Purpose of Scotland2003

The purposes of this blog relate to the past and the future.

To prepare and practice for the trip to Europe in October 2006 this is a "virtual" blog, day by day, of a journey that happened 3 years ago.

It should hopefully provide a permanent record of the pilgrimage I was always meant to make.

As usual, it's being done for purely selfish purposes but if anyone gets a benefit then that will be a welcome accident.

Day 0 "Leaving On A Jetplane"

The Journey of a Lifetime begins with the flight leaving Tullamarine in the rain @ 5.30pm.
The pilot says our route will be up to Alice Springs then over Broome to the stop in Singapore, 8 hours later.
Alice Springs? Yeah, right.
Soon after we are above the clouds in Victoria the weather cleared and for the first time I have an aerial view of the outback - absolutely remote and never-ending.

Just as we're heading into the sunset the pilot says that, as it's such a good night, we'll take a slight diversion and head over Ayers Rock!
(My son is working at the resort there as a baker.)
I have a rear window seat on the right-hand side and am able to get several shots of Ularu at sunset as we bank around the Rock.
$3000 saved already - I have a photo of the Rock at Sunset without having to make that particular trip!

The sun sets soon afterwards and we eventually arrive in Singapore.
Mission: Disembark and find a smoking area.
There is an open air bar on the roof of the terminal and the first smoke goes in seconds.
Then I notice the weather! It's @ midnight in Singapore but had to be over 100 degrees with 98% humidity. Another $3000 saved with the instant decision to never take a trip to Singapore - I couldn't handle the weather. It is so hot the nicotine addict only has one more cigarette before escaping to the cool of the terminal.

After taking off from Singapore the next 14 hours are a bit of a blur.
The biggest surprise is that it hadn't crossed my mind to think of
the places we were flying over. The in-flight TV screen has an
option that tracks the flight by GPS on a map.
At first it was fascinating to know I was flying up the western side
of Malaya and Thailand.
Then it became absorbing as we flew across India beside the Himalayas.
Australians never spend much time considering the Black Sea or the Caspian Sea and similar places that were behind the old Iron Curtain. It's amazing to be able to see, from 30,000 feet, the vast illumiated oil installations of unpronounceable countries of the former Soviet Union.
Mental note - Kharkov must be investigated.

Moscow appears on the screen to the right, then Kiev, then Warsaw.
Soon we a flying through the names of WWII battlefields.
I see the lights of Berlin below.
We are descending as we fly over an endless sea of lights that includes Amsterdam and we enter cloud.
Seemingly minutes later the clouds part and we are flying up the Thames.
I see the Tower Bridge, the Big Wheel and the Houses of Parliament before the clouds envelop us again. Thousands more saved as I can say I've seen London!
Next thing I know we've arrived at Heathrow.
It's @ 5am.
There is no activity apart from the 10,000 bodies trying to go in the same direction as me.
I have to get in a bus to another terminal to get the flight to Glasgow.
Somewhere in the confusion I go through immigration and my passport loses its virginity at the hands of a grumpy bugger who wants to know where I'm staying that night.
My itinerary decides to hide itself and he accepts that there is a Brigadoon Guesthouse in Tarbert in Argyllshire!!
Time for a quiet smoke or four, in a civilised lounge, before the flight to Glasgow.
It's still raining when we take off.

My first view of Scotland is through breaking clouds and
I get a photo with the tops of the hills above the clouds
and towns and lakes below.

We land at Glasgow.

Mission Impossible accomplished:
I've made it to Scotland.

Day 1 Morning "Bonnie, Bonnie Banks"

The first major mission is to get to Islay.
This involves driving to Tarbert at the top of the Mull of Kintyre in order to get the ferry to Islay the next morning.


After collecting the hire car from Glasgow Airport I head across the Erskine Bridge in the light rain towards Dumbarton, where some ancestors were married 150 years ago.
Looking for a map I see a sign to the Tourist Information Centre.
I pull in, get out of the car and go inside.
I'm confronted with shop-fitters stripping the premises as the
TIC had closed the previous week!
No problem- jump in the car to keep driving and I cannot find reverse gear!
After 10 minutes I push the car out and drive off frontwards.
I manage to find the Bonhill Kirk (and parked so I did not need reverse) and tick the first "Family History" target off the list.

After a couple of wrong turns I make it to the Loch Lomond Centre at the southern end of the loch, (and park right at the back of the carpark so no reversing will be necessary).

