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Just a wee postcard from my new Scottish homeland
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
November 27, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
My husband and I sat in a crowded Edinburgh pub listening to live fiddle music drifting in through the carved wooden screen that separated bar from parlour. I was drinking a half-pint of Deuchars, Mark a pint of Ossian. The ceilings and walls were painted russet; the pub smelled comfortably of beer and warm, dry human bodies. Five white globes hung from the Edwardian chandelier over our head, and I contemplated the soccer pennants painted on the screen’s tympanum: Hearts of Midlothian. Inspector Rebus, I thought, Hibernians fan that he is, would never drink in a Hearts’ pub.
“There’s Ian Rankin,” said Mark.
And sure enough, there was Inspector Rebus’s creator, wearing his trademark black t-shirt, sitting at a small table with three large men.
“There’s Ian Rankin,” said Mark.
And sure enough, there was Inspector Rebus’s creator, wearing his trademark black t-shirt, sitting at a small table with three large men.
“Don’t stare,” said Mark.
“I’m not.”
It is a serious business to move across the ocean just because you’ve married somebody. You leave behind an awful lot: family, friends, opportunities to drop by The Catholic Register office to gossip …. But there are advantages, too. There are more than five million people in Scotland, 50,000 of them in Edinburgh, which means that eventually you bump into Scottish writers, artists and TV presenters. When Neil Oliver came by our house with a BBC crew to shoot scenes for his A History of Scotland series, I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Neil Oliver ate my cookies. I am smug.
Everyone I meet these days seems to have something to do with the arts. On Wednesday, Mark and I went to the Scottish Poetry Library for the launch of Silver: An Aberdeen Anthology by Alan Spense and Hazel Hutchison. Lecturers at the University of Aberdeen, Alan and Hazel had collected material old and new for their volume.
“There was enough for quite a sizable wee book,” said Alan, cheerful behind his round gold-wire spectacles, and I was suddenly grasped by the desire to go to the Edinburgh Zoo to hear if anyone said “That’s an enormous wee elephant.”
The next day Mark and I took the train to Aberdeen itself to attend an evening concert. Aberdeen, as the poems of Silver warn, is a grey town, built of grey granite under a grey sky. But thanks to North Sea oil, it is tremendously rich, with art galleries, shopping malls and old Presbyterian churches converted into bistros. In Aberdeen Art Gallery, we perused the impressive collection, pausing at the Pre-Raphaelites, the Scottish Colourists and an enormous wee statue of a Japanese schoolgirl. Afterwards we dropped into the medieval university for tea before going to supper and the concert.
The concert, which starred Dame Emma Kirkby and the Rose Consort of Viols, took place in the 15th-century Cathedral Church of St. Machar. St. Machar’s was partially destroyed in a 1688 storm, and now consists solely of a nave and twin towers. The nave has a carved wooden ceiling, with 48 coats of arms in three long rows of 16. I admired it from our pew near the back. Tickets were only eight pounds each, and the cathedral was packed with Aberdonians, including a spotty-faced student who coughed.
Dame Emma Kirkby, famous for her recordings of medieval and baroque songs, appeared to enthusiastic applause. She is a small, slim woman with a mass of frizzy reddish-blonde hair. My husband is a fan, and it may be the fact that I, like Dame Emma, have a mass of frizzy reddish-blonde hair, that has led to marriage, emigration to Scotland and all the rest of it. After the concert, Dame Emma reappeared in the nave to chat with friends and admirers, and I encouraged Mark to greet her.
“But I have nothing to say,” he protested, blushing. “It must get boring, having people constantly coming up to you to say you’re marvellous.”
“Why?” I said. “I’d love it. Go on.”
“No,” said Mark virtuously, so neither he nor I met Dame Emma Kirkby, and there goes one more name-drop.
The next day we travelled back to Edinburgh in time for a dinner party hosted by one of the singers in Mark’s men’s schola. I suspected that this evening might feature long hours of men drinking homemade beer and listening to recordings of classical music, and I was right. I curled up in an armchair by the woodstove with a fashion magazine and fell asleep.
