Chapter 25: Wonderful Scotland - Part 1

Why Scotland was such a revealing pleasure to visit

My wife Rosemary and I have two favourite places in the UK — the Scottish Highlands and South Devon. For now I will concentrate on our first trips to Scotland in 1970. South Devon will be covered in later chapters.

The attraction to Scotland was initially because I am half Scottish, my father, John Smith Richardson III and his ancestors all coming from Scotland. Additionally, Rosemary has several Scottish ancestors who I will come to later in these chapters.

My father was born on December 14, 1909 in an apartment at 163 Petershill Road, Springburn, Glasgow. Here he is with his mother, Elizabeth “Bessie” Richardson in a studio photograph in 1913:

Here are a couple of photographs taken of my father when he was a toddler:

My father was 10 when he and his younger brother, Ted, made the voyage to Australia on the Port Macquarie, accompanied by Bessie. They travelled to the coal mining town of Wonthaggi in Victoria to join John’s father and Bessie’s husband, also called John S. Richardson who had twice travelled to Australia seeking work. His fascinating story is covered in Chapter 1 of my memoir.

Here are photographs of my father and his brother in Wonthaggi:

Let’s turn to our first trip to Scotland in September 1970, based on my diary written at the time:

Sunday, September 13, 1970: We set out from London at about midday with the back of our Morris Minor van choc-a-bloc and after having to crank the engine because the battery was flat. We drove up the M1 motorway which stretches 180 miles from London to Leeds without a sharp bend, steep climb or crossroad. We sat comfortably on 60-65 miles an hour. North of Leeds, it was mostly motorway or top-class dual highway, so we were able to maintain our speed. But rain began falling heavily. We spent the first night at the Schooner Hotel in Alnmouth, just north of Newcastle-on-Tyne. We were feeling pretty fit, despite the long drive.

Monday, September 14: We were up at 8am and found a rather cold sunny day. Seeing the village in the daylight, it was a pretty place on the seaside. We headed inland through Alnwick (which has a lovely castle - the family seat of the Percy of England, the Dukes of Northumberland) then north through rolling farmland, criss-crossed by stone walls. We soon found ourselves back on the coast and decided to make a diversion to Holy Island which is linked to the mainland by a causeway passable only at low tide. The small island was interesting and featured picturesque remains of an old castle. After a cup of tea by the roadside, it was back onto the mainland and north through Berwick-on-Tweed which straddles the border between England and Scotland. The countryside was very pleasant.

We reached Edinburgh about lunch time and found ourselves a bed-and-breakfast place for 25 shillings each about four miles south of the city centre. We dumped our luggage and went into the city centre, had a quick lunch, and found the Register Office where we resumed our research into the Richardson ancestors. We didn’t find what we were after; instead, Rosemary stumbled across information that one of my distance ancestors, James Walker, was born in Ireland. It was too late to do any further research, so we had a look around the city on foot and by car. The tall, narrow buildings of grey-stone, although austere and aggressively masculine, had an air of majesty. The people, we found, were very polite and very friendly.

Tuesday, September 15: We didn’t have a very good night’s sleep. The traffic outside was rather noisy, the pillows were too thick and gave us ricked necks, and we found ourselves sliding about on the nylon sheets. But we were served an excellent breakfast, which helped put us back into better temper. The weather was cool with some cloud and haze. After checking out, we went straight to the Records Office where we found some more interesting information about the Richardsons (more on this later).

As I mentioned earlier, the Scots are a friendly lot. At least, most of them are. An exception was a rather rough gentleman we came across when we pulled the van up outside Edinburgh Castle to buy some movie film. He was trying to make a few bob by selling me white heather. I wouldn’t have any. He persisted, annoying me as I did the filming, but I still refused to give in. When I finally got back into the car and started up the engine, he began shouting at me: “Booger yer ... Booger yer!” And as we drove away, he roared after us: “And dinna cae back agin”. We nearly split our sides laughing. We drove right up to the castle for a look inside. Two kilted soldiers stood guard at the entrance. But we saw very few kilts, although some of the officers wore tartan trousers.

Light rain began falling as we left Edinburgh. We drove around the Kinross and Fife coast. It was farming country, rather like the Western District of Victoria, and only of average interest to us. Harvesting of the crops was in the final stages. We reached Aberdeen about 7.30pm. The local tourist office placed us in a guest house (27 shillings and sixpence each B&B) right in the heart of the city. We were given a large and pleasant room containing two double beds.