It is still grey and a bit miserable @ 11am but it was Loch Lomond.
A little dejected I head to the car having taken only a couple of
photos of the disappointing scene.
The tourist buses have arrived and blocked my forward path.
I accidentally knock the gear stick and a sleeve near the top of
it moves. Eureka! I've found reverse!

As I left the carpark the rain stopped and the clouds started lifting.
Driving north I'm struck by the bright autumn tones emerging
with the tentative sunshine.
Maybe I should give Loch Lomond another chance?
So I stopped at Luss.

The sun shines, the Brigadoon effect of the preserved village takes over and I'm presented with both Loch Lomond and Ben Lomond in all their glory.
I'm walking in a postcard.
I've been in Scotland for 3 hours.
The trip is worth it already.

Day 1 Afternoon "Always Argyll"

Leaving Loch Lomond, it becomes obvious that autumn in Scotland is far different to Australia.
We have trees whose leaves change colour, but not masses of them and nothing like the variety of rich colours.
The weather closed in again and visibility was only a couple of hundred metres and very grey.

A pause at Arrochar at the top of Loch Long for coffee.

My intention had been to stop at "Rest and Be Thankful".
I'm still not sure why but its' poetic name had somehow made it significant.
I must have missed it!
The first of the "legendary" landmarks that I passed - a practice I was to become proficient at.

The drive down the sea loch of Loch Fyne was a completely unexpected delight.
From 12,000 miles away I'd looked at a map and determined to go straight from Loch Lomomd to Tarbert. I knew Inverary Castle was on the way but had decided to ignore it.

I found I couldn't ignore Inverary!

Coming around a bend I'm confronted with a set
of traffic lights in the middle of nowhere, guarding
a quaint single lane stone bridge.
I had to stop at the red light.
At a standstill my eyes drift to the left and there is Inverary township, bright white in the grey gloom.

Every building is white-washed.
The setting, even on a gloomy day, is picturesque.

I had to stop and take a stroll.

First day and Scotland and I can hear bagpipes!
I try to find where they are coming from but the piper seems to play a short piece then stop.

It turns out he pipes the tourists out of their bus at the Inverary Woollen Mills.


Just as every Australian town has a War Memorial to its fallen in World War 1, so does Inverary.
The difference is that their's wears a balmoral instead of a slouch hat, and a kilt.
Few in Australia are in such a setting :

The remainder of the day is the drive through several more white-washed towns and villages to Tarbert to find the Glenorchy B&B.

Thrilled but exhausted after 40 hours of travel, sleep is not a problem.

Day 2 "Westering Home" to Islay

The ferry from Kennacraig is a scaled down version of the Spirit of Tasmania. We leave before dawn and glide down West Loch Tarbert.
Its almost like a commuter trip in the city. The same sense of boring routine to be endured pervades the staff and other passengers.
There's a teacher who lives on the mainland but spends 2 nights per week on Islay.
There are groups of truck drivers with their trucks and cargo stored below. Everyone seems to be sitting in "their" regular places.
It's obvious I'm the only tourist - even before I open my mouth.

The first hint of one of the overall themes of my impressions of Scotland is gained on the deck chatting to a mechanic from Scotland's Perth.
"Ach, Islay's all right - except for the English!"
Pardon?
In Australia we have the "Sea-Change" phenomenon.
This is where, having made your career and money in the city, you sell up and have a complete lifestyle change and "semi-retire" to a coastal resort, doing something creative or running a B&B.
In England many of the same candidates "semi-retire" to Scotland, particularly the Isles.
This has the effects of inflating the local property market beyond the reach of "native" locals and changing the intangible character of the various communities.

The 2 hour journey is freezing, gloomy and overcast.
Approaching Port Ellen we pass 2 or 3 whitewashed distilleries.
We arrive at Port Ellen, another whitewashed town spread around a flat bay. It's bitterly cold.
The contrast with Inverary is stark.
The shops seem to be closed but I soon learn that this is to keep the weather out.
There are no signs on the fronts of the shops.
Everyone I speak to is a Scot. There are no tourist traps or even anything to help visitors apart from the natural friendliness of the residents. I have the Scotland phone system explained to me and get simple directions to my next destination.
This is a practical, no-nonsense, down-to-earth settlement.

A short drive past the previously seen distilleries takes me to the paddocks containing the ruins of the Kildalton church.
The attraction for an Australian is nothing religious.
It's to see something man-made that was created over a millenium ago.

In Australia there are traditional indigenous rock paintings and a few artifacts dating back who-knows-how-far.
These are located in exremely remote places and legally protected by their traditional owners.
Everything else man-made on the continent can be not much more than 200 years old.

