by Ed Bethune
We arrived in Glasgow early Tuesday morning, June 19. Anne met us and was astounded that we had only two backpacks for a three-month tour of Europe. We explained our theory, that unconventionality would yield a better experience. She said she understood but I think she thought we were slightly crazy. Perhaps we were, perhaps we are, but it works for us.
That night we told our story for the second time and Ian, a tenderhearted man, cried openly. Since then we have told our story only a few times. It affects people in different ways. It moves those who dream of getting away to share a great adventure with a loved one, and it speaks to the heart of those who have faced death or those who struggle with the idea of surrendering their will to God’s will.
On Thursday, we put on our backpacks, bid Ian and Anne goodbye, and caught the train to Edinburgh to begin our tour of Scotland, England, and France.
We saw all the well-known sights, but mostly we imbedded ourselves with the people. We did not plan to write a travelogue. Our new purpose was to learn about the people and trace the life journey of our ancestors. We wanted to know as much as we could about our family names. In my case, it was Bethune, Lewallen, and Vermilye. For Lana, it was Collier, and Prewitt. We lost ourselves in our quest, and the telling of it could fill another book. Even so, there are a few memories that give a sense of our month-long adventure in Scotland.
On a day trip by train from Inverness to Kyle of Lockhalsh, one of the world’s most scenic rides, an old gentleman told us that on the Isle of Skye we would find the headquarters of Clan Donald in a town called Armadale. It fascinated us to learn from him that Bethune, frequently interchanged with the name Beaton, is a widely known name in Scotland, as is my middle name, Ruthvin. He told us of two blood brothers on Skye, one who used the name Bethune while the other used the name Beaton. He urged us to go there because he was certain that the Bethune family was part of Clan Donald. We could see Skye from Kyle of Lockhalsh, but we had to go back to Inverness to get our things.
A day later, we headed south to the town of Mallaig, a mainland town directly across a small bay from the town of Armadale. The beautiful Isle of Skye, easily visible from Mallaig, is irresistible. We caught the Caledonian MacBrayne ferryboat, and in less than thirty minutes we were on Skye looking for the B&B operator we had called earlier to arrange a room for the night.
She, plumpish and red-faced, spotted us and waved us over to a tiny, two-door, beat-up economy car. It would have been a challenge to get in the car if it had been empty, but there were two big dogs in it, barking and jumping from the front seat to the back. We were not surprised because almost every Scot has a dog or two, and they take them everywhere they go, even into the grocery markets. We had no choice because it was late in the day and we needed a place to sleep. We climbed in with the dogs, the fleshy woman, the smell, and the dog hairs and set off for her place in Armadale. It turned out that the B&B she advertised was nothing more than an extra bedroom in her small house. Lana and I gave each other a familiar look of resignation; it was another chance for us to follow G. K. Chesterton’s counsel. We would rightly consider this inconvenience, thus turning it into an adventure. We managed to sleep, but our adventure ended abruptly at breakfast. Our hostess fed the dogs and us at the same time, their bowls being in the breakfast room. We ate a piece of toast, pulled on our backpacks, bid the dogs and the woman goodbye, and hiked to the Clan Donald Center.
The library at the center contains thousands of books covering all aspects of Scot culture, Highland history, and clan genealogies. Donald was the grandson of a medieval Gaelic hero. He gave his descendants and followers the name of MacDonald, and the clan exercised a powerful influence on Highland history. It is the largest clan in Scotland and Bethune descendants, including those who immigrated to the United States, are members of the clan.
When we introduced ourselves to an elderly attendant in the library, he said, “Ah, Bethune, a famous name.” Then he pulled an ancient book from the shelf and showed it to us. Even though printed in 1778, the book—The Bethunes of the Isle of Skye— was in excellent condition. As we perused it and talked about my family the librarian confirmed the story the old man on the train told us about the two blood brothers, one using Bethune as his surname and the other using Beaton.