The landlady was a very cheery soul - as well she might from the smell of her breath. Johnny Walker whisky, we guessed. We telephoned a former resident of my home town of Charlton in Australia. She was the widow of Bill Smith, a prominent one-time resident of Charlton and now living in Turriff about 35 miles north of Aberdeen. We arranged to meet her daughter, Rosemary, first thing in the morning, then drive to Turriff for lunch. We had a late evening meal at the fashionable hour of 8pm in a not-too-fashionable restaurant. The food was quite good, but the restaurant was rather outdated in appearance. The middle-aged waitresses all wore green nylon uniforms and Victoria Railways cafeteria-type caps. It was a sort of Favaloro’s, Bendigo, with pretentions. The meal was tasty, and no tip was expected. We have noticed that the Scots prefer their tea much weaker than the English, thank goodness. The English tea is strong and milky and very unpleasant if allowed to go cold.

Wednesday, September 16: We chose the wrong bed, and about half-way during the night Rosemary gave up trying to sleep in it and switched to the other bed. About 8am our landlady (still cheery and still smelling of booze) burst into our room unannounced with cups of tea for us. A couple of seconds earlier and she would have found Rosemary starkers. Breakfast was good.

We had a bit of spare time before meeting Rosemary Ingram (née Smith) so we had a look about Aberdeen. It seemed to be made entirely of granite. It was very clean and neat, but dreadfully bleak. Everything was strictly functional and humourless. Not a trace of flair or decoration on any of the buildings. We didn’t fancy living there. Rosemary’s flat was close to the centre of the city. It was in a street of blank-fronted, grey tenements. Rosemary’s husband was at work, but both her kids (a little girl and a baby boy) were there. We had a cup of tea and talked at length about Australia and in particular, Charlton. Despite her nine years away from Australia, Rosemary still had a very strong Australian accent, although mixed in with it is the occasional rolling Scottish R. She has also picked up some of the Scottish phrases, such as “Oh aye” and “we had a grand time”. We drove up to Turriff through pretty farmland and in beautiful sunshine.

Turriff had a population of around 20,000. Almost all the buildings were made of pink granite. Mrs Smith, who got around on sticks as a result of a fall several years ago, lived in a flat. She was extremely interested in all the goings-on back home and gave us countless cups of tea and plates of cakes. Rosemary took us to lunch at a local hotel, then we returned for yet further cups of tea and cakes before leaving about 3pm for Inverness. We travelled there via an interesting stretch of coast. We reached Inverness about 5.30pm and weren’t impressed, so decided to drive south down Loch Ness to find somewhere to stay for the night. The loch is about a mile wide, 25 miles long and 700 feet deep. Rain began falling as we stopped to boil water for a cup of tea. There was no sign of the monster, but the loch looked very menacing with the heavy, dark clouds hanging low over it.

About halfway down the loch we found a fabulous bed and breakfast place at Drumnadrochit. Cost: 23 shillings each. This price even included supper, which was served about 9pm. We watched TV for an hour or so then went to bed.

Thursday, September 17: After a huge breakfast, we drove along the loch a bit to the Loch Ness Phenomena Research Organisation base and looked around. From there we went to a nearby house where there was a family who had “seen” the famed monster. I did a 3AW interview with the husband, a retired wing-commander, who said he had seen the creature once; his wife had seen it nine times and their daughter, four times. There is apparently no doubt that the “monster” does exist - the question mark is over its exact nature. The experts are of the opinion that there is a herd of “monsters” - not just one. Leaden clouds hung over the loch giving it a menacing air, which added to the mystique.

From Loch Ness we headed north again through Inverness, then around part of the Firth of Cromarty to Bonar Bridge. From there, we drove through highland moors covered in purple heather, around Loch Shin, Loch A’Ghriama, Loch Merkland and Loch More. As you can gather, there are a lot of lochs and a lot of water in Scotland. We noticed many peat bogs with the cut peat piled in heaps awaiting collection. The ground was very soggy - rather like walking over a wet sponge. Flocks of black-faced sheep were everywhere.

We decided there was time to drive to Durness on the far north coast. It was mainly granite country with the hills grey one moment and pink the next. The combination of the heather and grasses produced an orange-green colour and was very beautiful. The roads were very narrow and widened every hundred yards or so to give vehicles places to pass each other.

