The last time we visited Scotland was to deposit Dad’s remains in Loch Lomond. Three years on, I was thinking of doing the same with Mum’s ashes; but I recalled that she talked about how much she loved living in Crieff (Perthshire) when her family had been evacuated from Glasgow during the war. Maybe that would be a better idea.

A road trip to the Old Country

Wednesday 13 May

We left South London at 9:45am and headed to the Wirral via the M40. The traffic was even slower than usual, but we made reasonable progress until just after the point on the M6 Toll where you pay the not inconsiderable sum of £11:60. Two minutes later we were stuck in a traffic jam. Nothing was moving in either direction – presumably because of a major accident. The police closed the road. We were very fortunate in being able to escape onto a slip road to the A5, otherwise we’d have been marooned for hours.

No matter, we got to West Kirby in time to pick up Mum’s ashes.

It wasn’t the warmest of days, but pleasant enough for a stroll to the Plasterers Arms before meeting Andy Cross, one of my best and oldest friends, for dinner at the Green Lodge. Andy read the eulogy at both of my parents’ funerals.

He is the only one of my friends who still lives on the Wirral. Effectively my relationship with the place where I spent my childhood is over.

I have no reason to go back

\Of course there’s nothing to stop me taking an annual pilgrimage to walk along the shore, perhaps even go across to Hilbre Island. But I am not sure I ever will.

Thursday 14 May

I slept badly and my back was hurting like hell but it’s amazing what paracetamol can do. Another long day’s drive in prospect.

It was cloudy when we exited the Wallasey tunnel and crawled through the least desirable parts of Liverpool. Many shops were shut – either permanently or because nobody there gets out of bed until 11am. Sad.

The weather gradually worsened as we sped up the M6, and by the time we reached Tebay in Cumbria it was proper dreich. The view there is lovely, when there is one.

On the plus side, their cooked breakfast was terrific. Tebay, probably the best motorway service station in Britain, is run by Farmshop, and we took the opportunity to purchase some proper sausages, black pudding and bacon for the next few days.

***

We crossed the border, and skirted Glasgow and Stirling before turning north past Perth and alongside the Tay at Pitlochry. The weather started to improve. It was mid afternoon when we stopped at the Atholl Arms for a well-earned pint.

Just outside Blair Atholl, at the foot of the Falls of Bruar, is the House of Bruar: a very posh shopping complex dubbed (by itself, I imagine) the “Harrod’s of the North”. It sells first-rate Scottish produce and ludicrously expensive clothing, fishing tackle etc. There’s also a counter devoted to the sugar-laden horrors that have made Scottish teeth renowned the world over: tablet, snowballs, caramel wafers and suchlike.

A tourist and his dollars are soon parted. But this is Scotland, the land of my birth, so I had to at least fork out for a bottle of local Aberfeldy whisky.

We were staying in a quiet and secluded hamlet on the Atholl Estate, Anne having found us a two-bed apartment (Clachan Annex) in a substantial house at Old Struan.

The sun peeped through sporadically as we sat outside having a wee dram and listening to the birdsong. It was a satisfying and relaxing end to a long day.

A cuckoo chimed in

I have a family connection with Struan. My great-grandfather, Peter Petrie Bell, was married there on Friday 4 August 1893 and worked on the Blair Atholl Estate as a ghillie. He was also the fireman. Or so my gran told me.

***

Note: Struan is less than a mile from Calvine, the site of the best recorded evidence of UFO activity in Britain (if you”re interested in that sort of thing). It took place on the evening of Saturday 4 August 1990, at exactly the time that Anne and I were leaving our own wedding reception in Norfolk. So there you are.

Friday 15 May

We thought that the Falls of Bruar might be a suitable place to scatter Mum’s ashes, so we went on a recce, parking up at the House of Bruar. The falls have been a tourist attraction for 300 years, being well known to Robert Burns, who wrote a poem about them. William Wordsworth was a visitor in 1815. A 1.5 mile walk takes you to a stone footbridge at the topmost waterfall, from where you can walk back down on the other side.

There were as many people in the water as walking beside it, as the falls are popular with canyoners.

A day of light tourism followed. Next stop was Kinclaven Bluebell Wood, which I’d read about somewhere on the internet. Run by the Woodland Trust, it is a very large reserve wth more bluebells than you’ve ever seen in your life. Well worth a visit. There is another tenuous family connection, as Peter Bell is recorded as living in Kinclaven in 1881.

Gorgeous sight

We then drove a few miles south to the attractive town of Dunkeld, which boasts an ancient cathedral (though currently covered in scaffolding). We had a beer and shared a pizza by the River Tay.

Then on to the Pass of Killiecrankie, site of a gory 1689 Jacobite battle in which nearly 3,000 men died.

My cousin Ewan McLean, who had driven over from Glasgow, arrived that evening.