It intrigued me to hear about my ancestors. We also learned that the Bethune family ranged from the Isle of Skye to County Fife near Edinburgh, specifically Markinch Parish, where there stands a famous cottage built in 1837 by two Bethune brothers, Alexander and John.
The man then told the interesting story, well known to Scots, of Cardinal David Bethune, presumably an ancestor, who was born in Markinch. He played a large role as a Catholic leader in the history of sixteenth century Scotland when religious tensions gripped the land. In 1539, he became archbishop and took up residence in St. Andrew’s Castle, the official residence of Scotland’s leading prelates throughout the Middle Ages. His uncle, James Bethune, preceded him as archbishop and lived in the castle from 1521 to 1539. Cardinal David Bethune, with full backing from King James V, vehemently opposed the burgeoning Protestant Reformation. He had broad authority as papal legate of Scotland to stop the Reformation, and to that end he ordered the burning of a Protestant preacher, George Wishart on March 1, 1546.
Cardinal Bethune was widely despised for his arrogant and unrelenting method of governing and that led Wishart’s sympathizers to knife him to death on May 28, 1546 in his chambers at St. Andrews castle. David Bethune’s successor also opposed the Protestant Reformation, and for that and his support of Mary Queen of Scots, he went to the gallows. Soon thereafter, the episcopacy collapsed and the castle had no resident. It fell into disrepair and a big part of it fell into the ocean. A seawall constructed in 1886 saved the rest of the castle, which today is a huge tourist attraction.
I had never had much interest in genealogy, but our visit to the Clan Donald Center changed my mind. I vowed to learn more about my ancestors; the Bethunes were proving to be an interesting cast of characters.
The talk of religious turmoil and the Protestant Reformation led me to ask the old gentleman at the library what he thought about the declining influence of religion in Scotland and in Europe; a subject of lively debate in the United States. He just shook his head and said, “I know, I know, the churches are empty.” He did not seem interested in pursuing the subject, so I did not ask more but promised myself to give more thought to the question as we continued our travels.
The old man changed the subject from religion to something near and dear to his heart, sheepdogs and sheepdog trials. The Scots are famous for breeding, rearing and training sheepdogs, and several important trials occur annually on the Isle of Skye. He was excited about a trial that was taking place that day, not too far from the Clan Donald Center, and he invited us to go with him. We quickly accepted. It did not look too promising when we first arrived at the hillside field, but soon trucks and cars began to arrive and the Scots offloaded their dogs and took their positions. Just as the trials were about to begin, a cold rain started to fall, but no one complained. We watched in awe as the Highland shepherds put their dogs to work. It is a sight to see a herd of sheep brought a quarter of a mile from the top of a hill to a pen at the bottom. The shepherds will occasionally shout, but for the most part the dogs skillfully herd the sheep around a series of obstacles and into the pen in response to individualized whistling.
Shepherding is a traditional livelihood for Scots so deeply imbedded in the culture that today it is a beloved sport, and the Scots have their own special way to enhance the fun. We discovered the enhancement when we retreated to the only shelter, a dilapidated, unlighted wood shack with a leaky tin roof and a dirt floor. Inside the shack, no surprise, two men were pouring shots of single malt scotch whiskey for a nominal fee. There were about twenty wet Scots in the shack when we entered, and they were having a grand time. Several of them were wearing dark green, waxy looking raincoats with matching fedoras and they seemed to be the driest. Double
doors swung open to the field, thus providing a little light for the bartenders and a view of the trials. It was the place to be. We joined in the fun and stayed for a few more trials but then it was time for us to leave. It was a stroke of luck to hear about the sheepdog trials and our good fortune turned into an afternoon of precious memories.
We said goodbye to the old Scot and headed to a small hotel, The Old Manse, for afternoon tea. The ancient hotel overlooks Loch Snizort Beag and has wonderful views of the mountains of the Isle of Skye. While there, we heard about a nearby graveyard with Bethune markers. We walked there and found several flat, full-length stones carved to look like knights in armor, inscribed with the name Bethune. Some dated back to the 1500s. It was spooky so we made a mental note of our findings and left after a few minutes.
