Franklin Pierce University, Rindge, NH

Now is the chance to see if I can combine schoolwork and blogging without churning out endless reams of lame rhetoric designed to make me pass exams. The idea is that, if I can, then at least I know my essays have reached some acceptable standard for showing them to the wider world holds me accountable. Now, I shall be writing about uni in general as soon as I can, and supplying pictures as well. It’s been a roller coaster of an experience already, with new people coming to and fro like characters in some Evelyn Waugh novel, and experiences taking place that are almost as surreal and bizarre in their unexpectedness as those from the backpackers road.
The following piece was for my creating writing course. As I know that my father will be reading this and crying out for progress reports and proof of money well spent, I can reveal that I was awarded my first A for it.


Scotland and me

I grew up, I think now, in a time and place that suited me perfectly. The reels dances in pine halls, dinner parties between dear friends, stalking in the highlands over the summers and shooting pheasants in the winter, the old fashioned ways were supremely comforting for me. While my brother would later reject the way we were brought up, sporting bleached blonde hair and moving to Edinburgh I embraced it.
There are many memories I have of Scotland, the land of my birth. I see it when I close my eyes, high mountains of green, grey and purple crashing down sharply to the churning Northern Sea. It is part of me, this expanse of springy heather and harsh granite, a land without pity or sentimentality. I am like it in many ways, proud and distant at times and light and joyous at others, keeping to my ways while the rest of world moves on. It forms the basic structure of who I am.
One memory of growing up in Scotland sticks out above the others, a thought of happy childhood that leaves me with the strong smell of wood smoke in my nose and the taste of fresh mince pies in my mouth. It is one of the straws I can grasp onto, when life gets too much and I feel very, very far from home. It reminds me of who I am, and gives me pride in the pit of my heart, pride enough to stand up straight and face my troubles. It is the memory of winters spent working on my godfathers estate as a beater, trudging through mud with a stick in one hand and a old army kitbag belonging to my mother over one shoulder, following the noise of shotguns into woods.
I remember. I would gather with the men in the early hours of the morning outside Hatton Castle, all of them bigger and gruffer than me, their thick bodies in Barbour jackets and heads hidden by threadbare caps, dirty country dogs winding between their feet. They were good sorts these country men, letting a young boy in thick gloves and a woolly jumper under his anorak stand next to them shivering. They would offer me small sips of whiskey to protect me against the cold, laugh and joke to make me feel included. At the time I don’t think that Jamie, my brother, really understood why I loved working outside so much, for he was blessed with an easy disposition and making friends came naturally to him. For me it was different, I was awkward and troubled growing up, I felt a deeper connection to the windy forests of Hatton, Bortie and Haddo than I did to my own peer group.
Standing by the beaters shed, as we waited for the day to begin, I felt part of something bigger and that was supremely comforting. Eventually, just when we were beginning to get cold, a tractor belching smoke would rumble slowly forward along the country lanes, a horsebox hung on the back. We would all ride inside the box upon bales of straw, good training for me as later I would encounter similar conditions hitchhiking in Guatemala. Dozens of dogs would be squashed between our legs and we in turn were wedged against each other, our only light a narrow strip around the roof of the trailer.
I remember being happy as we were jolted too and fro, I felt I belonged there, felt part of something bigger than I, part of the highlands. I would look at the shadowy, laughing faces opposite and feel tradition run through me. Eventually though the tractor would stop and we’d all climb slowly out though the dogs would shoot through our legs to land writhing in the cold grass and moss. A man would hand us wooden clappers and sack-cloth flags which we’d stick under our arms or wedge into thick pockets. Then we would walk.
Later in the forest, we would stand waiting, breath steaming in the cold, feet stamping down hard on wet leaves to keep our circulation going. The bare branches of the trees reached up above us like grasping fingers and looking up past them I could see a lone pigeon wheeling lonely in the crisp air. In that moment I felt connected to this land, to the huge beech woods and rolling fields in fallow beyond, the burns lying dormant under thick sheets of ice and the dark castle brooding under a thin plume of smoke rising from the fireplaces.
A shout would make me pay attention, a thick Scottish accent telling us to “come on boys, get up boys.” I’d unfurl my flag and, in time with the others, flick it towards the ground so that it made a sharp crack. A line of us, thirty or forty, would advance into the woods and all my thoughts would vanish as some primeval thrill took control of my body. With a clackclackclack the clappers would start, the dogs would be let off straining leashes and the hunt was on. My heart would beat fast as we entered the woody undergrowth, like every small child aping adults I wished desperately not to muck up, not to trip and fall. I’d stumble forward quickly, trying to keep in line with the others and suddenly, with a beating of wings and strange burbling noise a female pheasant would shoot upwards from the frosty bracken and disappear forward above the trees.
The birds would appear in a flash, and be gone in the next instant, dozens of them, leaping upwards to be lost in the cold air as they sought to escape the impending danger of man and beast. After a moment there would be a sharp pum, pum as shotguns were discharged from a field we could not see. The paying customers or invited friends of the Laird, the lord of the castle, would stand, no more than ten of them in a straight and orderly line and wait for the birds to appear fast overhead. We many beaters, with out sticks and dogs were but an expensive decoy employed by the privileged few, scaring innocent fowl up over the trees and into impending death.
As a child any humanitarian concerns were lost to me, blood thirsty and excitable I would want the pheasants to be shot, want my father or my godfather to bring them down so we could string them in the game larder for plucking and eating. Dad was, at that time one of the finest gentleman shots in Aberdeenshire, would seldom disappoint. With skill and poise he would stand in the field waiting for the frenzied “Brbrbrbraa” of male pheasants approaching fast over the tree-line, my trusted Labrador standing sentry-like by his wellington boots, she as exited for the kill as her masters.
They would come fast, the cocks and hens propelled by my flag, appear for a few brief seconds and in that time my fathers shotgun would rise up in a perfect ark, the stock biting his shoulder. There would be two explosions in quick succession, a bird would tumble earthwards and he would break the shotgun and have it reloaded in an instance.
Afterwards, as we beaters finished combing the woods, godfather Duff would blow on the white bone horn hanging from one shoulder to single a end to the shooting. I would stop walking for a minute on the brow of a hill overlooking the drive where I could just make out the shapes of men, dogs and guns, grip my hat in hand as the wind ruffled my hair and lean my stick against a tree. In that instance, and this is what my brother never understood as he gave up his gun and the countryside, I was truly a part of my land.