Whisky, Kilts, and the Loch Ness Monster

by William W. Starr

  “That was very exciting, wasn’t it?” said the first.

  “I could barely look at that blood,” said the second. “That was horrible. Imagine poor Mary watching all of that in her bed.”

  “Don’t you think she was scared?”

  “Ooohh, I know, I know. All that blood. I just couldn’t look at it. Why did they keep it all these years? Why didn’t they just wash it off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it just won’t come off. Do you think Elizabeth goes up there and looks at it?”

  “I’d be frightened at night if I were her.”

  So much for guidebooks and facts. It seems a safe bet that Holyroodhouse will be attracting bloodthirsty tourists for many years to come. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, though; Johnson’s queen—whom “every man of spirit would have sacrificed his life for”—seemed very much alive, and her life’s outcome all the more regrettable.

  Before leaving the subject of Mary, I might add that both Mary and Darnley met unpleasant outcomes. Eleven months after Rizzio’s murder Darnley was found strangled after a mysterious fire at the home in Edinburgh where he was staying. Exactly how the fire started and how he got choked to death have never been cleared up, but there was a lot of suspicion cast toward Mary, whose estrangement from her husband was quite obvious and understandable. Very soon thereafter Mary married the fourth earl of Bothwell, a marriage condemned by everyone, and in 1567 she was forced to abdicate in favor of her one-year-old son, James VI (of Scotland) and I (of England). A year later she fled to England, where cousin Elizabeth—with the assistance of the queen’s clever secretary William Cecil—saw to it that she would never return to the throne. Those are pretty much the facts, but don’t let them ruin any good stories you might have heard.

  There were a couple of other sights to check out along the Royal Mile including the new Scottish Parliament structure across the street from Holyroodhouse. It’s very modern, one of those love-it-or-hate-it structures, and it has led some Scots to wonder if the architect, Enric Miralles, had actually finished his drawings before construction began. Completed in 2004, it is one of the most expensive public buildings in Scotland; with cost overruns the final tab was something getting on to half a billion dollars. Admirers think it was worth it; it won the most prestigious architectural prize in Great Britain several years ago. If Scotland pursues its independence from England, that is where it will happen—right across the street from where Sean Connery—one of the most outspoken advocates for independence—was knighted by the woman who would then no longer preside over the Scottish kingdom, Queen Elizabeth II.

  Farther up the Mile, heading toward the castle again, is the mighty St. Giles Cathedral, the original and sole parish church of medieval Edinburgh, where John Knox launched the Scottish Reformation and where Boswell and Johnson spent some time. Boswell was disappointed because the church had lost its “magnificence” by being partitioned. In an adjacent area (the partitions have since been removed) the two men found considerable dirt, which Johnson ignored at the time. Later, however, when they visited the Royal Infirmary and saw a sign reading “Clean your feet!,” Johnson slyly remarked, “There is no occasion for putting this at the doors of your churches.” The cathedral was much cleaner on my visit and probably much brighter, too, than it must have been in the 1930s when the idiosyncratic, jocular travelers Hesketh Pearson and Hugh Kingsmill passed through on the trail of Boswell and Johnson.

  “There’s a monument somewhere here to Robert Louis Stevenson,” Pearson said.

  “Thank God, it’s too dark to see it,” muttered Kingsmill.

  One of the joys of Edinburgh then and now are its bookstores, at least the ones that sell used books. There are a lot of them, widely scattered, unfortunately, and they offer evidence that Edinburgh has always been a city of books and learning. The chain stores have their offices on Princes Street and in the neighborhoods, and I found them well stocked with books by and about Boswell and Johnson. I bought a great many, in fact, and did the same at the used-book stores, delighted to help percolate the Scottish economy. The booksellers were invariably familiar with Boswell and Johnson; one of them told me he thought the Writers Museum, which pretends Boswell doesn’t exist, “is run by crazies.” Actually he said something quite a bit stronger, but take my word for it, he was in agreement with me. He seemed pleased with my objective and managed to come up with a book about Boswell that I had not heard of before. “It’s not the best, you know? But if you want to know all about Bozzy, there are a few things in here for you.”