We took a bus to the north end of the Isle of Skye to a town named Uig. There we caught the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry-boat for an hour and forty-five minute trip to Lochmaddy on the Island of North Uist, in the Outer Hebrides. The trip across the channel known as Little Minch was rough, cold, and wet. It was nearing dark when we got off the ferry and we asked the few people we could find if there was a B&B in the town. As it turned out, there was one woman in the town who occasionally rented rooms to strangers, but her place was full. We begged her to let us stay the night. Seeing our desperation, she set up a rollaway bed and we got a good night’s sleep. The next morning our host served us a full Scot breakfast, complete with a serving of blood pudding. It was the first time anyone had put it on our plate, even though it is a staple for the Scots. I ate mine, but Lana did not eat hers. She later told me she would rather take a whipping than to take a single bite of blood pudding.
Later that day we made our way south by bus from North Uist to the island of South Uist. We saw workers cutting chunks of soil and the air was full of a sweet and pungent aroma. We consulted our guidebooks and learned that Outer Hebridians use peat for fuel. They go into a bog and cut out big chunks of peat. Then they cut the chunks into slices and set them out to dry naturally. When dry, the peat is ready to burn. They have been cutting, drying, and burning peat for centuries. The process typifies the hard life faced by the residents of the Outer Hebrides, where the wind blows so strongly that mothers tether little children to keep them from blowing into the sea.
It was mid-summer, cold and blustery, as our bus continued on south. I wondered if it was a typical summer day in the Outer Hebrides and soon got my answer. The bus stopped at an isolated place about half way down the island to pick up a single passenger who waved to the driver to stop. The new passenger was a lady who appeared to be eighty-five years old. She struggled on board, paid her fare and hung on for dear life as the driver started up, bouncing his way on down the road. The old lady worked her way down the aisle to a seat across from us, and plopped into it. Once settled, she let out a heavy sigh, looked at us, wiped her runny eyes, and in a sharp but finely tuned Hebridian brogue rolled out the words, “Rough day!” That is all she said. I turned to Lana and said, “That is one tough lady, if she says it is a rough day, it is a rough day!”
Later on, in Edinburgh, we climbed onto a crowded bus after a pleasant day at Princes Street Gardens. A young girl, perhaps fourteen years old, jumped up to give her seat to Lana. It was a new experience for Lana, who was only a few months from her fifty-third birthday. The good news was that the young Scot was respecting an elder but when it happened, Lana turned to look me in the eye and with a bit of pain said, “Oh dear.”
We met interesting, friendly Scots everywhere we went, especially in the pubs and parks, but the best way to meet them is at a ceilidh (kay’-lay). These traditional, evening gatherings are usually informal, and we attended a lot of them. There may be a band, but those we attended, particularly in the smaller towns, featured two or three musicians who just wanted a place to play. People would dance or sing if the spirit moved them. Occasionally a piper would play a local tune or an old Scot would rise to recite a poem or tell a story. Some ceilidhs, those held on special occasions, are big and structured, but the best ones are not, they happen spontaneously for no particular reason. The Scots love a hometown ceilidh. It is their way to pass traditions and folklore to the next generation through storytelling and song. We loved them too.
In mid-July, we treated ourselves to a week of golf watching at The Open at the Old Course in St. Andrews. The best part of the week was our daily train trip to Dundee where we connected to a bus that took us to the course. There is nothing to compare with a trainload of Scots on their way to The Open. They jabber endlessly about the history of the game, recite statistics, and try to outdo each other with trivia. The discussions get louder as the beer and scotch disappear and reach crescendo when nearing the course. We watched all the practice rounds, and on the final day we followed Payne Stewart who was playing in the last twosome with Nick Faldo. When Stewart showed up to start play, a loud buzz ran through the big crowd seated in the bleachers next to the first tee. Payne was wearing his trademark four-plus knickers and country cap. They were blue, but his shirt was a replica of the American flag. He looked great to us, but a Brit seated near us said to his companion, “Hrrrrrumph! Slightly garish, don’t you think?” We laughed and stood to cheer Payne Stewart. Payne matched Faldo shot for shot until he hit his ball into the Coffin Bunkers on the twelfth hole. It was his downfall. Faldo won by five strokes.