After a quick look around Durness, we set out south to Scourie, a tiny village on the west coast where we found a very nice bed-and-breakfast place for 22 shillings each. There was nowhere for an evening meal, so the landlady fixed us a high tea of fresh flounder fillet, pancakes and home-made shortbread. The village consisted of a few dozen scattered stone crofter’s (tenant farmers) huts. After London, it was incredibly quiet. No road traffic, no planes - even no street lighting. After being served supper, we went upstairs to bed. The landlady kindly provided us with hot water bottles.

Friday, September 18: We had a good night’s sleep and were on the road early and headed for the Kylestrome Ferry. The roads were so narrow and the wind so strong, that our speed was limited to about 25 mph. We had been surprised at how low the Highlands were. They are very hilly, but there are few peaks over 2,000 ft. The sun was out, adding greatly to the beauty of the scene. Once across the ferry, we headed for Ullapool, and just outside the town we had a picnic, overlooking Loch Broom.

Something we’ve noticed almost everywhere we go in Britain is the number of jet fighters on patrol - some of them flying very low. After lunch we drove through pine forests evocative of Austria. We went around and across several lochs to the Strome Ferry which took us across Loch Carron. Little did we know then that Loch Carron had been home to Rosemary’s Scottish forebears. (More on this in a later chapter.)

It was our bad luck on the car ferry to strike a chap with a real thing about Australians. He told me I was the first Australian who hadn’t complained about the cost of the ferry crossing (10 shillings) then went on at great length to inform me that Australians were the “greatest moaners and groaners” he’d ever known and that furthermore, they were “the worst race of people on this earth”. “Compared to Australians,” he said, “Americans are lovely people”. He really went on and on, and as he did, he got wilder and wilder.

Rosemary was killing herself laughing and was desperately wishing she could switch on the tape recorder to catch the row for posterity. She said later she half expected me to leap from the van and shove the objectionable character into the loch. My consolation was the knowledge that sooner or later he WOULD strike an Aussie who would toss him in the drink.

It was getting late in the day, but we decided to keep going and drove as far as the Kyle of Lochalsh, just across the water from the Isle of Skye. We found a bed and breakfast place for 22 shillings and sixpence each, and after a meal at a local hotel, hit the sack.

Saturday, September 19: We awoke to find the area shrouded in a heavy mist. After breakfast we crossed to Skye on the ferry. The weather began improving and by midday the sun was shining. We noticed that most of the houses on the island were painted white. They were very pleasant to the eye against the background of the hills. Sheep were everywhere, and they were so used to the traffic they refused to budge from the roadway. We were often forced to drive around them. As we have travelled around Scotland we have noticed mobile shops - something I’ve not seen since my days in Charlton. Most of these mobile shops sold bread, meat or vegetables - and some of them appeared to even have refrigerated display cases. As we headed back to the ferry, the weather deteriorated again.

We crossed back to the mainland about 2.30pm and drove around Loch Alsh, Loch Duick and down Glen Shiel, which had spectacular water falls and streams careering down its slopes, to Loch Cluanie. It was here that we found ourselves almost out of petrol in one of the most remote parts of the Highlands. We searched vainly for a service station and finally decided to head back the way we came. We reached a service station just as the owner was locking up the pumps for the day. The petrol gauge, by that time, was way below the empty mark. I don’t know how we made it. That scare over, we resumed our journey and travelled along Loch Garry to Invergarry, then down Loch Lochy. We found a private hotel overlooking the loch, which was lined by pine-covered slopes. The scene was very beautiful with the water in the loch dead calm. We were served high tea of fish, scones and cakes. The only jarring note was a small altercation I had with the licensee’s wife over whether she should have supplied us with towel. It was her view that as we didn’t have a bathroom attached to our room, then she didn’t have to supply towels. But she did in the end.

Sunday, September 20: More dreary weather. There was a low mist and it was quite chilly. Breakfast was only so-so, compared with the others we’d had on the trip. As we got on the road, it began pouring with rain. We drove first to Fort William. Nearby Ben Nevis was lost in cloud, which was a disappointment. From there, we travelled along Loch Linnhe, then looped around Loch Leven, and through Glencoe where the MacDonalds were massacred by the Campbells in 1692. We’ve noticed there is little top-soil in the Highlands - there’s just a sort of mushy 18-inch-deep cap of decomposed plant-life and earth over the rock base.

