlands, while the matriarch of the Indian family and I walked slowly behind, our arms latched, steadying each other as we went, swapping stories, fellow Grans, kindred spirits, from different corners of the world, finding joy in the gift of our grandbabies.
We spent the rest of the day and the next hiking Skye from the Fairy Glenn, to the peaks of the Quiraing, to An Corran beach to see the Megalosaurus prints trapped for eternity in the ancient sea mud, to the rock formation of the Old Man of Storr.
We stopped for fresh fish and chips at the Old Harbour Shop in Portree, ate fresh scallops at Greshornish House hotel, locally harvested from Loch Greshornish that day, and ended at the Neist Point Lighthouse that sits on the most Westerly tip of Skye. There, cold, strong gusts of Atlantic sea wind almost toppled us, as we stood looking out from the 140-foot cliff faces and me, there, yelling to every young person snapping Instagram-worthy travel photos to mind the edge, my motherly instincts unable to disengage from high alert each time they moved too close.
The next morning, we took the A82 back south, driving through Fort William and on to Glencoe—some of the most beautiful country we had ever seen. And there, barefoot and jacketless, I pulled over and jumped from the car to take in the cinematic beauty of the place that had graced the scenes of films such as Skyfall, Rob Roy, Braveheart, and Highlander, kissing Stephen in the middle of it all, our kiss feeling just as cinematic as the ones in the movies we had seen.
We hiked to An Torr—the Signal Rock, with a young couple we met at the trailhead, small talking our way across the bridge and up the hill, sharing with them where we were from, and asking them the same, but noting they seemed reticent to tell us. We looked at them, not knowing what to think, when the young man said to me, “Since you told me you are a professor, and have an understanding of history, I’m willing to share. We are from Palestine,” his wife interrupted to add, “living in Israel.”
Stephen and I took pause. Standing there in Glencoe, the Glen of Weeping, about to witness a site known for the massacre of Scottish men, women, and children by government soldiers in 1692, I felt a loss as to what to say, what to share. I could not imagine what they were thinking, what they had been through, what they were going through, and once again, unable to contain my motherly instincts with the young people we had crossed during our travels, I reached out and hugged her fiercely, our embrace communicating all that could not be said.
Stephen and I travelled on, down into Stirling, stopping at the Falls of Falloch. Our sombre mood brightened when a beautiful black greyhound bounded down the trail toward us. We were happy to receive such affection, his owner pleased that we tourists could appreciate a good, energetic dog like Spud.
Spud took the lead, taking us to the Woven Sound art installation, designed by artist John Kennedy; a caged viewing platform that cantilevers over the 30-foot falls. There we stood: Spud—paws up on the rail, tail wagging—Spud’s owner, Anne, exclaiming over the immense size of the falls due to the recent storm, and us. We all peered down into the deep pools of the falls of Falloch, Spud, I’m sure, imagining a great swim, while Stephen and I imagined the legend of the outlaw Rob Roy MacGregor bathing there.
Walking back to our car, Spud still prancing between us, Stephen and I reflected on our trip as it neared the end; rehashing our favourite moments, our favourite foods, are favourite people, wishing we had longer to stay, and hopeful that we would return together to explore Scotland again.
We arrived back in Edinburgh to find Lil’ Gran waiting. She was pleased to have hotel room picnic parties with us, while her parents took some much-needed time off with friends, and I wondered—If we seemed changed to her. If a baby could notice a shift. I wasn’t as worried as I had been before about what she would think of me, what she would think of us. Our trip together would be record enough. As days turned into years, as time moved us all forward until a time when we’d no longer be there, I hoped she would point to the photos of Stephen and me climbing in Skye, kissing in Glencoe, laughing by the Falls of Falloch and see us—truly see us.
We ended our journey in Northumberland—me—happy to have finally met Alva, Lil’ Gran’s Nan. We enjoyed an evening out together as a family, and as I sat at the table of the local restaurant and pub, talking to Alva about life, I watched Stephen standing at the bar—Lil’ Gran in his arms—laughing it up with the local men, and I felt chuffed to call him mine. His good-hearted nature, his kindness to all, and his willingness to try. He must have felt me looking at him, because he caught my gaze and smiled in a way that said he was pleased with us, pleased with our trip, pleased to be present.
When we returned home, the house continued to stay messy, the clothing still remained ratty, the daily arguments still happened, but the trip had changed us. The shift had happened—we could feel it—the morning was once again electric. Inside jokes about our travel were shared. Stephen shouting at me, lightening the mood during tense moments, “Navigate for God’s sake!” The photo, hanging above the fireplace, us standing by the Fairy Pools in the Black Cullin range of Skye, taken by a member of the Indian family we had met. Tattie soup being made on the stove, music playing as we completed daily chores, songs that reminded us of the musicians in Aviemore, and the knowing, the knowing between us, that we were here to share this journey together—whatever that journey may be, and that we were ready to go again, no hesitation, Scotland was still calling.
