Kevin ScottThere’s a piece of my heart that has never left my ancestral homeland of Scotland. That’s the reason I found myself on a Ryanair (Europe’s version of Spirit) flight to Edinburgh. I felt my anxiety rising, first because of Ryanair’s reputation for suspect quality and extremely sketchy landings, and second, because for the next few days I would drive – gulp – on the wrong side of the road.
After a very bumpy arrival but a smooth trip through Customs, I met up with Ian Kirkland of Aberdeen 4×4, from whom I rented a 2012 Land Rover Defender. We chatted about my previous expedition across the United States in a ‘67 Series IIA 109 [See Fall 2023 issue -ed].
Reliving that experience through our conversation, I started to believe that I wouldn’t lose focus and drive in the wrong lane, wouldn’t get stuck in a roundabout, and wouldn’t accidentally fill up with petrol instead of diesel. Not me! I’m the seasoned veteran who ran out of gas on the side of the road in Ohio (Nebraska?) and saved myself by taking a half-full jerrycan out of the back and pouring it into the gas tank, sending me on my way. Wrong side of the road? Ha – a cakewalk!
Ian walked toward the gate to validate my parking ticket and send me on my way. Meanwhile, from the right hand (driver’s) seat, the Rover felt clunky at low speeds – did these guys give me a lemon? What’s wrong with this thing? Maybe I’m just unfamiliar with the clutch travel – gotta be it! As I approached the parking gate and subsequently stalled, Ian let out a warm, Scottish chuckle, more welcoming than judgmental, and then reminded me to release the parking brake. Well, you can’t expect me to remember that my left hand needed to do all this work!
Ian attempted to pump up my self-confidence after the parking brake fiasco as he warmly waved me off. Gingerly I jumped onto the Scottish equivalent of a highway and headed toward downtown Edinburgh to pick up Starling, my copilot for the five-day journey as well as my copilot in life. I held off on queuing up the road trip playlist and instead focused on staying in the left lane and not taking any turns into oncoming traffic. Arriving in Edinburgh with my left hand doing the shifting, Sterling threw her bags into the rear. We gassed it to the coast to get out of traffic. An early flight, an empty belly and an unfamiliarity with this new environment made me crave an open road.
One beautiful thing about Scotland (besides absolutely everything except the torrential downpours, which do have their own charm) is the geographic diversity of this small island nation. Forty-seven miles later, we stopped in St. Monans, a tiny seaside town from which my great-great-grandfather had set sail for Newfoundland. Upon our arrival, we filled our stomachs at Baern Cafe in the Bowhouse Market and Shops. There, the eatery lets their pigs roam in the spacious fields nearby before they’re served up to you on a plate – or rather a bowl, as this particular pork formed the basis for a soup that warmed us up – just before our rhubarb tart.
We returned to the Land Rover and made our way to the waterfront section of St. Monans. It is tiny, comprised of painted maritime houses and a beautiful chapel atop a small hill with a graveyard. We walked through the rows of gravestones and tombstones, some so old and worn by the salty ocean air that the dates were obscured; others newer, typically with one of a handful of family names from the tiny town on them. Unable to find my family name on the first lap around, we decided to do one more check. In an inexplicably magic moment (you only get so many of these in this life), we found my family name etched into one of the faintest headstones. Behind it, the sun shone and a cool breeze kicked up off of the Atlantic. A sense of cosmic familiarity washed over me; perhaps it was the proximity to the water, seeing my family name on stones from 200 years ago, or getting a nice noseful of the briny Atlantic Ocean as I stood with the one I love. Whatever the reason, I felt at home in a place I’d never been.
There is certainly a piece of my heart that has been left in St. Monans, or maybe it’s always been there. Regardless, like my great-great-grandfather, we left St. Monans, albeit in a much more comfortable, safer and faster fashion.
We headed up to St. Andrews for the evening. A Land Rover has a strange universality to it that allows it to look at home anywhere; on a farm, in a forest, in a city; but on this day, I felt they look best winding between the dilapidated castles, tiny towns and coastal roads of Scotland. St. Andrews served as a refueling point for us – mentally – not for “the tractor” (as Ian referred to the Rover), as the diesel engine had barely used a gulp of fuel. Savoring every moment, we slowly cruised around the narrow streets of St. Andrews, passing at least 10,000 golf shops – each claiming to be the world’s oldest club maker, golf ball maker or golf glove maker.
As we left St. Andrews the next morning, my copilot plugged a small town into the maps app – a spot in County Fife called Braemar. Despite existing seemingly in the middle of nowhere, it is the well-known home of the annual Highland Games, during which the 265-pound Inver Stone is lifted atop a barrel. It’s also home to a hotel called the Fife Arms, which contains 16,000 works of art from Picassos to pigeons stuffed and posed. Previously, this estate had served to house the staff of the Royal Family while they spent time downriver at Balmoral.
After an evening spent with a plate of haggis and a morning spent with a plate of black pudding and smoked trout, we headed out through the fog and (surprisingly) springtime snow into the Highlands. Maybe we just got lucky, but we had the road to ourselves as we
approached Cairngorms National Park. We got out of the Land Rover and shut her off. That went against every instinct in my being; I’ve learned it’s a gamble to turn off my ’67 Series IIA as I never know if it will start up again.
We looked out at the mountains surrounding us. The reds, burnt oranges, grays and granites appeared otherworldly. Never have I felt so close to being on a different planet. This coordination of color was completely new to me. In my 33 years on Earth, I did not believe this new level of visual splendor could exist. We drove through the fog descending into the valleys to the sounds of the engine and background tunes (an eclectic assortment of James Bond theme songs and Celtic folk music). The overarching stillness of the Highlands ruled, interrupted occasionally by stags prancing on the spines of mountains high above us, or the sight of a lonesome cottage, staking its claim to this space hundreds of years ago.
Tucked away in the Highlands, we enjoyed the sights of lakes, or “lochs,” in the local lingo. “Loch Lomond,” as sung by Leo Maguire and Alastair McDonald, now played through our small Bluetooth speaker as we arrived at the location of the song’s namesake. The changes in scent, scenes and views formed the essence of a quick journey that barely scratched the surface of the vast, scenic diversity that Scotland offers its visitors. The constant in a land of immense variety is the beauty and shared sense of adventure and discovery that the inhabitants hold close to their hearts but eagerly share with visitors. Although we only ventured off-road to take pictures and greet incredibly friendly horses, we felt as though Land Rover had created its vehicles with Scotland in mind.