Dispatches from the South: The First, Last and a Little in Between

Mike has gone on vacation and while he’s away we have a treat for Anglotopia readers. Mike has been kind enough to post some excerpts from his excellent book “Postcards from Across the Pond.” If you’d like to buy Mike’s book – you can do so here.

My wife is half Scottish. This doesn’t afflict her in many obvious ways except that she is familiar with obscure cultural references, such as First-Footing and Glasgow Kiss, and has a keen discrimination of highland single malts (her greatest compliment: “I could drink this”). As soon as we cross the border into Scotland, however, she gets in touch with her inner Celt; words like “wee” and “aye” begin slipping into her vocabulary and she starts pronouncing Loch as if she is trying to dislodge a herring bone from the back of her throat.

She denies it, but I catch her out from time to time. And I don’t really find it surprising; after 48 hours below the Mason-Dixon line I begin to develop a drawl for no apparent reason. Besides, if I found myself in a place as tacky as Gretna Green, I would do my best to distance myself from the tourists, as well.

Scotland, though a land of stunning vistas, magnificent castles and quaint curiosities, chooses to locate its most tacky tourist attraction right on the border so you can’t possibly miss it. If I were a country, I would be so embarrassed by this place I would hide it in a location no one is likely to go, like Cleveland, but the Scots, as part of their National Heritage preservation scheme, want tourists to stop there, take a photo of a highland cow, buy a Jimmy hat and gan awa.

For centuries, the tiny village of Gretna Green struggled for its daily haggis just like all the other tiny villages in the area. But when England raised the age of consent for marriages and Scotland failed to follow suit, Gretna, the first village over the border, found itself drowning in underage brides.

No longer a haven for illicit wedlock, the locals content themselves by fleecing the busloads of tourists who flock there to hear bagpipe music, pay £6 to see the Marriage Anvil and use the toilet. Overall, it’s a dazzling collection of every Scottish cliché you can imagine. If you’re ever in the area don’t miss it, but skip the anvil; it’s not worth six quid.

At the extreme northern end of the country is John O’Groats, another tiny village that turned itself into a tourist Mecca, this one based solely on the fact that it is not quite the most northerly location on the British mainland. Dunnet Head, only a few miles away, offers inspiring views and the opportunity to take a photo of the marker designating it as the actual, most northerly point, whereas John O’Groats offers the same assemblage of tourist tat found at Gretna Green and the opportunity to pay ten quid to have your photo taken next to a signpost and twenty pence to use the toilet.

Also very nearby are the Stacks of Duncansby, which are, in the truest sense of the word, awesome.

But guess where all the tour busses end up?

Based on these two specious success stories, one might expect Castle Cawdor to cash in by tapping the flow of American tourists who are at least vaguely aware of William Shakespeare and a play he wrote called “Macbeth.” The Thanes of Cawdor lived, as you might imagine, in Cawdor Castle. It’s a real place. I know. I’ve been there.

I was pleased with this unexpected find. We had been searching for a not-too-strenuous activity to fill our last day in the Highlands, and when my wife pointed out that Macbeth’s castle was only a half hour drive away I was on it like, as you may have guessed, like a tourist on a tacky tourist trap.

I drove there anticipating the full Macbeth Experience: the Banquo’s Ghost Tour, the bed where Duncan was killed (perhaps with some fake blood dripping down the bed sheets) and a mock-up of Burnham Wood in the back garden, topped off by a Macbeth Burger at the Out Damn Spot Café.
What I found was a thoughtfully planned out tour of a fetching, 14th century castle that has been a family home for some 600 years. The guidebook reveals the pride these latter-day Thanes—who still make their home in the castle—take in their venerable heritage, yet it is written with an unpretentious eagerness to share their history and a delightfully wry wit. The surrounding gardens are, likewise, tasteful and well maintained. The most daring feature on the entire estate is the Victorian hedge maze.

At the very end of the guidebook, a brief paragraph mentions “the Scottish Play” but merely to point out that the castle, while ancient, was built long after Macbeth (yes, he was real) had his day. I came away from the castle with a grudging respect for its current owners, but only that tidbit of information about Macbeth.

“If this castle was in America,” I tell my wife on the way back to the car park, “we’d have built a theme park around it.”

My wife nods. “Aye,” she says.