Seeing the 1200 year old Kildalton Cross inexplicably and suddenly prompted the thought that I am still a part of an old civilization. The radical Kouri's and media have somehow established as fact the idea that if you are a white Australian then you are a newcomer - that you can't have a heritage any older than 2 centuries.
Standing at the Kildalton cross I know from the tingles in my limbs that at least part of me comes from millenia long past.

The drive from Kildalton to Islay's "capital" Bowmore is flat and rural.
Guess what Bowmore looks like?
A flat and whitewashed town along the shoreline with a dominant distillery.
(There is one radical in Bowmore who has painted his house blue!)
The Tourist Centre and shops seem to be more accustomed to English and American visitors than Australians that are not interested in whisky.

After a drive around the loch the people at the Port Charlotte Museum of Islay Life have come up with a genealogist's pure gold - the precise location of the village my Islay ancestor lived.
Port Charlotte? Yep whitewashed along the shoreline but without a distillery.
The only problem is that the ancestor's village was "cleared" 150 years ago, and is now just a few stones in the middle of an inaccessible plantation.
Accidentally I stumble across the inland former headqurters of the MacDonalds of the Isles at Finlagan where a helpful sole gives me an old map showing precise locations.
I'm on a mission and my haste, to my everlasting regret, causes me to ignore where I am and its rich history.

My path leads to the north of the Isle and the Paps of Jura emerge for the first time.
I stop on a hill which gives a marvellous view of Jura as the sun emerges.
I'm also able to see the area of the ancestors' village.
Content that I'm sure I've seen the view that my ancestors saw, dominated by the majestic Paps of Jura, I retire to quaint Port Askaig and a warm coffee.


Then back to Bruichladdich to check in to the Abbotsford B&B.
(Need I mention another whitewashed village along the shoreline with a distillery?)

My English hostess emerges from her pottery studio!

Day 3 "Leaving Port Askaig"

Before a traditional Scottish breakfast (served by my English hostess) I take a little walk to capture some photos at dawn. What a show.

As I'd achieved the trip to Islay's objectives the previous day, and my ferry didn't leave until 3.30pm, I had a very easy day. Much of it spent pottering around Port Askaig.

On the journey back I met an entirely different elderly English couple. They pointed out the distant shadow of Ireland on the horizon and we shared a magnificent Hebridean sunset from the deck of the ferry.
From Norfolk, they have visited Scotland every year since WWII and had climbed 172 of the 284 "Munro's" (the highest mountains of Scotland catalogued by an englishman named Munro).
They were professional people without the snobbery. It was easy to imagine them as the original Boy Scout and Girl Guide in their 70s. I learn the lesson that one of the joys of travel is the people you meet as you share journeys.

The 2 hours pass quickly and its back to Tarbert for a good sleep before my long drive to Skye.

Day 4 The Long "Road to the Isles"

In planning the Itinerary I knew I would be driving past places I would love to spend unlimited time. Today was the worst day for the need to ignore enchanting signposts.
On the map, the journey from Tarbert to Hallin on the Isle of Skye is around 220 miles.
I had "planned" just 2 stops. The map didn't allow for the Highlands!

By the time I reached Oban I need petrol (and advice on how to open the petrol cap!) After Islay's "flatness" Oban seemed to be built on the sides of hills. If I ever return to Scotland Oban needs 2 days, not the 20 minutes it receives.

The next couple of hours is like the scenery - shrouded in mist. I knew I was driving among the real highlands but it was difficult to see them. Only one photo opportunity presents itself somewhere above Fort William.

The first scheduled stop is Eilean Donan Castle.
It's the Castle in the setting, more than the castle itself, that is the attraction.
The setting doesn't disappoint. It deserves to be on every poster and tea-towel.
There is a magical enchantment about the place that the weather cannot supress. The Castle itself is closed for a wedding, and there is a tourist trap that serves hot coffee, yet I wander around in another postcard for an hour or so.

Anxious to keep moving I pull myself away, pay my 5 quid on the Skye Bridge and head to Broadford. Accidental prior research had identified the Broadford Hotel as the birthplace of Drambuie - the closest thing to a spirit I can handle.
I guess not too many other people are aware of it as I'm the first visitor to the bar for the year to mention the fact. Two did the trick on the miserable day.

Fortified, I soon discover why the Isle of Skye is famous. It's where Nature shows off! Well-timed temporary breaks in the weather at Sconser and Sligachen provide the chance to try and capture the spectacular scenery.

