August 2015 Archives

August 20, 2015January 4, 2018

Debunking Braveheart in Stirling

It’s fun to tie recreational viewing to your travels. Here in Scotland, I’ve been watching everything from Highlander to Outlander. In Stirling, I re-watched Braveheart for the first time in two decades. And do you know something? It’s terrible. Mel Gibson’s much-assailed Scottish accent may very well be the most authentic thing about the film.

The town of Stirling has strong ties to the real William Wallace. From Stirling Castle, you can see Abbey Craig, the knob of land where Wallace and his troops surveyed the battlefield the night before they clashed with the English. Today it’s capped with a Romantic-era monument celebrating Wallace, filled with insightful exhibits that tell the real (non-Braveheart) version of events.

Looking out from the Wallace Monument, you can see the almost 360-degree bend in the River Forth, including a newer stone version of the original, wooden Stirling Bridge. In the Battle of Stirling Bridge, William Wallace and his ragtag Highlander forces hid out in the forest overlooking the bottleneck bridge until the perfect moment to ambush. Thanks to the tight quarters and the element of surprise, the Highlanders won an unlikely victory.

Watching Braveheart, you get an entirely different version of events: armies lining up across an open field, with blue-faced, kilted, berserker Highlanders charging at top speed toward heavily armored English troops. The filmmakers left out the bridge entirely, calling it simply “The Battle of Stirling.” Oh, and the blue facepaint? Never happened. A millennium before William Wallace, the ancient Romans did encounter fierce fighters in Caledonia (today’s Scotland) who painted their faces (the Picts). But painting faces in 1297 would be a bit like WWII soldiers suiting up in chain mail.

Braveheart takes many other liberties with history. William Wallace did not vengefully kill Andrew de Moray for deserting him at Falkirk (Moray fought valiantly by Wallace’s side at Stirling, and died from battle wounds). Robert the Bruce did not betray Wallace to the English. And William Wallace most certainly did not impregnate King Edward II’s French bride…who was 10 years old, not yet married to Edward, and still living in France at the time of Wallace’s death. (Entire websites are dedicated to outlining the many other inaccuracies in the film.)

Also, the modern notion of national “Freee-dooooom!” was essentially unknown during the divine-right Middle Ages. Wallace wasn’t fighting for “democracy” or “liberty”; he simply wanted to trade one authoritarian, aristocratic ruler (from London) for another authoritarian, aristocratic ruler (from Scotland).

Even the film’s title is a falsehood: No Scottish person ever referred to Wallace as “Braveheart,” which was actually the nickname of one of the film’s villains, Robert the Bruce. After his death, Robert’s heart was taken (in a small casket) on a crusade to the Holy Land by his friend Sir James Douglas. During one battle, Douglas threw the heart into an oncoming army and shouted, “Lead on, brave heart, I will follow thee!” Apparently, Mel Gibson must have heard this story and appropriated it. It’s a bit like if Stephen Spielberg, when making the film Lincoln, said, “I know that nobody actually called Abraham Lincoln ‘Old Hickory.’ But it sure has a nice ring to it…”

Gibson Freeeedoooom.png — “They can take our land, but they will never take…my Oscars!”

The Scottish people I talked to have mixed feelings about Braveheart. They appreciate the boost it gave to their underdog nation’s profile on the world stage — and to its tourist industry — juuuust enough that they’re willing to look the other way when it comes to the liberties the film takes.

I’m not saying to skip Braveheart, or other fact-based fictional movies. I’m just saying don’t assume that you really understand the history just because you’ve watched Mel Gibson’s Hollywood version of it. For an armchair historian, one of the joys of travel is going to places like Stirling and getting the real story.

August 17, 2015October 24, 2019

Ghosts and Skeptics in Britain

A few years ago, I visited a half-timbered old guildhall from the time of King Henry VI, in what little survives of the historic town center of Coventry, England. As I explored the vast, echoey space, I noticed that the two museum attendants were listening to a recording of white noise. On my way out the door, I asked, “What’s that?”