There are very few trees away from the occasional pine plantation. Placed at strategic points around the plantations there are fire warning notices, against which rested several witch’s broomsticks for beating out any fires. Next point on the tour was Tarbet on Loch Lomond. We turned off at Tarbet and drove about 2 miles across to Loch Long. The rain was still pouring down, so we stopped at an Arrochar restaurant for a meal rather than attempt to cook anything in the open. It seemed a reasonable sort of village, so we found a bed and breakfast place overlooking the loch and settled down to reading the Sunday newspapers. The rain was showing signs of easing by teatime, but even a Scot would be forced to admit that the weather wasn’t good. I might say at this point that as far as a Scot is concerned, the weather is good if it hasn’t rained for an hour.

Monday, September 21: The weather was still dreary, but it was not raining. We drove straight to Glasgow, about 35 miles away. Our first stop was Manse Street, Renfrew, where great-grandmother Isabella Richardson died in 1931. Unfortunately, the part of Manse Street in which she lived was torn down. From there we went to St Bride’s Church, Partick, where Nana and Grandpa Richardson were married. It is a pleasant, pink sandstone church, but we were told that it would be pulled down in about three years when the whole area is redeveloped. The caretaker let us inside to look around.

Next, to Anne Street, Glasgow, where great-grandfather John S. Richardson died. All that remained of the street were the cobble stones - it was right in the middle of a big road flyover project. Then to 163 Petershill Road, Springburn, where Dad was born in 1909. It looked a bit shabby, but a woman I spoke to in one of the flats said that when the building was originally erected it was considered very classy because it had bathrooms and indoor toilets.

Finally, we drove to Franklin Street where grandfather John Richardson lived at the time he was married. But the house had been torn down and replaced by blocks of flats. At this point, I should give some impressions of Glasgow as a whole - or to be more to the point as a hole. It really is the worst city we have ever visited anywhere. Except for isolated pockets it is one vast slum.

It is easy to understand why until recently, Glasgow had a higher crime rate per capita than New York. It is really depressing - even frightening. Even the buildings gave no cause for joy. They were cold, lifeless blocks of concrete and stone, usually surrounded by wasteland. They were, in effect, slums from the day they were erected. There were very few gardens or lawns. Most fences seemed to have either fallen into disrepair or been the target of vandals. As a tribute to the city’s crime, most shop windows had protective screens permanently across them. We were glad to get out of Glasgow.

We headed south to nearby Wishaw where we found the United Presbyterian Church in which great-grandmother Isabella Richardson married her first husband, William Waugh. Her one-time home had been pulled down to make way for a police station. Next to nearby Larkhall to find Meadowhill where grandfather John Richardson was born (are you still with me?). This turned out to now be a wasteland. From Larkhall, we drove south through pleasant rolling farmland to Gretna Green on the border between England and Scotland. Gretna is the village where couples eloping from England were traditionally married. We decided to stay the night and booked into (wait for it!) the Lover’s Leap Motel. It was just across the road from the famed Village Blacksmith’s Shop. We went to a nearby hotel for our evening meal. In the next room, a party of tourists were taking part in community singing. This included Irish Eyes are Smiling which seemed inappropriate for such an aggressively Scottish village.

Tuesday, September 22: We had a good night’s rest. It was another cloudy day but was dry. After a quick look around the Blacksmith’s Shop and the other tourist spots in the village, I did a quick interview for Radio 3AW with the local marriage registrar, then got on the road. The traffic was murder, with almost as many heavy transports as cars. Our speed was reduced to 10mph for quite a distance. We finally got onto a motorway and began to make up a bit of time.

The weather was clearing up nicely. Just north of Birmingham, we turned off the motorway to visit St Mary’s Church, Lichfield, where Rosemary’s great, great grandparents were married. We found it was just across the road from where Dr Samuel Johnson was born.

From Lichfield we travelled south through Birmingham to Henley-in-Arden. We wished we had time to stop there because it is a fabulous town. Just about every building in the town centre was genuine Tudor and most attractive. Next stop, Stratford-upon-Avon. The sun was getting low as we reached the town. We spent about an hour having a quick look around the tourist spots (we felt like a couple of arch-American tourists who were “doing” Britain in a day). We saw Shakespeare’s birthplace and Ann Hathaway’s cottage:

The town, although very touristy, was pleasant, and we would like to see it at our leisure some time. As darkness set in we got back on the road again and returned to London.

Coming soon: Wonderful Scotland - Part 2

Earlier chapters can be found HERE