  I was tired by late afternoon and stopped off at one of the fancy bars/ brasseries that fill the area around Princes Street. I ordered a whisky, and the young male bartender served it with ice. I was appalled that Americans—does anyone else have such a fetish for ice?—have so infiltrated this part of the city that well-dressed barkeeps seemingly add ice to an order without asking. I drank it in a sulk; good whisky is good whisky after all. But I did make a point of asking for another glass at my inn; I was secretly pleased the bartender, an older man, didn’t ask about ice, either, but offered me a straight shot with the option of a little water. My pleasure didn’t last long, however, after I fell into conversation with a Scotsman who sat down beside me, He was neatly attired in a shirt with a slightly dirty tie and appeared to be in his seventies. The talk eventually got around to what I was doing in Scotland. We chatted a bit about my impressions of Scotland—very good, of course—and finally moved on to Boswell and Johnson. “He’s the fellow who said so many bad things about us, isn’t he?” asked my drinking buddy. I assured him that Johnson was both honest and outspoken and that he had both criticism and praise for the Scots after his journey. “No use for him, then,” he said. “No use at all for that bastard.” I smiled and waited. It appeared we had reached the sudden and unexpected end of our conversation. We sat silently for a few moments until I announced I needed to retire. My companion muttered something, and I left.

  The experience reminded me of some passages I read in Moray McLaren’s book The Highland Jaunt, written in the early 1950s. A fine, perceptive Scot born in Edinburgh in 1901, McLaren was on the trail of Boswell and Johnson when he reported a similar conversation with a man in one of the city’s public houses. The man had little to say on behalf of Johnson for his slanders against the Scots and for Boswell because of his damaged reputation. McLaren, who knew something of the mind and temperament of the Scots, thought about those remarks, which came nearly two hundred years after Johnson’s book was published. “The Scots are a highly sensitive people on a question of manners,” McLaren wrote. And in spite of Johnson’s good sense and generosity of observation “he was often, by modern standards pleasantly and crudely rude in Scotland, especially in Edinburgh. Traditions live long in the Northern kingdom and again particularly in Edinburgh.”

  As for Boswell, the apparent lingering distaste for him, McLaren suggested, might arise from tradition once again, for while Boswell was adept at “concealing his follies” in much larger London, he did not do well in Edinburgh, the city that was aware of his family, his background, and his circumstances. “Boswell was a supreme giver-away of himself. He never gave himself away with greater abandon than in London … and the Capital of Scotland has always, I regret to say, regarded this quality, whether as failing or virtue, with contempt.”

  I regretted the necessity of leaving Edinburgh, and, looking back over my notes, I saw that I regretted leaving almost everywhere I had been over the last ten or so weeks. I tried repeatedly but couldn’t think of a proper homage to the capital. Nothing deserving came to mind until almost a year and a half after my return home when I came across the latest mystery novel from one of Edinburgh’s finest contemporary writers, Ian Rankin. The book, Final Exit, was billed as the last bow for the retiring Inspector John Rebus, Rankin’s memorable Edinburgh copper who first appeared in print in 1987 in Knots and Crosses. It is hard for readers of this enormously popular series to believe that Rebus is really departing, tha
t Rankin doesn’t have something else up his sleeve. And like Rebus, I couldn’t believe I would be departing Edinburgh for the last time. Rankin himself has cautioned his fans that “there’s no way he [Rebus] is going gentle into that dark retirement,” adding that “I still like to spend time with him.” Well, I still like to spend time with Edinburgh; Rebus and I will be back—of that I’m quite sure.

  22

  Auchinleck

  The next morning dawned cool and overcast with light rain, perfect Scottish weather for a drive into the country. The road toward Auchinleck, south of Glasgow, passed lovely countryside, mostly well-tended farmlands occasionally interrupted by small, bland hamlets. Lanark was an exception; a very old town on hills above the River Clyde, it had an attractive main thoroughfare with interesting-looking shops and more restaurants than I would have imagined, suggesting it is a popular stop for visitors. I had a delicious early lunch of soup and salmon, again marveling at how the food on my trip consistently belied the expectations of Scotland as a land of edibles only slightly less tasteless than England. Truth be told, in recent years I’ve enjoyed many outstanding meals in England as well; I think there’s a great deal of cultural bias at work when it comes to discussing food. London is one of the great food capitals of the world, and I believe its deserved reputation has been spreading into other parts of the United Kingdom, even the remote ones.

