Every year thirty or so members of my golf club go for a week away golfing in Scotland and after three years on the reserve list I finally got an invite in 2015. Unfortunately the week prior to departure I entertained my three grandchildren and one of them left me a parting gift of a very heavy cold so when I set off one Sunday morning I was sniffing and sneezing and relying on cold relief capsules to help me through the journey north.
Actually I think it was probably ‘man flu’ and I digress here for a moment to explain that this is a condition that this is a strain of flu so powerful and so deadly that it can only be matched by the Bubonic Plague. It is an incurable virus, which has adapted to only effect the “XY” gene found in men. The virus attacks the immune system ten thousand times more seriously than an average flu and causes excruciating pain and discomfort for the victim.
Man flu has no cure and although this deadly virus is mostly laughed at by women this is almost certainly because, luckily for them, they cannot contract it themselves and consequently have absolutely no idea just how awful it is. When a man gets this terrible affliction all he could hope is that using all of his inner strength that he will eventually pull through and recover. Incidentally, and I want to clear this up right here and now, there is no substance in the alternative (female) definitions of the affliction as ‘Sympathy Fishing’ or ‘Chronic Exaggeration Syndrome’.
For all of the week I felt awful but I played golf for four days but on Friday I woke to grey skies and persistent rain so on account of the fact that I was due to go on holiday to Wales a couple of days later and I didn’t want to get worse and spoil that I decided against putting on the leaking waterproofs and dragging myself around the fifth course of the week and thought that I might do a little bit of sightseeing instead.
I was staying in the town of Galashiels in the Scottish Borders which is so far south in Scotland that it is even nearer the equator than the town of Berwick-on-Tweed, the furthest town north in England but what a wonderfully scenic and historic part of the country.
This is Walter Scott country where the great man of Scottish literature chose to live and receive his literary inspiration and the land of William Wallace and the marcher lands that separated England from Scotland and was the scene of much medieval warfare and fighting.
I spent a half an hour or so in the unremarkable town of Galashiels and with the rain getting heavier returned to the car and with the stubborn grey skies refusing to clear away planned a route south towards the town of Jedburgh and followed a route through sweeping hills, purple with heather and decorated with the ragged stumps of the ruins of castles and derelict lookout towers, terrible testimony to its turbulent history.
I passed through the town of Melrose with its ruined Abbey which is said to be the secret burial site of the heart of Robert the Bruce but I didn’t stop there because I calculated that I only had time for one ruined abbey and that was going to be Jedburgh.
I made a detour into a valley of the River Tweed and stopped for a while at Scott’s view which is a place where allegedly he liked to stop by and reflect on life. I am not disputing this but it this rather remote place is about ten miles or so from where he lived so in days before automobiles this would not be something that the average person, or even the great Sir Walter Scott, would be able to do on impulse. It was a nice view all the same and apparently his funeral cortege stopped off here for a short while on his way to his burial spot in the grounds of nearby Dryburgh Abbey but I didn’t stop there either.
One of my favourite Scott stories is how he saved the Scottish bank note. In 1826 there was a proposal to abandon Scottish notes and adopt the English notes instead. Under the pseudonym Malachi Malagrowther Scott campaigned hard against the proposal and was eventually successful. In recognition of this a picture of Scott even today appears on every Bank of Scotland note.
Instead of visiting the Abbey I sought out a massive stone statue of William Wallace standing magnificent in half armour and kilt, a claymore hanging menacingly from his belt and leaning on a giant sword fully fifteen feet tall.
Thanks to the hopelessly historically inaccurate Mel Gibson film ‘Braveheart’, quite possibly the most Anglophobe and historically inaccurate film ever made, William Wallace remains a burning symbol of Scottish nationalism but the truth is that his fame is based on one lucky victory against the English and a conveniently overlooked string of subsequent defeats. I thought he looked rather sad and forlorn stuck out here abandoned on a ridge overlooking the river and with nothing to detain me here for more than a few minutes I swiftly moved on towards my intended destination.
Have you ever visited somewhere and been disappointed or underwhelmed?
To my knowledge William wallace has never appeared on a Scottish bank note or a UK postage stamp and neither has Mel Gibson.