Roots to Reality

The rumbling groan of the ferry horn seemed to push the old girl out of her slip. Chugging out of the cloud dusted Oban harbor, she headed northwest towards her next port, bringing me closer to the roots and the re-routing of my family tree. My husband, David, and I were traveling to Skye, a craggy island in northern Scotland, for my mother’s wedding. But first, we were heading to the windswept Isle of Mull, a place that I’d heard about since childhood. My mother planted the seeds of ancestral pride long ago, the reedy melodies and mournful wails of the bagpipe underscoring stories of our ancestors, the resilient MacLean clan. Dad and I would listen as I’d stroke her silver broach, fingering the coat of arms engraved with the motto, Virtue Mine Honor. I loved sharing this bold, colorful heritage with her and told myself that someday I’d get to see those ancient castles and hear the rich brogue of their people. I never the dreamed the journey would be so bittersweet.

Lulled by the massive boat’s gentle rocking, I leaned back on the faded vinyl seat and closed my eyes. Thoughts of my father flooded my mind. Less than seven months had passed since his death and grief still packed a mean sucker punch.

When my father died the building blocks of our family shifted precariously. Mom and I took solace in our shared memories, but she was alone for the first time in 45 years and was terrified of never regaining her balance. Her future husband, a former high school boyfriend, phoned her the day after we buried my dad. A recent widower, Scott was impatient to marry again. He knew she was losing her footing and offered to steady her with the promise of security, but there was a big catch. A quick wedding or nothing at all. Mom, heartsick and lonely, consented. She painfully packed away my father’s belongings, trying in vain to bury her grief along with them. 

A resounding horn brought me back to the present and my gaze settled on a simple stone castle rising proudly from the top of a bluff. “Look! David…it’s Duart castle!” From that distance, it was hard to be certain, but I had a feeling we were passing the ancestral and current home of the MacLean clan. 

Bumping along a scrawny unpaved road a scant hour later, we got our first taste of country driving. One lane (for two directions) on a twisty muddy road is challenging enough. It gets hairier when you’re unaccustomed to driving on the left side and you encounter the meanderings of sweet, but slow, black faced sheep. It reaches white-knuckle time when your husband is stingy with the window wipers. 

David nudged me with his left elbow. “Hey, honey, I wonder if there are any MacLeans buried up there.” He pointed to a tiny cemetery perched atop a bluff overlooking the Sound of Mull. He pulled off to the side of the road and we climbed the slippery hill. The rusty latch on the iron gate stuck for a moment before it clinked open. Fringed with tall weedy grass, the slender stones leaned wearily, their inscriptions softened by time. Wind rushed down the narrow aisles, bending shoots of Queen Ann’s lace in its race to the top of the peak. Shivering, I leaned over the first stone I came to, and read the name Margaret MacLean. She died a century before my great-grandmother, also a Margaret, was born. Dozens of MacLeans from ages past were resting in the tiny graveyard, their tombstones bathed by the tender rain, while I wandered quietly from one distant ancestor to the next, wondering who they were, what kinds of lives they led. Growing up an only child, I wasn’t used to feeling part of a big family. That had never mattered before. But with my father gone and my mother moving on, I was grasping for familial connection. It didn’t matter if I had to look to the past to find it.

Our first and last morning on Mull greeted us with a cheerful dose of sunshine, a welcome accompaniment to the start of a hectic day. By nightfall we would be up north in the highlands reminiscing with Mom. But I wasn’t ready yet. I needed to spend some time in the heart of the family archives.

Duart castle embodied the rich history of the Macleans, standing resolute as the clan stronghold since the 14^thcentury. “Good morning, folks. Welcome!” A broad faced woman with ruddy cheeks extended her hand. She was dressed in the vibrant red and green  MacLean of Duarttartan, the same pattern I would wear the next day in a floor length kilt.  David told the woman I was of MacLean descent. “Oh, well you must sign the clan guest book then, dear!” She pulled out a leather book and placed it in front of me, smoothing down the pages.  At her suggestion, David snapped my picture as I added my name to the list of other distant family members. 

The first drafty room we entered featured a long, lustrous rectangular table, set with ornate silver candelabras and gleaming sterling tea sets. Ancient battered swords hung behind protective glass, displayed next to scarred bagpipes. One room was dedicated to displaying grand portraits of the chiefs. I was immediately drawn to the image of a rakish 21 year old who looked like he had just gotten away with something. Lachlan MacLean, the current chief as a younger man, smiled down at me. We wound our way up the cramped stone steps, occasionally passing family group portraits. I paused to look for Lachlan each time. 

When we reached the top, even my persistent fear of heights couldn’t keep me from taking in the panoramic view from the battlements. The now foggy sky muted the shadows on the clear, cold water of the Sound and cast a soft focus on the soaring mountains to the north. Did generations of powerful chiefs pace this walkway, appraising the shipping lanes they controlled? I wanted to spend more time there, but we were on a tight schedule. 

As we were winding our way down the drive, we passed a disheveled man, mid 50s, who was tending to the roadside shrubs. 

“David, stop! We have to turn around. That’s Lachlan!”

“What? That’s a gardener. The chief wouldn’t be out here working in the field.”

“Why not? He might enjoy it. Besides, I recognize him. Come on, turn around.” So David made a hasty U turn, the tires sinking into the muddy road. I leapt out of the car.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I asked tentatively, “Are you the chief?”

Smiling, he wiped his hands on his dirty slacks and asked, “Are you a MacLean?”

I wavered. “My grandmother was.”

“Then, yes, I’m Lachlan. Welcome home.” He extended his hand. “I’m surprised you recognized me. Folks expect me to be up at the castle in a kilt, sipping whiskey,” he laughed. After inviting us to visit again, he returned to the relative anonymity of his gardening and I reluctantly pulled myself out of the refuge of the past. 

Grief had yanked me off balance, but this tiny island, so rich with family, had begun to steady me with its deep roots. The next section of my family’s history had yet to be written and although the uncertainty of the blank page was unsettling, I knew Mom and I would always remember how our chapter of the story started.