12. Flying Solo

I was brave to travel to Scotland on my own, or so I was told. My friends, in particular, were stunned by my decision:

How could you go overseas and not know a soul there?

I could never do what you’re doing!

Aren’t you afraid?

I had no qualms over my excellent solo adventure, except one – driving in Scotland. I had to prepare. When I visited Scotland years earlier in the company of my father and brother, Bill, GPS was unheard of in the hands of civilians, so we traveled by maps and the seat of our pants. Bill did all driving, and we’d often drive in roundabouts three or four times in sheer terrorized laughter with nerves frayed by honking horns and Scots flipping us off before zooming our way out on the wrong exit. I was determined to master the UK roads and the dreaded roundabouts. I turned to YouTube and viewed lessons on left roadway driving – and roundabouts. The video I settled on had about 2.5 million views, and I accounted for about 1000 of them. I’d zoom in on Google Earth, and drop the little person icon for the street view of my future surroundings. I would be prepared!

Despite the online driving lessons, I listened to travel experts and delayed my rental car pick up for a few days. I hailed a taxi at the Inverness airport to transport me to the home I had rented on the hillside overlooking the city. The taxi driver was friendly and happy, and I barely understood a word he said. My month in Scotland had begun. 

Of course, on the second day of my solo adventure, I got sick. I mean, really sick. When Dad, Bill, and I were in Scotland and just when we had figured out roundabouts, we collided head-on with a British utility truck. All three of us were banged up, but nothing would stop us from limping through our stay’s remaining days. Years later, I would be sick as a dog in Scotland, but nothing would stop me this time, either. I walked into the city, bought every cold medicine I could find, drank more Nyquil than a person should be permitted, and caught the train to Edinburgh. I met with a genealogist in the city only to discover my great grandfather had not told the full truth of our so-called illustrious Mackenzie heritage. I come from a long line of storytellers.

I had successfully navigated through the first four days with little effort, despite being loaded to the gills with cough medicine. After three days in Edinburgh, I caught a train back to Inverness. For three hours, I coughed and hacked, which had its benefits. Fellow passengers feared for their lives, and giving me wide berth, I had an excellent 1st class seat with a table all to myself. Upon my return to Inverness, I stayed in bed for 24 hours, waking up on day 5 with the alarming reminder I was scheduled to pick up my rental car at the Inverness Airport. Life was about to get interesting.

I hired a taxi driven by the nicest man who drove me to the airport and, after listening to me plead, “I can do this, right? I can drive on the left side of the road, right?” he replied, “I think you ask too many questions. I think you should start making statements about your life. Positive statements.” I was stunned into silence, wondering just who the heck this guy was, that maybe he was an angel giving me existential advice. Then again, drinking cough medicine for breakfast can make you see angels everywhere. I had no idea what I paid him as I had not taken any time to figure out British currency, but he seemed well satisfied.

I acted quite confident while standing in the Rental Car queue at the airport; no one knew I was starting to freak out over this driving thing. Once I found my car, I sat in it for 30 minutes, shaking head to toe in complete terror. Can I give up the car? No, I’ve already paid for it. How many people would  die with me driving on the road? Can I even get out of this parking lot?  Too many questions. Time to make statements. I took a deep breath, drove the airport exit roundabout on the left  (which was wrong), thankful I didn’t hit anything except left curbs for 5 miles. The car following behind kept a safe distance as I’m sure they thought one of two things about my driving: one, I was most definitely an American or 2, I was a drunk American. Then, of all things, my GPS lost its signal, and I lost my way back to the rental house. A routine 20-minute drive took me 90 minutes of veering off on wrong roundabout exits and a few horns honking but I made it. I felt like Rocky at the top of the stairs in Philly. I swear I could hear the theme song. I had been brave and courageous. I didn’t total the car, I survived to drive another day and didn’t kill any Scots. All in all, a promising start to my most excellent adventure.

The solitude of these four weeks in Scotland fit me well. I had never been alone, I mean, really alone. I didn’t know anyone in Scotland, other than the house rental agent, Margaret, who was sweet as sunshine. I’d catch her sneaking around the garbage bins to make sure I was re-cycling correctly. Everyone has their thing, I guess. Margaret was definitely into the trash. My thing was to use that month of solitude to find a sense of “regaining” myself. 

