part 15

Sunshine

I returned to Samoa as Graham and I had promised to do and visited the big island, Savaii, this time with Sandra, Kim and the grandchildren. We walked over the lava fields of the 1911 volcanic eruption and clambered over the ruins of a village church that was destroyed by the river of lava. The lava flowed through the front door of the church and out the other end burning everything in its path. Embedded in the basalt were the remains of the corrugated iron roof, twisted and gnarled.

We visited the volcanic cone of this latest eruption and gazed down at the evidence of the molten rock as it coursed its way to the sea. The family and I climbed down a ricketty ladder made of tree limbs to reach a still pool in a crater one hundred feet below ground level to swim in the cool waters.

We enjoyed ourselves playing tag with some green turtles and chased them around the warm pools. Our accommodation was in the native style huts or fales as they are called. These are thatched shelters built on a stone base and had woven mats of banana leaves for the walls. I enjoyed myself with the family and was thrilled when the three granddaughters dubbed me Groovy Gran.

It was wonderful to be part of their lives again and I enjoyed helping out at their local school. Sandra and I visited the local markets and it was good experiencing their life on this tropical island. I was pleased that I was forging new relationships with my granddaughters even if we rarely saw each other.

Highland fling

I had always wanted to visit Scotland and from an early age considered that the sound of the bagpipes was music to my ears. It was such a familiar sound and warmed my blood rather than assaulting my ears with a series of discordant noises. I had been to see the live performance of Brigadoon when I was eight years old and knew that I needed to go back to the homeland. I promised my mother and grandmother that when I was grown-up, at age sixteen, I would take them both with me. However, it was not until fifty years later that I actually made the trip myself.

I had always felt a connection to the place, particularly to the Highlands. Both sides of my family had emigrated from Scotland in the 1800s and it seemed to me that I belonged there. I told my family of my desire to visit and that I was determined to follow my dream. However, because I wanted to visit the old family sites, I would prefer to travel with family members and not with strangers. In 2005, Fiona had just finished a year of teaching as a professor at the Berkeley campus of UCLA and was available to travel. Alli and I flew to London, met up with Fiona and continued on to Edinburgh. We had planned to go on a bus tour, but as this was cancelled, we decided to hire a car and drove ourselves around following our own itinerary.

Walking up the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle was magnificent. As we reached each doorway or close or byway I felt compelled to explore them all. It was amazing to wander through the archways and down the steep flights of stairs and see the houses clinging so precariously to the steep sides of the rocky outcrop.

We visited the magical Isle of Iona where St. Columbus had arrived in 542 AD to bring Christianity to the heathens of Britain. We followed the street of the dead to the graveyard where the ancient kings of Scotland and Norway are buried, including Macbeth.

There was quite an ominous feel to the atmosphere at Glencoe. This area which contains the oldest landmass of Britain was formed by the upheaval of the ancient rocks by volcanic action and then carved out by glaciers. It reminded me of Hanging Rock near Mt Macedon and one could believe anything mysterious or evil could happen here. It was the setting for the dreadful massacre of the MacDonald clan by the treacherous Campbells in cohorts with the English in 1692. A force of a one hundred and twenty Campbells were sent to Glencoe by King William’s adviser and were courteously accommodated in the village by their hosts. After a week of friendliness and good spirits the visitors arose early one morning and murdered all of the MacDonald clan.

We travelled over the sea to Skye, not by our bonny boat, but instead by the sweeping arched bridge that joins the island to the mainland at Kyle of Lochalsh. A great day was spent touring this picturesque island and exploring many of the castles there. Driving north we passed Loch Ness but unfortunately did not get a glimpse of its favourite inhabitant. Then on at last to the ferry to sail to the Orkney Islands where our ancestors had lived.

The Orkneys are a series of small islands of red and yellow sandstone. The largest island, the Mainland was where our ancestors had farmed since the thirteenth century. We were able to visit the area where they had lived and worked. A day’s drive around the island took in all the sights. We walked around the Ring of Brodgar, a circle of large upright stones, and visited a Pict village and its neighbouring broch – a beehive shaped building used for defense. The island was also home to the best example of a Neolithic village in Europe.

The ginger coloured highland cattle with their thick shaggy coats and long fringes covering their eyes were a favourite with us. They looked quite ferocious with their large horns, but every time we tried to take their photos, they would turn tail and thundered away from us. The black faced white sheep were more friendly towards us but invariably we could not tell if they were facing us or looking in the opposite direction.

In Kirkwall, the capital city of the Orkneys, we spent some time in the thirteenth century cathedral exploring this wonderful red and yellow building made of the local sandstone. Each stone arch around the heavy oak doors was decorated in a different chequered pattern of red and yellow. Inside the cathedral were many death stones. These are similar to grave stones, but these marble blocks were installed inside and away from the harsh elements. Only the very privileged were offered space inside to record their family records. We found three with the family name on them and read with interest the stories they told about our relatives’ lives in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

The eldest three sons of the family had all been members of the Black Watch and had all seen service in Canada fighting the French during the 1770s. On arriving back in Scotland the eldest son returned to take over the family farm while the other two settled in Perth to try their luck as civilians. And it was one of the latter who was my direct ancestor, a many times great grandfather. We needed to head south to follow the trail.

Back on the mainland we travelled over the mountain pass and were nearly swept away by the wind when we ventured out to take some photos. As we drove through what would become the ski fields in a few weeks time we almost experienced a whiteout. The temperature dropped alarming and visibility was reduced to a few metres. We were out of mobile phone contact, our car was the only vehicle on the road, so we kept going and were soon out of the cloud cover and into bright sunshine. On reaching the valley, Balmoral Castle was resplendent with the rich colours of Autumn and the birch tree stands were magnificent.

At Perth we visited the local Methodist church that the forefathers had been instrumental in building. We found the street on which they had lived in 1800, but the street number was only a doorway leading to a carpark. The original boarding house no longer existed.

It was a wonderful trip in tracing the path and following in the footsteps of those that had come before. And what made it even more special for me was that I had shared it with my daughters.