The Past

Life in my corner of Italy has changed a lot and not at all. If you are my sisters who have resisted the advance of technology all their lives things have not changed at all. They are twins and ten years older than I and color television was the beginning of the end of civilization for them. The internet has wrecked the picture postcard habit. They like the old ways and adhere to them with gentle stubbornness. 

The married couple on the left, the widow on the right, me taking the obligatory portrait. My sisters this year fade into the background as my brother in law Vincenzo has made 2018 the start of a new more intense relationship with me. 

Thin and wiry he grew up a farmer and married my sister the heiress over fifty years ago. He told me yesterday for the first time he married her because she found beauty and joy in the place she lived. Not because of her land; I had never thought of him as a gold digger. They thought of selling their land but they could think of nothing else to do so they raised their boys there and now the old folks are sidelined, the boys farm and their wives run the bed and breakfast. 

We take long walks in the woods talking about the past and it’s mistakes, the future in a country that can not straighten out its politics and a present that is hedged in by rules and restrictions that deal with issues that have never been problems. 

Every activity Vincenzo used to undertake has now been stymied because of regulations and European restrictions and health and safety rules. He enjoys retirement with his dog Caramella and his vegetable patches and watches his sons work as hard as he once did. 

Italy he says is a country without a purpose. Italians have lost motivation and he too finds petty bureaucracy maddening. He warns me against living in Italy. Taxes are high and services don’t work. In this Byzantine world where every message must be understood on all levels I find myself trying to parse hidden meanings. 

Does he mean I’m not wanted here? Is he expressing his discontent? Who knows. I listen and am glad he confides in me so I can unravel later the hidden meaning. He is doing me a favor and reminding me how complicated life is here. But he is also confiding in me so I have somehow earned his respect. You brave to go to America he says. I was desperate I say and he shakes his head. 

I like being a visitor. Perhaps I am irresponsible perhaps I am lazy but for a week I get time to not care about the big picture. We talk of the past, of people we knew. The night I arrived he had to go to a funeral. So far we are the lucky ones he said. So far. 

Tea Whisky And Death In The Highlands

The man who wanted a home in Scotland was apparently the son of a senior postal official and inventor from Ireland. Yet as far as I know Charles Beattie never claimed the Irish descent his daughter, my sister has located in County Wicklow. When he wasnt lawyering in London or traveling to exotic destinations my father came to his estate at Leckmelm to bother the employees who I’m sure would rather have been left alone. 

The farm buildings still stand and my sister Lucy tells me the corrugated iron roofs from 1880 are as solid and weatherproof as the day they were installed. 

The happiest I ever saw my father was here organizing programs of tree planting and sheep raising and ultimately hotel construction all funded by the money he made as a lawyer in London. He made money and he spent it including paying through the nose to ship me off to boarding school in southern England.  When they ended he ordered me to Italy to try my hand st farming with my older susters and he raised his new daughter with his second wife in London and England. His young wife ironically died ahead of him but when his time came he was buried on the shores of Loch Broom. I finally got to see where. 

It was a strange moment for me, face to face with the man who pushed me out of his life as far and as fast as he could. Lucy and her oldest friend and neighbor Johnny Whitteridge wandered the cemetery with me admiring the 18th century headstones of this ancient burial ground. 

It seems this place is called Clachan which in Gallic means ‘big stone’ hence the belief this has been some kind of worship spot since the 12th century or thereabouts. It is very evocative and thus a fine resting place. 

We set off down the narrow lane toward the main road and Glen Beag. 

We drove past Johnny’s estate of Inverlael (Inver = mouth of) past the Lael river. We turned off the main road in a true highland wilderness of rolling hills lakes peat bogs and snow covered peaks. We were driving to a picnic destination. 

There on the shores of a fresh water lake were a couple of old buildings, a refuge from the wind from the rear of Johnny’s luxurious Nissan pickup we pulled a stove tea fixings sand food. We boiled water from the lake on an Irish contraption called a Kelly Kettle. It would make an excellent hurricane stove as it boils water very quickly burning whatever scraps of wood or paper or grass you have to hand. 