I awoke to Mozart’s Great Mass in C Minor. The room was very still, and as the beautiful music soared above our heads, I thought about the late Msgr. T. Barrett Armstrong and St. Michael’s Choir School in Toronto. It had been a thorn in my little girl heart that only boys were admitted to the Choir School. But from attending Mass at St. Michael’s Cathedral and recitals at the school, and from hearing my brothers and Choir School friends discuss why they preferred Msgr. Armstrong as a conductor, I learned to love great music.
So I too have reason to be grateful to the monsignor, and to commemorate his passing.
“I’m not.”
It is a serious business to move across the ocean just because you’ve married somebody. You leave behind an awful lot: family, friends, opportunities to drop by The Catholic Register office to gossip …. But there are advantages, too. There are more than five million people in Scotland, 50,000 of them in Edinburgh, which means that eventually you bump into Scottish writers, artists and TV presenters. When Neil Oliver came by our house with a BBC crew to shoot scenes for his A History of Scotland series, I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Neil Oliver ate my cookies. I am smug.
Everyone I meet these days seems to have something to do with the arts. On Wednesday, Mark and I went to the Scottish Poetry Library for the launch of Silver: An Aberdeen Anthology by Alan Spense and Hazel Hutchison. Lecturers at the University of Aberdeen, Alan and Hazel had collected material old and new for their volume.
“There was enough for quite a sizable wee book,” said Alan, cheerful behind his round gold-wire spectacles, and I was suddenly grasped by the desire to go to the Edinburgh Zoo to hear if anyone said “That’s an enormous wee elephant.”
The next day Mark and I took the train to Aberdeen itself to attend an evening concert. Aberdeen, as the poems of Silver warn, is a grey town, built of grey granite under a grey sky. But thanks to North Sea oil, it is tremendously rich, with art galleries, shopping malls and old Presbyterian churches converted into bistros. In Aberdeen Art Gallery, we perused the impressive collection, pausing at the Pre-Raphaelites, the Scottish Colourists and an enormous wee statue of a Japanese schoolgirl. Afterwards we dropped into the medieval university for tea before going to supper and the concert.
The concert, which starred Dame Emma Kirkby and the Rose Consort of Viols, took place in the 15th-century Cathedral Church of St. Machar. St. Machar’s was partially destroyed in a 1688 storm, and now consists solely of a nave and twin towers. The nave has a carved wooden ceiling, with 48 coats of arms in three long rows of 16. I admired it from our pew near the back. Tickets were only eight pounds each, and the cathedral was packed with Aberdonians, including a spotty-faced student who coughed.
Dame Emma Kirkby, famous for her recordings of medieval and baroque songs, appeared to enthusiastic applause. She is a small, slim woman with a mass of frizzy reddish-blonde hair. My husband is a fan, and it may be the fact that I, like Dame Emma, have a mass of frizzy reddish-blonde hair, that has led to marriage, emigration to Scotland and all the rest of it. After the concert, Dame Emma reappeared in the nave to chat with friends and admirers, and I encouraged Mark to greet her.
“But I have nothing to say,” he protested, blushing. “It must get boring, having people constantly coming up to you to say you’re marvellous.”
“Why?” I said. “I’d love it. Go on.”
“No,” said Mark virtuously, so neither he nor I met Dame Emma Kirkby, and there goes one more name-drop.
The next day we travelled back to Edinburgh in time for a dinner party hosted by one of the singers in Mark’s men’s schola. I suspected that this evening might feature long hours of men drinking homemade beer and listening to recordings of classical music, and I was right. I curled up in an armchair by the woodstove with a fashion magazine and fell asleep.
I awoke to Mozart’s Great Mass in C Minor. The room was very still, and as the beautiful music soared above our heads, I thought about the late Msgr. T. Barrett Armstrong and St. Michael’s Choir School in Toronto. It had been a thorn in my little girl heart that only boys were admitted to the Choir School. But from attending Mass at St. Michael’s Cathedral and recitals at the school, and from hearing my brothers and Choir School friends discuss why they preferred Msgr. Armstrong as a conductor, I learned to love great music.
So I too have reason to be grateful to the monsignor, and to commemorate his passing.
Dorothy Cummings McLean