The attendants — a younger man and a middle-aged woman — exchanged a knowing glance. Should we tell him? She took a deep breath. “Look, you may not believe this, but this place is extremely haunted. So every night we set up this recorder to keep a log of the many creaks and bumps. See?” She showed me a long, handwritten list of times and types of noises. Just then, a loud clapping sound — like a chair being tipped over onto a wooden floor — erupted from the recorder. “Ah. There’s another one,” she said, adding it to the list.

My interest piqued, I probed a bit further. “So, have you two actually experienced this?” Another knowing glance, this time with barely suppressed smiles. “Oh, constantly. Every day, we hear some bump or knock.”

They proceeded to tell me stories that curled my toes: Normally it was just a strange sound coming from a room they knew was empty. But other things had also happened. Strange things. People on the overnight cleaning crew kept quitting — refusing to give a reason. And one time, when the two attendants were certain they were the only people in the building, one last patron — an elderly woman — arrived to look around. As she was leaving, she filled out a comment card. When they read it later, it said, “Fascinating old space. But that gentleman dressed in historic clothes in the back room was very unfriendly. I kept talking to him, but he never said anything back!”

I asked if they’d personally seen anything strange. Both of them had — usually just flashes of light or inexplicable shadows. But the young man described one particularly harrowing experience. One evening, he was all alone in the building, closing up. He went up to the rickety old minstrel’s gallery overlooking the hall to carry out his duties. When he turned back toward the stairs — the only stairs — he found a ghostly figure blocking his path. Terrified, and with no other options, he simply pushed his way through the phantom and quickly left the building. “What did it feel like?” I asked. “Cold,” he said. “Very, very cold.”

“That’s terrifying! How do you spend so much time here?” They shrugged. “It’s not so bad, really. We get used to it. It’s routine — just part of the job. And we’re never in danger. We’re not so much frightened, but curious. That’s why we record the noises. Try to see if there’s any pattern.”

Maybe I’m a total sucker. Maybe they sit there with their tape recording all day, waiting for a live one to nibble at the bait. But I don’t think so. They seemed like decent, honest people. They didn’t breathe a word of the hauntings until I asked them about it, and even then, they were initially reluctant. I think they really believe these stories. Whatever was happening — explainable by science or not — was happening a lot.

Tonight in Stirling, Scotland, I took one of those nighttime “haunted walks.” An actor, dressed as the ghost of the hangman, led us through the old kirkyard, reciting a carefully composed litany of ghostly stories from the city’s history as we walked between the tombstones.

After the show, he broke character, and we chatted as we walked back down into town. Turns out he’s a serious historian, who’s written two books about the history of Stirling.

We passed the heavily grilled top window of the old tollbooth building, which during his spiel he’d described as the place where the condemned would await the death penalty. Pointing it out again now, he said, “That was actually my office for four years. I didn’t even realize that there was anything strange about it until one day, I mentioned the space to a friend, and he said, ‘Don’t you know that’s the most haunted place in town?'”

I asked him if he’d ever actually had any strange encounters himself. “I’ve had plenty of strange encounters in this town. But none of them were paranormal.” It turns out that the person who has devoted his life to studying, researching, and writing about paranormal activity in Stirling for the last two decades…is a total skeptic. In fact, he has accompanied “paranormal investigators” into the graveyard, and prides himself on finding scientific facts to debunk any unusual findings they come across.

He described an example. One of the town’s historic pubs took down an old bit of paneling, revealing a hidden compartment. Suddenly, the workers were overcome with a terrible sensation. They couldn’t breathe and felt distressed. The only items in the compartment were some empty cans and a faded old black-and-white picture of what appeared to be a priest.

Paranormal investigators and psychics came in to investigate. And while they were doing that, our “ghost hangman” decided to do some actual historical research. He found a faded watermark on the back of the photograph, and conferred with a local museum curator. It turns out, in Victorian times, the pub was owned by the town’s portrait photographer. His wife hated the fumes from the developing chemicals, and insisted that he do his work at the pub. Then, at some point, his darkroom was abandoned and boarded up, with all those nasty chemicals inside, evaporated and trapped for over a century…until modern-day workers unsealed the space and inhaled them.

Should we believe the haunted museum attendants in Coventry? Or the skeptic ghost walker in Stirling? Or perhaps both? One of the joys of travel is being exposed to different real-world perspectives…then having an opportunity to make up your own mind.

Have you experienced any unexplained happenings in your travels around Europe?