  Back on the road I drove for about an hour to the village of Auchinleck in Ayrshire. There I would once again imagine that I was that lucky fly on the wall in that tense moment, packed with expectation, when Boswell introduced Johnson to his father. But first, I had to find the Auchinleck estate, a small matter that, of course, never concerned Bozzy.

  He and Johnson passed through Glasgow as they made their way from Inveraray to the south and Auchinleck. Glasgow, with the largest population of any city in Scotland, was booming in 1773 when they arrived. Many a Glaswegian made a living off the trade with the American colonies, though it would soon dry up with the start of the Revolution. By the turn of the twentieth century Glasgow was known for one thing only: shipbuilding, everything from tugs to ocean liners. The economy of the 1930s sent that industry into a spiral from which it never recovered and left the city with a blight from which it has only recently recovered. Now a center of culture and commerce acclaimed throughout Europe, it is once again booming, its growth rapid and employment opportunities drawing Scots from throughout the job-deprived Highlands and Islands.

  I earlier had designed a trip that bypassed Glasgow, I thought, but which really wound up going round and round through an endless suburb to the west called Airdrie. Something happened to Scotland’s generally good road signage when I got to that point. I would have given my fish and chips for a sign of any sort, even one in Gaelic, but when I drove into Airdrie it was as if I had pulled into Mars. And so I circled and turned and found myself repeatedly back where I started. I struggled to find a place to pull over and ask someone for directions, and when I accomplished that at last I couldn’t understand a word spoken by the man I stopped (please see the telephone purchase experience in Stirling on my second day in Scotland nine weeks previously for a fuller explanation). Traffic was building up, I was getting frustrated, imagining a life in which my grandchildren would hear stories of how their grandfather finally passed to the other side after sixteen years trying to get through Airdrie. To make an extremely long story bearably brief, I did make a right turn at some point and kept driving, figuring anywhere was better than where I was. Proof of my clean living came in the form of a road sign pointing me to my bed and breakfast for the night. When I arrived worn and bleary, my host greeted me cheerfully: “Still got your tires? Airdrie’s a tough place. Glad you didn’t stop.” As if I could have.

  But I digress. I leave it to Boswell and Johnson to negotiate Glasgow and will meet them on the other side, so to speak. As Bozzy and Johnson headed into Glasgow Johnson once again placed an entry in his Journey that reminded us that his prime interest in this almost-concluded expedition was the trip to the Highlands. As he had written off Edinburgh, he did the same with Glasgow, declaring, “To describe a city so much frequented as Glasgow, is unnecessary. The prosperity of its commerce appears by the greatness of many private houses, and a general appearance of wealth.” Had he stopped there all might have been fine, but the doctor—who surely must have been very tired by this point in the journey—went on to disparage the educational system in Scotland, to the advantage of the English and to the irritation of the Scots when they later read his book. He did note that the university in Glasgow didn’t seem to share in the town’s overall magnificence and then opened fire with a broadside on the results of a Scottish education: “The students, for the most part, go thither boys, and depart before they are men; they carry with them little fundamental knowledge, and there the superstructure cannot be lofty. The grammar schools are not generally well supplied; for the character of a schoolmaster being there less honourable than in England, is seldom accepted by men who are capable to adorn it, and where the school has been deficient, the college can effect little.” (Boswell scholar Ronald Black tells us that for university graduates “the teaching profession was generally regarded in Scotland as a step towards the ministry of the church. Those who remained in it were frequently illeducated or frustrated—or both.”)

