The plane breaks through the clouds and suddenly the hills are ahead of me, green and barren at the same time. Fir trees dot some of the hills, others are as bare as a rock. Lochs wind lazily through the glens, adding to the mysterious nature of the country. Already I feel its pull, drawing me not to the city where I spent two years, but to the hills. To the ragged shores of the west coast and to the hauntingly spiritual islands of Orkney. Flying into Scotland is a breathtaking experience, not for the vast landscape but for the mystery and the legends.
I have always felt at home in Scotland. Somewhere – in my ancestry, in a past life, in a future one – I am Scottish. As the plane descends toward Slasgow, I see the barrenness of the Rannoch Moor make way for the lush landscape surrounding Loch Lomond. I can almost hear the ghosts of the clans singing their tribal songs.
flying into scotland
Further down we go, and soon the outskirts – old tenements made newer, attached homes, local pubs. The Clyde appears – the bonny Clyde – steadily making her way toward the Firth of Clyde. Then the towers of the university in the distance, the city centre beyond. Fog swirls around the plane and we bump from side to side as the plane roars toward the runway. Soon – not soon enough! – I am off the plane and through customs. Home at last, my mind tells me. (My body knows this already, it is weary for the local coffee shops and the hospitality of the Scots.)
I’ll only spend a few days in Glasgow, catching up with old friends. Then the siren call of the islands will become too much to push away – and I’ll be gone. I’ll pack my backpack, leave a bag with a friend, and head north. Where the pagan gods still appear in the form of stone circles, standing stones, stone altars. Where you can walk the same sandy shores where legendary names such as Bonnie Prince Charlie and William Wallace walked. And stand at the crossroads of prehistoric and modern culture. Where the sun never sets and the waves in Stromness harbour are cold North Sea water. Where blackhouses sit abandoned, a dark reminder of an older time.
I’m reminded of Dougie Maclean’s words: “Caledonia you’re calling me, and now I’m going home…”