Memorials and teas

Wee towns in Alba

I first stepped off a bus between Glasgow and Tarbert at the north end of the Kintyre peninsula of Argyll on 30 November 1979, a few worlds ago. I had always wanted to go to Scotland (Watson, after all, is Scottish as is my mother’s maiden name) but the impetus to Tarbert, a fishing village, was the my father’s adventuresome sister made a friend there almost thirty years earlier.

My aunt was laid off from her job, single, red headed, and fearless in the early 1950s. She took her savings to buy a ticket to British, regardless of no job upon return. She met an Englishman she fell passionately in love with but he had someone else in mind (married the wonderful lady and my aunt became their only child’s Godmother so they remained steadfast friends).

Since things were not working with Geoff, she took a bus to Scotland where she boarded an internal route to the west. Being a talkative, confident Yank, she felt she should meet locals so she befriended this shy younger woman en route home from nurse training. The younger woman told me later she really was not feeling chatty or friendly but recalled the Yanks had helped Scotland during the war so she felt she had to talk.

By the time the reached Tarbert, my aunt and Jean McClaren were fast friends and kept in contact through more than sixty years. When I went to Britain, it was logical I go visit Jean McClaren Shaw, if nothing else to pass on my aunt’s warm feelings.

Jean took me for a cuppa in a Tarbert tearoom before we headed out to Skipness. Little did I know how deep, long-lasting and vital her and my friendship, much less her son and daughter-in-law’s, would be over the years. The tea was revitalizing and everyone knew her.

Jean and Duncan live in a hamlet with perhaps 40 people on a summer’s day when the holiday cottages as rented as their home is seven miles from Tarbert, the bustling metropolis (not so much) of 1300. (Their daughter Janice lives in Tarbert while Brian and his wife live near Edinburgh where we had a brief coffee Friday morning.) But, the population of tiny Skipness is the most welcoming people ever. When my aunt, my mother, two friends and I came to overwhelm our friends for a week-long visit, the whole community baked shortbread and made pies to help feed us. That is small town Scotland. It was sincere appreciation that we came to visit them and they could show off their country.

Our friends Adrienne and John similarly live in a town a smidge bigger than the Shaws but not much. Saline is filled with friendly folks who congregate at the golf club, a bit of a misnomer since the focus is on club rather than our (U.S.) rather elevated focus on golf in the terminology (mutual language with decidedly different meanings and emphases sometimes). Adrienne’s award winning garden is so welcoming, even this week when drowned by this summer’s never ending rain. But Saline remains a delightful community of down to earth neighbors, another small town, a place to recharge and relax.

All of this is by way of explaining why I suggested we spend our free day today in two small towns instead of driving back to Aberdeen or perhaps Dundee, both substantial cities. I yearned for the small town hospitality and openness I have experienced over the past decades so we drove first to Braemar.

All roads seemed to go there, via Ballater, so we set off mid morning with the sun shining unexpectedly. We stopped to photograph some sheep for a grandson’s interest before driving along Deeside west. It was stunning terrain.

We passed along the entrance to Balmoral across the River Dee as we were in seek of small towns rather than tourist spots as such but plenty of folks were in the associated car park. Our stop for photographs was further down the road, replete with the river cascading along and plenty of spectacular flowers still in bloom. I suspect merely six weeks from now all that will be past as winter returns for months on end.

Braemar was simply charming. We parked near a couple of establishments, the Hazelnut Patisserie and the Brewery, only to discover they were the same building in two parts. If you ever get to Braemar in Aberdeenshire, do not skip the Patisserie as the whole meal scone got a thumbs up and the hazelnut something or other was melt-in-your-mouth quality to compliment the cafe americano made to perfection. Oh, and if that wasn’t good enough, one of the brewery’s products was oat stout, something I have seen little of on this trip (though we didn’t partake). My sole regret was that it began raining hard so we did not get to walk around further.

I love the small towns to hear what interests people. Are they discussing weather? Are they worried about their kids’ schools? Are they holiday makers? That appeals to my husband and I so much more because it is real people living real lives. I have no doubt we could have found someone to speak with in Aberdeen but I wanted less chance of pretense or extravagance. I also wanted to photograph the beauty of the area but it wasn’t to be in Braemar today. So, we decided to head back.

Ballater, it turns out, is closely associated with the Royals and Balmoral because of its proximity. Numerous indications evidenced the various Royals dedicating monuments or memorials or suchover nearly two hundred years. It was a much bigger community than I expected. It was also a hiking Mecca, as the charming outdoor shop that drew me in showed. The attendant was a friendly woman more than willing to talk about the town, the area, and everything else. I could have stayed the whole day without her showing any indication any other person was shopping there, incredible hospitality for a Yank who bought a whopping pair of gloves (yes, my hands are cold).

Again, like every single town, the war memorial was gripping, a reminder that Britain has never recovered from the Great (what a tragic misnomer) War well past a century gone. Today Ballater’s population, like Tarbert’s, is under 1500 but it couldn’t have been markedly different in 1914. Seven Coutts brothers died in between 1914 and 1918; how many other families lost similarly?

it is in these tiny, closely-knit communities one sees the loss, the pride, and the resilience of Scotland and Britain.

Finally, we returned to Tarland where I had booked tea just because the absolutely best about any Scottish town is a tea room, especially on Sunday. It was frankly overwhelming…and delicious.

Allie, the proprietress, set a splendid afternoon tea with all the trimmings. It was, of course, 20% of what a similar tea would be in London but every bit as delicious as it was made in her kitchen. We were surprised to hear her greet Swiss customers in fluent German, a sign of how global Scotland is today, but her hospitality was so genuine. When I asked whether we could box it because we could not possibly finish it, she laughed to say that happens all of the time.

I told her I planned to write about her Tarland Tearoom this afternoon so I wondered if she would allow me a photography, she was gracious and proud. It was simply a superb highlight to exactly the kind of day we prefer above others—time spent in small towns with real folks. Such a deal.

Have you been to small Scottish towns with similar hospitality and war memorials? Do you go elsewhere with the same experiences? I welcome your thoughts, rebuttals (unlikely, I hope), and comments. Thank you for reading Actions today.

Be well and get thee to Scotland. Oh, English towns are good, too, of course. Be safe. FIN