I was in Stirling working on our Rick Steves Scotland guidebook.

While on my Scotland trip, I did a lot of blogging (all archived on our website). For a roundup of what I learned, check out my post on Top 10 Tips for Traveling in Scotland.

We can’t promise ghost sightings…but our Rick Steves Best of Scotland in 10 Days Tour does stop in Stirling. And lots of other great places.

August 14, 2015January 4, 2018

He Who Holds Stirling, Holds Scotland

For years, we’ve had great coverage of Scotland included in our Great Britain guidebook. But as I research our new, stand-alone Rick Steves Scotland guidebook, my priority is finding sights or towns that we’ve not had the space to fully develop until now. One of the most important additions is Stirling. This patriotic heart of Scotland is like Bunker Hill, Gettysburg, and the Alamo, all rolled into one.

Stirling perches on a volcanic crag overlooking Scotland’s most history-drenched plain: a flat expanse, cut through by the twisting River Forth and the meandering stream called Bannockburn, that divides the Lowlands from the Highlands. Many of the great Scottish victories (William Wallace at Stirling Bridge, Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn) — and defeats (William Wallace at Falkirk) — took place just outside of Stirling. And capping the ridge is Stirling’s formidable castle, the seat of the final kings of Scotland.

It’s said that “he who holds Stirling, holds Scotland.” And visiting Stirling Castle, you can literally see the layers of history. This castle was built up by a series of Stuart monarchs: Mary, Queen of Scots, and a gaggle of Jameses (for whom the “Jacobites” are named). Centuries later, the British Army further fortified the castle to defend against a Jacobite siege. On this gate, you can still (faintly) see the cannonball pockmarks from the time when Bonnie Prince Charlie — the Stuart heir — attacked his own ancestors’ home.

Stirling Castle fell into disrepair for centuries, and was only recently refurbished. Today the structure feels empty and soulless. But a handful of finely decorated rooms (perhaps a bit too perfect and colorful) are brought to life by the chatty docents who greet visitors and tell them more about castle lifestyles.

While almost nothing original survives at Stirling Castle, the exception is a highlight: this collection of the elaborately carved and painted portrait medallions that decorated the ceiling of the king’s presence chamber. Today they’re lovingly displayed and described in a modern museum that shows off that fine Renaissance craftsmanship.

Beyond its famous castle, Stirling is pretty sleepy. I was there on a summer weekend, and — aside from rowdy crowds inside a couple of industrial-strength chain pubs — the place was dead. Scotland has more engaging towns to spend the night in, but Stirling’s convenience for hitting a variety of great side-trips is second to none.

I checked out about a dozen B&Bs in Stirling, and chose my favorite six to recommend in our upcoming Scotland guidebook. With its central location and royal ties, Stirling just feels wealthy and put-together. The tidy residential zone behind the castle, with its postcard-perfect Victorian homes, is fun to simply wander.

In Scotland, anywhere there’s tourists, there’s a bagpiper. Yes, I know it’s a cliché, but I can’t resist a good street piper. This one seemed particularly sprightly — he seemed to get a genuine kick out of interacting with tourists (not just posing for them).

August 5, 2015January 28, 2021

The Soggy, Sunny Highland Games of Taynuilt

Pulling off of the humble main street in the Scottish village of Taynuilt, I feel my tires shimmy on the saturated turf. I follow muddy ruts to where a waterlogged attendant stands in front of a little green shack.

“Is this the parking for the Highland games?” I ask. “Yes,” she says, peering out a narrow slit formed by her rain hood. “Six pounds, please.”

Taynuilt may have picked the wrong date for its annual celebration of Highland culture. Even though it’s July, bone-chilling gusts of North Atlantic air swirl mist across the vibrant-green playing field. I park my car, bundle up, and feel my feet squish through the wet sponge of a lawn — wringing out peaty brown water with each step. I’m considering bailing out and returning to the warmth of my B&B lounge.

But then a delightful scene unfolds before me: Rural Scotland is putting on their show, rain or shine. Everyone’s wearing their Wellies (rain boots). A traditionally clad family piles out of their minivan, and dad helps his young sons adjust their kilts. And then bagpipes begin droning from every corner of the field: The pipe band is tuning up.