It's again pouring and getting dark as I arrive at my scheduled home for 4 nights on the Waternish Peninsula. 8 hours after leaving Tarbert, driving through rain for most of it, I arrive at the primary destination of the whole pilgrimage - Loch Bay, the ancestral home from which 2 great great grandparents emigrated in 1853.

Exhilaration despite the weather.

All I needed was to be greeted by a yuppie, hippie, vegetarian, New Age, smart-arse pommie ex-pat host!

Day 5 "My Hieland Hame"

My plans had scheduled 4 nights on the Waternish Peninsula, based at Hallin.
That is not going to happen.
I haven't come all this way to be sneered at by an arrogant English poonce in the heart of the object of the trip.
What to do?
Should I try and do everything in one day or head off to friendlier parts of Scotland?

At dawn I sneak over to Geary and soon see that it wouldn't matter how long I spent there the photographs will not improve. This place really is remote.

Next stop is the Trumpan Kirk. I know at least 2 ancestors are buried here but they do not have headstones. It's quiet, a bit gloomy and I'm alone. It's a bit surreal among the ruins and graves.
The Outer Isles of Uist and Harris are shadows on the horizon as dawn breaks.

A few miles further back I get good views of Loch Bay from Lusta over Stein.
I find a restored crofter's house and the ruins of several cottages alongside the fast flowing burn.
I'm sure I've seen the daily views of my McLeod ancestors.

Back to the B&B for a barely digestible breakfast and to settle the account.
I'm filled with a sense of outrage that such a person as my host owns a piece of my heritage - the almost mystical Isle of Skye that my Great Grandparents, my Grandparents and my mother have passed on to me - and doesn't understand it in his ignorance and arrogance.
It's taken less than 24 hours for me to decide what my great great grandfather decided after 24 years- there's no point in staying here once the english take over.
With a bittersweet combination of elation and disappointment at reaching the pilgrimage's goal I decide to compress the 4 days activities into one as I drive across the Fairy Bridge on the way to Dunvegan.

If anywhere has been held up as the core of our family's scottish heritage it is Dunvegan Castle - ancestral home of the MacLeod of MacLeod.
There is a photo of me as a 4yo with Dame Flora MacLeod taken in Australia in 1957. The concept of the Clan and the Castle and the Isle of Skye have accompanied me through a Presbyterian childhood and around 40 years of kilts, playing bagpipes and country dancing.

It's drizzling as I arrive at Dunvegan Castle's carpark at 10am on Sunday morning.
I'm anxious to get the obligatory visit out of the way so that I can get organised and find somewhere to sleep for the night.
The gate to the Castle grounds is open but on reaching the doors a neat sign says that the Castle itself doesn't open until 11 am. My Skye curse continues!
After 10 seconds I decide to stroll around the extensive gardens to fill in the hour. Absolutely alone I explore the gardens, the waterfall and the loch - intermittently sheltering when the rain is at its heaviest.
Its absorbing.

At 11:01 I enter the imposing entrance and am greeted with "Are you a MacLeod?"
My "I'm not sure" response leads to a quandary over which page of the visitors book I'm to sign.
I explain about my great great grandparents and the 1957 photo with Dame Flora.
By chance, I'm told, the current clan chieftain John MacLeod of McLeod (Dame Flora's Grandson) is "in residence". But he's at church at the moment.
An hour is spent absorbing every detail of the public areas of Dunvegan Castle when a chap in a kilt comes up to me - "Mr Dunne - I'm John MacLeod - Welcome to Dunvegan!"
He takes me into his private office and I explain my heritage and the photo.
Generously, he writes a note for my mother and after half an hour says "I'm in a rush -let's get a photo".
We go outside and, as she is taking the photo, a staff-member asks "Are you a MacLeod?"
J.M.of M. responds on my behalf with "He's more of a MacLeod than I am!"

Despite myself, I float out to the carpark.
I can't help being exhiliarated.
50 years of romantic legends of McLeods and Dunvegan, 12,000 miles away, have a physical effect on me. I'm sure the tears come from the heritage and recognition, not the 100 pounds blown in the gift shop!

But, its 1pm and I have no idea where I'll stay the night. I phone a researcher who had done some work for me and am invited to Claigan for afternoon tea. The narrow road from Dunvegan is magic - McLeod's Tables and Loch Dunvegan are on the left as I dodge magnificent Highland Cattle who think they own the road.
Mr. and Mrs MacInnes are delightful, and refreshingly scottish, and I gain more insights into the language and people.
They couldn't understand me referring to the native language as "gay-lic".
"Oh, you mean "gar-lic"". I ask if the language is pronounced "gar-lic" then what do you call the vegetable I put in my spaghetti?
"That's easy - it's "garrrrr-lic"!