My rental car sat undriven for two days, a parked icon of my unease, but I eventually climbed in the little Fiat and drove to the places I remembered from my first visit to Scotland with my dad and brother. What a mistake that was. We had stayed at a lovely country home, a hotel then (and now) called the Bunchrew House. I hadn’t planned on visiting the place, but I unexpectedly drove past it on one of my tours. I paused, turned the car around, went through the tree-line narrow entrance, and parked. I walked into the hotel and was struck by how little the place had changed in 20 years. It was like stepping back in time. Everything there spoke of my late father and late brother. So, naturally, I began to cry. The place was empty, or so it seemed. I walked through the spacious living room to the dining room. In front of the bay windows looking out to the Beauly Firth was the table where the three of us had sat every morning for breakfast. By this time, I was sobbing. Finally, the hotel manager spied me and asked if there was anything he could do for me. I blubbered, “My father…my broth..umm..oh..we sat right here…umm…20 years ago…and my brother just died…and I’m here all alone…but I wanted to see…you know..”  He started to back away from me, convinced I was a madwoman and said he was positive he heard his office phone ringing—poor man. I thought to myself, holy crap, get out of here. You’re freaking this guy out. I walked back to my car and texted my husband back in the states that I was crying in the parking lot. He immediately responded with “Leave!”—wisdom through technology. It was the second time I had scared a few Scots half to death so I decided that it might be a good idea to avoid places that reminded me of my previous visit.

I spent my solitude searching for ancestral records, spontaneously driving to an ancient castle, reading books or walking to the city center for groceries or an afternoon ale. I never got lonely. I was on my schedule, going wherever I wanted, basking in the highland countryside’s beauty. I even sent my daughter a video of my holding a glass of wine while dancing to Justin Timberlake’s Mirrors. She loved it and thought I looked sexy. I thought I looked happy for the first time in three years.

Scotland days are long in May, so after dinner, I’d sit outside in the sunsets that seemed to last forever and watch the high clouds sweep across the sky. Those evenings were my Midnight on the Deck moments when I would replay the movies of my memories and learn about myself. 

The most salient discovery was how comfortable I was with the solitude. I realized I was the product of my youth, a child who spent most of her life living on the “outside.” I never fit within the high school “society,” for example. I wasn’t considered nerdy or outright unpopular, but instead, went unnoticed. I had a small circle of friends, but inevitably if we‘d gather as a group, I’d be ignored, as though they forgot I was with them. It still happens to this day, and I have often wondered what I “exude” that would cause people to forget my presence. I’m working on this and we’ll see if any of my introspections make it to blog-ville. The best I can offer now is I am no longer upset or bothered by this social oddity. It’s part of the acceptance of who I was and apparently who I am today. 

My brother Bill’s funeral in Reno, Nevada fell on my last full day in Scotland. Although I am not fond of bus tours, I joined a tour to the Isle of Skye thinking it might ease the sorrow a bit. I kept to myself and had minimal engagement with my fellow passengers. I told our tour guide what that day was for me and at every stop he’d send the passengers off on a wee hiking tour, kindly leading me to a special place of magic where I could be alone with my thoughts. On one such stop, the bus driver led me to a lovely and secluded place where ten graves were snuggled into an arc of green grasses. He pointed to one particular headstone and said, “This is my brother. I just lost him, too.”

The tour to Skye, the one I didn’t want to take, was a gift of grace and peace. That night as I sat in the fading sunset, my heart heard my brother’s strong and confident voice: Bonnie, I have always loved you. There’s a real possibility I never actually heard my brother, but I was good with it then, and I’m good with it today. Healing. Restoration. Forgiveness. Solitude. 

Every day while in Inverness, I walked beside the River Ness that winds its six-mile journey from Loch Ness to the Beauly Firth. The river was mesmerizing with its steady current speaking of the dedication to its mission. I had searched for my ancestors without much success, but one thing I knew. This river had been a part of their lives. The black cold waters stirred their souls 200 years earlier as mine had been in 2016. The River Ness was the connection to my heritage, my family, to their story of hard work, faith, and resilience in a country that eventually sent them off to Canada and Montana during the Highland Clearances. 

I would return to Scotland in 2018 and 2019. The river and the highlands call me still to come home again to their magic and mystical songs of belonging.

Scotland. Forever Scotland.

Slainte!