We left Scotland to visit England on our way to France. We spent most of our time in London tracking the Collier and Prewitt lineages, Lana’s ancestral names. We learned the usual things you learn about surnames, but we did not hit pay dirt as we had at the Clan Donald Center on the Isle of Skye. We had the same poor result when we checked into my Lewallen and Vermilye lineages. We decided to shelve the genealogy project and come back to it later when we had more time.
We took the train to the coast and boarded a ferry that took us to the mainland of France. We went directly to Bayeux, a good-size town in Normandy, and made it our headquarters for ten days. On the first day, we saw the ancient Bayeux Tapestry, an embroidered scroll two-thirds the length of a football field that tells the story of the Norman Conquest of England led by William the Conqueror in 1066. Some historians say the conquest resulted in the spread of Norman families and French culture to England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. We had already planned, out of curiosity, to visit the town of Bethune near the northern border of Normandy. Our latest finding about the effect of the Norman Conquest gave us reason to think we might find a French connection to what we had learned about the Bethune family at the Clan Donald Center on the Isle of Skye. We decided to resurrect our genealogy project long enough to investigate this new lead but first we would shift our focus to the main reason we came to Bayeux.
Bayeux is located near the beaches where Allied Forces stormed ashore on D-Day, June 6, 1944. On our third day in Bayeux, we hiked eleven kilometers to Arromanches-les-Bains, the place where British forces landed. A few days later, we caught a bus to the American Military Cemetery at Colleville-Sur-Mer. Seeing the rows and rows of white marble Crosses and Stars of David marking the graves of 9,387 American soldiers brought tears to our eyes and took us back to our childhood days when we heard reports of the D-Day invasion. We also visited Point du Hoc where 225 American Rangers scaled the cliffs to capture German guns that were a threat to our troops on Omaha Beach. The battle on the Point was so intense that we lost two-thirds of our troops. President Ronald Reagan called the Rangers “the boys of Point du Hoc,” in a 1984 D-Day memorial speech. It is nearly impossible to write a proper tribute to those who give life and limb in a great cause but President Reagan found a way to do it. His touching remembrance, perfect in every way, captured the enormous sacrifice our American troops made to free Europe from the grip of Nazi Germany.
Exhausted from the emotion of our visit to the cemetery and Point du Hoc, we returned to Bayeux. We intended to get a bite to eat and then go to bed, but a small traveling circus had come to town while we were visiting
the Normandy beaches. The newly erected circus tent was not as big as the ones I remember from my childhood, but it took up a good part of a wide intersection right in the middle of town. A barker was hustling up a crowd, and the colorful posters promised clowns, animals, and acrobats. It was all in French but we got the picture. It looked like fun and we could not resist. We bought tickets, entered the tent and found a place to sit. The tent quickly filled up with French men, women, and kids. A five-piece band played lively tunes and the clowns were doing what clowns do, making people laugh. A one-ring oval area, centered beneath the highest point of the tent, took up half the available space. Portable bleachers with ten rows of seats, enough for three hundred people, surrounded the oval performance area. The barker had done a good job; the place was full of screaming kids and grownups. It was loud, but cozy.
At the perfect moment, before excitement turned to restlessness, the ringmaster entered and commenced his introductory pitch. The band and clowns continued their work, complimenting the ringmaster’s effort to bring the audience to a fevered pitch. He introduced the first act and the circus was underway. In came a horse with a standing rider followed by the monkeys, the trained dogs and the acrobats marching and preening themselves. It was a grand beginning and we soon realized that it did not matter that the performers and the audience were speaking French. A circus is a circus wherever it plays. The sights, smells, and sounds of a circus are universal.