I had whisky and oatcakes, sandwiches and tea and very much enjoyed it all. Johnny went fishing for perch unsuccessfully.  Lucy and I explored the bothy (“hut”) which didn’t take too long.

What an excellent afternoon. 

The bothy. 

Finishing A Walk

My last essay talked about my arrival at my sister’s home called Leckmelm three miles east of Ullapool on Loch Broom in the far northwest of Scotland. We took off on a family walk. 

We ambled a couple of gentle miles until we got to a steep slope down to East Rhidorroch Lodge shown above, in which picture you can see the ladder which we climbed over the dry stone wall, Lucy (below) carrying the dog. 

These communities are isolated, off the Internet and cellphone and television grids but they all know each other. The daughter of the home was delighted to see us as she hadn’t had much company for weeks...photographed later in Ullapool. 

These are resilient people who live outside the mainstream in a way that feels reminiscent of a tougher self sufficient life two hundred years ago. They welcomed us with hot tea and more food in the general purpose sunroom - which was comfortably warm for my weak tropical skin.

This is lambing season so that was where the talk went. Lucy only has 14 lambs to be born whereas Iona has 30 more so Lucy is winning that race. Iona and her mother entertaining us. 

My portrait photography needs work I know but I wish you could have been there. It was a dialogue from another world talking about sheep characteristics and the nature of lambs. They name their favorites then send them off to slaughter. I found that a bit weird but I chose not to be a farmer...Duncan is Lucy’s eldest at 15 and the contemplative one. A first rate bagpiper I’m told. 

Farmers talk also about Woofers. They are Willing Workers On Organic Farms to the farmers though the volunteer farm workers find positions through World Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms. They work for board and lodging and learn farming skills. Much talk then of woofing. One of Iona’s woofers was an American Mennonite first glimpsed behind a wall building something with an electric drill. I didn’t think it acceptable to take her picture but she was dressed in a bonnet and long dress and yellow boots and a big smile. All in the organic black mud of a Scottish vegetable garden. 

So I took some pictures around the house as we gathered for the next part of our non walking walk. The Scobie family enjoyed the company so much we were delayed by chatter and begged a ride to meet Scott  further up the glen (valley). 

Guest house for rent if you like true Scottish isolation and if they have an opening for you. Look up East Rhidorroch Estate, Wester Ross, Scotland. 

I could have spent all afternoon here but time was marching on. So we walked across the burn (creek) to the Land Rover which would take us to Rhidorroch Estate a few miles up the valley. First we had to cross the burn on a bridge. My wife would shit her pants on this wobbly thing: 

 

The car area is a walk away from the house. There is a river crossing but it can get too deep even for the Land  Rover so they keep their vehicles across the bridge in case of flash flooding. 

Iona told me a funny story about how the passenger door flew open once and her sister pushed her out. This is the eccentric branch of the Scobie family so I should not have been surprised but I noticed a steep drop off inches from the left wheel. I was riding shotgun as the honored guest so I had an excellent view of the peril from which I was separated only by an insecurely closed door. I took pictures to take my mind off it. 

I hopped out at the gates to open and close them and when I say “hopped” it was more like an ungainly leap into the void as the Defender Land Rover is a true off road tank very high off the ground.  Not a yuppy SUV it is a proper work vehicle with no concessions to the human anatomy. Window handles are out of reach by your ankles, seats are planks and doors can get sloppy over time apparently.  Iona drove casually looking back to talk to my sister, one hand on the wheel, a heavy foot on the gas and hit every pothole unfailingly for three miles. Until we saw our cab across the peat bogs.  Scotty unfailingly patient: 

A fascinating day but then we were back in Ullapool for ice cream and a chat with Johnny my sister’s neighbor on the other side of her estate and a wild man of his own style: 

Johnny Whitteridge has promised us an outing today so we shall see what my last day at Leckmelm will bring. More sunshine at least I hope. 

What a place.