  Boswell was, as usual, more forthcoming about the pair’s activities. In Glasgow he ordered a new post chaise for them to better enable the trip to Auchinleck, which today is about an hour’s drive from Glasgow, if, that is, you don’t drive through Airdrie. The two men stopped at Dumbarton Castle, making it, I hope, abundantly clear to readers of this book that I was not the only one addicted to castleling through Scotland. At Dumbarton, which rests high atop volcanic rock and dates to the Roman occupation, Boswell recorded Johnson scampering through the grounds and up the hills. In fact, Boswell wrote, through their entire journey together, Johnson “showed uncommon spirit, could not bear to be treated like an old or infirm man, and was very unwilling to accept of any assistance.” As may be recalled from the Iona landing, Johnson did have a few moments when his temper grew short.

  They stayed the night at the Saracen Inn in Glasgow—no longer in existence—where both men had letters awaiting them. For Johnson it was the first mail he had received in some two and a half months, and he eagerly fell to his correspondents (including the much-missed Mrs. Thrale). He relaxed and “seemed to be in high glee,” Boswell wrote. At one point during the evening he kicked his heels up on either side of the grate and exclaimed with some light-hearted solemnity, “Here I am, an English man, sitting by a coal fire.” At such moments we forget Johnson’s age and infirmities and celebrate his energy, his good humor, and his patience.

  The next day they were visited by some of the university professors, unaware of Johnson’s earlier observations, who deferred to Johnson and thereby earned Boswell’s gratitude. Johnson, he wrote, “was fully conscious of his own superior powers.” That would seem to be the wrong attitude, almost guaranteeing a quarrel once the travelers reached their destination Auchinleck, where Boswell’s father waited—menacingly?—for them.

  On the way they visited yet another castle ruin—I understand this desire quite thoroughly—before Boswell persuaded Johnson to stop at a neighbor’s residence, the home of the eighty-year-old countess of Eglinton. The conversation there proved most agreeable, and as they prepared to leave the countess noted that she had been married the year before Johnson was born and that she was of an age to have been his mother. With Johnson apparently smiling approvingly, she “adopted” the doctor on the spot and embraced him saying, “My dear son, farewell!” Johnson left “much pleased,” in Bozzy’s words.

  And then it was Auchinleck, at that time pronounced Affleck but now, I have been advised, usually spoken as Au-kin-leck; my apologies to those who may know better. They arrived before dinnertime Tuesday. Boswell took note of a decline of his father’s “strong mind and cheerful temper
” (he was exaggerating a bit about the latter) which he attributed to the death of his mother some years before and his father’s laborious duties as a law judge. What Boswell did not mention, now or at any time during this visit, was the presence of his stepmother, whom his father had married in 1769 after more than four years as a widower. She was there for this gathering and must have provided the hospitality, but Boswell carefully avoided any reference to her in his writings.

  Part of the reason for the strained relationship between father and son had to do with their marriages. Lord Auchinleck was displeased when Boswell announced he would be marrying his penniless cousin Margaret; his father didn’t care for her nor did he welcome her lack of money and connections. Perhaps to avenge himself on his son Lord Auchinleck arranged for his own second marriage—this to his cousin Elizabeth Boswell—to take place on the same day, November 25, 1769, that Boswell married Margaret. There was obviously no love lost between the two couples; when the Boswells had children they were never invited to Lord Auchinleck’s estate, and when they were there previously Margaret Boswell was mistreated. Hence Boswell’s failure to mention his stepmother was not to be considered a casual omission but rather one quite deliberate.

  The wives were hardly the only issue between father and son. “My father,” Boswell once complained, “cannot bear that his son should talk with him as a man.” Lord Auchinleck was one of the most respected legal minds in Scotland, a classicist in his learning, and he had expected his son to follow in the legal profession. Boswell had other plans beginning with the hope of becoming a soldier (an ambition which would have served neither Boswell nor the army very well) and then a writer—anything to escape his father. Lord Auchinleck had no use for Boswell’s pen; he either thought little of his son’s writings or dismissed them. Bozzy, of course, liked his freedom, but he also desired the respectability conferred by his father and the estate, and he ultimately followed his father’s wishes. Unable to tear himself away from the pleasures of London, he was dragged away by Lord Auchinleck who tutored him in the law. It took a few years for Boswell to pass all the examinations—he could never focus on one thing for too long a time—but he finally did become an advocate, something that did give his father at least a measure of satisfaction. It also set the stage for his marriage and reopened many old wounds with his father.