The Scottish Exodus

Simply a Stirling Day

27 October 2000
Merchant City, Glasgow

Today, McCabe, Andrea, and I took a thirty-minute train trip north into the Scottish Lowlands to Stirling. Yes, your historical awareness alarms should be ringing off the hook right now. You might have heard of it, something to do with Mel Gibson, some effete princes and longhaired kings, and a whole bevy of blue-coloured Scotsmen. Anyway, we traveled the open rail today (which, if you have been following British news at all, is not necessarily a sound decision, what with the Great Rail Debacle™ gripping the country right now) in order to take in what is supposed to be a rather stunning medieval castle. Well, the castle certainly is stunning, but the town was just as amazing, more for its atmosphere than anything else. We all loved it; to quote my beautiful wife, “I could live here; buy me a house right now.”

Stirling spreads out in a semi-circle around a massive piece of volcanic basalt rock formed from the geological force of the Firth of Forth and the Firth of Clyde shoving at each other for several thousand years long ago. To the north over the Forth, the Scottish Highlands and the Grampian Mountains loom in the distance. To the northwest are more mountains and hills called the Trossachs, which partly separate Stirling from Loch Lomond and form the northern boundary of central Scotland. To the east, the Forth Valley and coastal Lowlands stretch for miles, with smoke stacks bellowing and little clusters of settlement everywhere. To the south, more lowland valley and the battle site of Bannockburn, where Robert the Bruce defeated Edward II in 1314.

Smack dab on top of the basalt rock is Stirling Castle, with stunning views of the entire countryside. You are so high above the landscape when standing on the ramparts that the wind nearly knocks you over at times. The castle’s main buildings are exactly what you would expect from the royal residence of Mary Queen of Scots and the Stuart line. The square central palace has vast rooms for the resident kings and queens (which are currently being reconstructed) and an interior courtyard where the royal menagerie prowled for the royal pleasure. Cobblestones line the main interior yard, and cannons sit by the sealed off North Gate, aimed at the heart of Stirling and the Highlands approach. The Grand Hall is so vast that it was heated in the old days with five separate fires places. Today, it’s used for events of some kind (they were going to have one this evening and were bringing in tables and chairs). This led McCabe to wonder if he could have his wedding reception there. Probably a little pricey that would be. Nevertheless, when he’s got the money, he’s renting the castle for a party. You’re all invited.

McCabe and I climbed all over the castle, investigating every nook and cranny, running our hands over the stonewalls, feeling 500 years of history underneath our fingertips, and leaning out over every rampart to peer at the jagged rocks below. As befitting typical boys pretending most of our lives to be men, we ran along the back walls and debated the strategy one would have to employ to assault the castle. Andrea followed along from lower areas, getting some kind of motherly warm glow as she watched us scramble across a shear grassy slope within the back courtyard that could have severely injured us if we slipped on the mud and skidded to the stone below. McCabe even felt the need to touch and pull at the slate shingles on the roof of a side building.

After spending most of the afternoon running around the fucking awesome castle, we headed back through Stirling’s old town toward the train station. The old town is pure Victorian, narrow roads of cobblestone, terraced housing, and gilded lampposts. We passed the Church of the Holy Rude, where we had spent a good forty-five minutes scrambling around the cemetery and taking stupid pictures of us mugging around tombstones—very tourist.

McCabe, of course, can’t leave anywhere new without drinking in a local pub. He says it’s like pissing on a tree to mark territory; it has to be done. The pub was cramped, practically deserted except for some locals, absolutely cluttered with your typical cluttered pub decorations—Christmas gnomes, moonshine jugs, wooden canes, and moving Guinness displays—covered in wood paneling, and even had a saddle for riding down the wooden banister. That, in a nutshell, was Nicky Tam’s in Stirling. Oh yes, and to really amuse you, the place was supposedly haunted, something about an old picture found in a walled-off alcove and some guy blowing kisses to the gents in the boys room.

At least nobody challenged us to a fight this time.

---drew, and we didn’t miss out train either…

Copyright ©Andrew D. Devenney, 2009, all rights reserved.