Saturday 16 May

After a fortifying cooked breakfast, we paid a return visit to the Falls of Bruar with the ashes. I said a few words (keeping religion out of it) and we all took a dram. I am sure my parents would have approved.

Blair Castle itself is the quintessential whitewashed Scottish castle, full of important paintings and mostly 18th-century furniture. I’d parked up there once but never been inside.

It is well worth seeing

We walked around the famous Hercules Garden in something approaching sunshine and awaited the arrival of the band of the Atholl Highlanders. The weekend coincided with the Atholl Gathering, which is pure concentrated Scottishness. But the real fun and games were scheduled for the Sunday.

To round off the afternoon we took a winding, climbing road up to The Queen’s View (Isabella, wife of Robert the Bruce, not Victoria), from where you can look east along Loch Tummel to Schiehallion and as far as Glen Coe.

Stopping for another well-earned pint at the Atholl Arms we returned to base, taking the opportunity to explore Old Struan (it doesn’t take long) with its substantial church (where Peter Bell led the singing, there being no organ at the time), churchyard and weir over the River Garry. A serene and beautiful spot.

The cloudy skies persisted but, to my amazement, it refused to rain.

Sunday 17 May

Another dry day! We returned to the Atholl Gathering after another solid meaty breakfast. The crowds were starting to build when we found a suitable viewing spot on the hill behind the garden.

 I am a Scotsman

You wouldn’t think so to hear my accent, and I only lived in Scotland until I was four years old (1955-59). But I am still a Scotsman. I was born in Glasgow, my parents were born in Glasgow, their parents were born in Glasgow, and so on. Being a Scot is non-negotiable. When someone describes the music of a pipe band as “stirring”, so it is. But to a Scotsman it is more than that. Inexplicably, it brings me close to tears. I can’t help it. An event like the Atholl Gathering is Scotland distilled: you are immersed in it.

Scotland, despite the fact that Scots Gaelic is spoken by almost no-one, preserves a very distinct culture. At the humble end are shortbread biscuits in a tartan tin, mince and tatties, black bun, mutton pies, flat sausage, salty porridge and Irn Bru (only in Scotland is Coca-Cola not the top-selling pop). Then there’s the proper stuff: haggis, malt whisky, wild salmon, oatcakes, Robert Burns, Highland dress, links golf and fiddle music. Another source of pride for some might be all those scientists and engineers: James Watt, Thomas Telford, James Clerk Maxwell, Alexander Fleming, John Logie Baird etc. Finally, the high art of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Henry Raeburn, Alexander “Greek” Thomson, Robert Adam, David Hume. R.L. Stevenson… with more down-to-earth contributions from Denis Law, Kenny Dalglish, Alex Ferguson, Gavin Hastings, Chris Hoy, Jimmy Shand, Donovan, Lulu, The Proclaimers, Franz Ferdinand and – I hesitate to mention him – Andy Stewart.

This is getting silly

Not all Scotsmen know about Clerk Maxwell or Hume, but everybody knows a few lines from Robert Burns and reveres the bagpipes and whisky (better spell that properly or you will be torn to pieces). I do not think there is an English equivalent.

It’s not all great

There is the sectarianism, the tedious identification of the English as perennial baddies (we’re still celebrating England 2, Scotland 3 at Wembley in 1967). Our cities are not the healthiest environment in which to grow up. Not for nothing did Stevenson piss off to Tahiti. And you can delve into Trainspotting for less savoury themes. Fundamentally, Scotsmen love their home country, with all its faults. So do I. It is a visceral thing.

A second parade of the Atholl Highlanders (described by our MC as “the best pipe band in the wurald”) was followed by barefoot wrestling on the grass, running races, Highland dancing, the tug o’ war, hammer throwing, caber tossing, and lots and lots of bagpiping (as it happens, my mother’s father was an excellent piper). Unfortunately I cannot listen to “Campbelltown Loch” without hearing Andy Stewart.

We left mid afternoon and headed once again to the Atholl Arms for mince and tatties. Back at the Clachan Annex we sat in the evening sun and heard our cuckoo for the last time.

Monday 18 May

Predictably, we departed the next morning in warm sunshine. Ewan drove back to Glasgow. I was keen to get away early, concerned that the Bank Holiday traffic on the M6 would be grim. But not so – the traffic was fairly light. This time our lunch break at Tebay was a delight.

We stopped for the night in Wilmslow, where my Aunt Sue and my cousins Alex and Bruce McLennan all live. The temperature rose to 33C, exceptionally hot for May. They joined us for dinner.

Tuesday 19 May

The five-hour drive back to London was incident-free but took place in roasting temperatures. So that’s it: ashes scattered, all three cousins seen and exactly 1,200 miles on the clock.

Maybe we’ll do something similar again. Without the ashes.