Heather Barton

Okay.. to recap from Part One… London, Bath, Stonehenge, York & Edinburgh.  Trains, taxi, Big Patricia, food poisoning.  I forgot to mention we had to taxi it again off the train to visit some portion of Hadrian’s Wall.  Our taxi driver mentioned that over the centuries many of the locals had picked apart the wall to use as personal walls so you could see bits of it here and there across the country.  He took us to the main Tourism site and waited while we “walked” a bit of the wall.

After four days in Edinburgh we were ready to push on with more of the trip.  But the train didn’t travel further north and stop where we wanted so we rented a car and drove up the center of the country to Perth so Patricia could see a Cathedral.   And it was here Patricia parted ways with us and left us with the car.

Which I had to drive.

Bad enough the little car is a stick shift.  (I’m NOT that comfortable driving a stick because I learned on the stress of a ’78 VW Bug.)  And this time not only am I on the wrong side of the car and on the wrong side of the road, I’m shifting with the wrong hand!  I’m just pleased the foot pedals are the same!  Taking a deep breath, I plunge into the adventure of the drive.  And its not so bad.  Shifting in today’s cars is much easier and since it’s not MY car, who gives a shit if I strip a few gears.

Of course, then we come up on some roundabouts.  God’s gift to the directionally challenged.  EVERY time we came up on one we ALWAYS ended up on the wrong street, going the wrong direction.  I never managed to get the hang of it.  It kept flashing me back to being in a taxi in Paris.  Somewhere in Paris (and I’m sure if I CARED I could look it up… notice lack.) there is a huge roundabout converging I don’t know how many streets.  And all Paris drivers are insane and the taxi driver’s have been “certified” as such.  It would be a NASCAR fan’s ultimate fantasy: drive fast, in a big circle, dodging cars like a maniac, while yelling at foreigners.

Anyway… back to Scotland.  We’re driving along and my mother gets it into her head to visit the ancestral home.  Now first off… we’re all American mutts.  But Geddes is a family name and my mother has found a little village on the map of Scotland called Geddes.  She is convinced this is where her family (i.e. the family of her beloved grandfather’s mother) came from.  (Remember I experienced this crazy determination in Gimmeldingen, Germany)

So we head for where it says it is on the map.  And somehow pass it.  We turn around and driving much slower, scanning for signs we manage to pass it again.   We turn around again and this time stop in the middle of the road where its supposed to be,  undecided.  On our left is what looks like 4 factory cottages down a driveway.  On our right is a dirt/grass path-like road.  No where, is there a sign telling us how to get to the village Geddes.

My mother decides it must be down the path on the right.  With a sigh, I head the little car down the dirt/gravel/grass path.  NOT the most fun to drive, in a stick, on the wrong side of the car!  Of course the road is so small there is no “side” to be on the wrong part of.

We’re going slow, because I have no idea where this is and the path-road immediately went into dense woods.  I’d feel like Little Red Riding Hood except I’m in a car!  And then, right in the middle of the road, are what looks like weird birds.  A pack of about 10 of them.  Standing in the middle of the road.  Staring at me.

I, of course, stop.  I honk my horn and the birds don’t move.  I roll down my window and yell, “shoo!”  The birds are now eyeing me oddly.   Giggling a bit I get out of my car to wave my arms at these birds.  And they rush the car!  Jumping back in my car, the birds stop and just stare at us. My mother suggests they may be suicidal so I gun the engine and charge through them.  They scatter and the road quickly turns a corner and we come up to a huge house.

Parking, I thought I was stunned by the odd bird behavior BUT my mothers gets out of the car and says, “Let’s see who’s home!”  She’s up the steps and inside before I can register that she just barged into someone’s home!

Turns out that the Big House was a Bed & Breakfast place.  It was the old Manor House of the Geddes Family.  They were doing spring renovations and weren’t actually open yet.  The cottages we saw were the tenant homes.  And that was all that was left of the little town of Geddes.  How it got on the map, no one new.  (My mother took several brochures, determined to spread the word to her family.. apparently learning nothing from her Germany experiences with wine.)

And the birds.   The birds turned out to be very young Pheasants.  Geddes House was known for its Pheasant Hunting and to make sure there were enough pheasants for the guests to hunt the owner would drive out, all winter, and throw seed from his car.

So.. not suicidal… not secret, Scottish attack birds.  Just half-tamed, wild, cannon fodder.  Oh, yes.. these are my people all right!