3pm. as I return past Dunvegan and an hour before dark. I decide to head to Portree, the most populous centre on Skye. Surely Ill be able to get a reasonably priced room for the night there.
Portree's TIC is closed when I arrive @ 4 pm. I see a hotel and am greeted by an Australian (!) receptionist. As I'm not anxious to spend another $au250 on a room she suggests I try the string of B&B's up the hill.
At the first I try, a snobby Englishman tells me they "don't do" single rooms as he slams the door. At the second an English lady apologises for not having a room available and suggests I try "Mrs.MacPherson's" 2 doors down.
Tentatively I knock on the plain door of the plain building. It's opened by a stern scotswoman, Mrs. MacPherson, who apologises for only having one single room available and that she'd have to charge me 25 "poonds", but that would include breakfast. She is the same as the various scottish grandmothers of my childhood who melts and smiles when she realises I'm an Australian as she welcomes me into her home. She apologizes for the tiny room - it has a single bed and not much else - but I don't care. And I can smoke!
I'm exhausted, frustrated with the English spoiling "my" Skye, in emotional turmoil, yet ecstatic over the visit to Dunvegan.
I toss my bags on the bed.
Then I open the window and look out.

I'm in Paradise!

Day 6 Portree and the Real Scotland

The view from the window is even better in daylight.
I've actually slept in a postcard.

Having no plans for the day and being a couple of days ahead of schedule, I've decided not to touch the car or drive anywhere.
Breakfast was a real experience - my first confrontation with classic american tourists. Mrs. Mac serves up the full scottish breakfast - and I mean full: porridge, sausages, bacon and eggs, and even black pudding.
To set the scene, I'm sitting alone in the homely dining room and there is an american couple with 2 adult offspring. The meal is punctuated with silence whenever Mrs. Mac enters and constant whingeing the second she leaves. "There's no ketchup." "It's too cold outside." "It's too hot in here." "Don't they have a television." "What's this?". "Do I have to eat that?"
"They call this a harbour - its only a few fishing boats." "I can't understand what she's saying."
My impression is that, at least for this group, they can't see the virtues of what's was in front of them for what it is. They are blinded by all the things they think they can't see!
Mrs. Mac rolls her eyes and smirks as they leave and pauses for a friendly chat the minute they go.

After a couple of hours pottering around Portree's quaint waterfront I hit the shops.
It soon becomes obvious which shops are which. My Islay experience helps.
There are two types of shops. Those with the door open and an unpronounceable gaelic name, and those with the door closed and simply D. Mathieson discreetly written on the window.
The former are the tourist traps, the latter where the locals shop.
This leads to Bluedawn's Rule #1:
The longer the gaelic name on a business, the greater the chance it is run by Yuppie English!

The Americans just wouldn't have "got" the day's highlight:
I was browsing around a "local" shop when my landlady walks in, hat, gloves, overcoat and all - just like Grandma going off to church in the 60s. She formally greets Mr Stewart in gaelic and he formally responds. I'm enchanted by the lilting conversation in a language I don't understand. It really is as if I'm travelling a timewarp to my own Brigadoon.

The Tongadale pub is perfect for several visits during the day - modern traditional music, warm room with fire, cold beer and even wallpaper featuring lighthouses.

Portree is the real Scotland I didn't realize I'd been pining for.
Again, as I seem to have been saying each day so far, the trip has been worth all the anguish, sacrifice and preparation already - and I've 12 more days to go!
I could never have wished for a better day for me!

Day 7 The 3 "Nesses"

The original plan had been to drive direct from Skye to the other side of Scotland. As I had a couple of days up my sleeve, a helpful piper at the Portree TIC books a night in Inverness to break the journey.

After another delightful breakfast with the room to ourselves Mrs Mac obliges by allowing me to record her running through my ancestors' names and the place names in Gaelic.
Reluctantly I leave Portree and head over Skye Bridge again , past Eilean Donan Castle back on the mainland of Scotland. It's still the highlands and an enjoyable scenic drive.

By now my aversion to the commercial tourists traps is well developed and I have no interest in Drumnadrochit and the Loch Ness monster. I inadvertently stop at Urquhart Castle at the foot of Loch Ness for what I thought would be a quick coffee.

The ruins of Urquhart Castle are interesting enough in themselves but its' strategic location is its' key feature. Even in the 21st Century the serene silence it smashed by a fighter jet blasting up the length of Loch Ness!

I had never seen a fighter jet before the same thing had happened on Islay. I think the RAAF has some but they are not the sort of thing seen over populated areas and definitely never over the nation's primary tourist destinations. These Brits must be serious.

It takes 2 absorbing hours for the "quick coffee" and resuming the journey to Inverness.

The remarkable thing about Inverness is that the buildings are made from a pinkish rock. It's the first city I've encountered in my week in Scotland and the differences are noticable. It has all the things of Aussie cities - eg MacDonalds etc.- but it the influence of modern Europe is confronting. All the taxis are Mercedes that would cost $100,000 in Melbourne. Audi's are the local Commodore and there are Fiats and Renaults instead of Japanese small cars.

Falling in to the category of being a "good idea at the time" I opt to take a quick trip north to see the Tarbat Ness lighthouse. It didn't look too far on the map!

It was an eye-opening drive across several bridges and past the congregation of idle North Sea oil rigs anchored in Cromarty Firth. The trip may have been shorter if I had not gotten myself lost!

The lighthouse is OK even if the gloom descends early.

Back in Inverness I went to a pub with several hundred locals. Glasgow Rangers were playing Manchester United on TV. It was my first experience among "real" football fans and I only had to mention "soccer" once to get a lecture!

Loch Ness, Inverness and Tarbat Ness. Three places I had not planned to visit!

Day 8 "Cullen Bay"

I'm not sure what I expected to find at Culloden, just outside Inverness. It's the battlefield where the English finally defeated "Bonnie Prince Charlie" in the 1740's. Today it's a few paddocks filled with scrub with a few flags showing various positions during the battle.
At this stage of my journey and reading I have no illusions that young Charles was glorious, bonnie or anything more than another European aristocrat trying to beat English aristocrats for control of Britain. "My" Scots from the Isles were not affected by the outcome - they were destined to be poor crofters no matter which group of aristocrats were to be successful.

It is with these thoughts in mind that I leave Culloden, Inverness, the Highlands and the Islands behind and head into the flat Moray coast area of Banffshire. Yet another family of ancestors must have picked the right side at Culloden and were rewarded with tenancies around Cullen and Fordyce.

"Cullen Bay" is a catchy tune I used to play in pipe bands and is probably the spark that ignited the interest in Genealogy when I discovered a Great Great Grandfather was born at Cullen. This was to be a Family History visit.

It's very obvious that this is an organised area - the estates of the Earls of Seafield. Cullen itself is closed at 2pm on the Wednesday I arrive. It's has an old Seatown on the foreshore and a "new" town centre up the hill.

I find the ruins of the church where ancestors married in 1749 at Deskford, graves of others at ruins in Fordyce and retire, perplexed, for the day.

By now I have a highlander's aversion to "the English" and the aristocracy yet, remembering the glee at Dunvegan, am helpless to feel anything but pride and satisfaction in this, very different, part of Scotland where another part of me originated.

Day 9 Farms, Family and Fraserburgh

Generally, I think I'm rational and non-spiritual.
This occasionally gets challenged. Like today.
Just on the outside chance that I may find something, I go to the Auld Kirk at Cullen. There's a couple of guys sweeping up fallen autumn leaves at the closed gate. After checking with them that it's OK to stroll around the grounds I enter the churchyard which is, like most in Scotland, full of graves.

After just 5 minutes browsing I look up as the sun comes through the trees along the wall. Only one headstone has a shaft of sunshine directly on it. I had to check it out.
It's the grave of my great great great grandparents!
The leaf-sweepers came running in, thinking my wierd exclamation was me being attacked!

180 years had passed since their only surviving son had left for Australia. Their spinster daughter had the headstone erected "in the hope of a blessed resurrection".
As far as I know, I was the first of the son's descendants to stand before the headstone. I felt as if a circle had been completed.

For the 5th time in a week I experienced another moment that, just in itself, made the whole pilgrimage worthwhile.

When at Loch Ness I had purchased a pass that got me into Urquhart Castle. It also gives entry, among other places, to Edinburgh Castle and the National Lighthouse Museum at Fraserburgh.
With my mission to Cullen complete, and a lifetime's fascination with lighthouses, I took the coastal route through Banff to Fraserburgh.

After stopping at a couple of the tiny old fishing villages clinging to the cliffs I arrived at the Kinnaird Head lighthouse centre for a pleasant afternoon taking photos.

Another fulfilling day.