Kilt Adjustment

The loudspeakers crackle to life, and a lilting Scottish accent cuts through the foggy air. “If you’d like to join the pipe band in their parade through the village, you can follow them on up to the Taynuilt Hotel in a few minutes.” She proceeds to list off the day’s events. And she explains the rain plan: There is none (except for the Highland dancing, which has been moved into the village hall).

Noticing the pipe band — about eight bagpipers and a half-dozen drummers — starting up the village’s lone street, I decide to tag along. I ask the bass drummer where they’re from. “Strathearn, in Perthshire. We came a long way for this. And according to the weather map, it’s the only part of the country in rain.”

Passing the village hall, I peel off from the pipers to peek inside. Fiercely focused lassies, done up in their finest Highland finery, are dancing their hearts out. They’re hoping the weather will improve as the day goes on, so they can head outside.

I catch up with the pipers and drummers, who stand huddled in the alley next to the town’s lone hotel/restaurant. They’re getting in one more round of practice before the big show. A crowd of about thirty people gathers across the street, waiting patiently. Finally, the clan chieftain shows up with this family. Shivering in their kilts, they line up in front of the pipe band.

And suddenly, it’s time to begin. The band springs to life, and the ragtag parade marches proudly through the village to the playfield. Ponchoed pipers and drummers play their hearts out, filling the damp air with the drone, whine, and peal of bagpipes. They’re trailed by villagers — and a few visitors from around the world — scurrying around them to snap photos.

By the time we arrive back at the park, it’s a different scene. While still cloudy, the worst of the rain has passed, and — like ginger-haired earthworms — the villagers have tentatively emerged to scope out the scene. The clan chieftain’s family and pipe band take a lap around the field before announcing the Taynuilt Highland Games of 2015 officially open.

Scottish Highland games are like a track meet and a county fair rolled into one. The infield hosts the kilted, macho feats of strength. Ringing that is a running track for the footraces. And surrounding the whole scene are junk food stands, a few test-your-skill carnival games, and fundraising local charities selling hamburgers, fried sausage sandwiches, baked goods, and bottles of beer and Irn-Bru.

Games grounds

In the center of the field, eight brawny athletes assemble for the feats of Highland strength. They’re all wearing kilts, with track pants underneath and hoodies over top to protect against the howling wind.

The emcee, who has a marvelously dry wit and seems to revel in how folksy it all is, introduces the competitors. “Gary’s wife tells me he’s the most handsome man in Scotland. That’s her over there watching Gary adoringly from the sideline… Stuart is our youngest participant, at just 16 years old. He just started a new job this week, and already he’s getting high marks. They say he can lift anything.” (We have a word for guys like Stuart back in the States: linebacker.)

The events are all variations on the same concept: hurling objects of awkward shape and size as far as possible.

Things kick off with the weight throw, where the stocky competitors spin like ballerinas before releasing a 28- or 56-pound ball on a chain into the sky. The weight quickly changes course, plummeting decisively to embed itself deep in the wet earth. The hammer throw involves a similar technique with a 26-pound ball on a long stick.

In the “weight over the bar” event, the Highlanders swing a 56-pound weight over a horizontal bar that begins at 10 feet high, and ends at closer to 12 feet. As our emcee keeps reminding us, “That’s like tossing a five-year-old child over a double-decker bus.”

And, of course, there’s the caber toss: Pick up a giant log, take a running start, and release it in an end-over-end motion with enough force to (ideally) make the caber flip all the way over and land at the 12 o’clock position. (On this day, most of the athletes wind up closer to 6. I doubt I could lift the thing to begin with.)

Meanwhile, the track events are running circles around the musclemen: the 100-yard dash, the 1,500 meters, and so on. Trying to fabricate an exciting narrative out of the tiny turnout for the women’s 400-meter, our emcee dramatically intones, “Currently there are only two runners in this race. They are sisters. And they are competitors.”
Footraces

The most impressive event is the hill race, which combines a 1,000-foot mountain ascent with a six-mile footrace. The hill racers begin with a lap in the stadium before disappearing for about an hour. After several minutes, you can begin to faintly see their colorful jerseys bobbing up and down a distant peak. By the time they start trickling back into the stadium, they’ve been gone long enough that even the emcee seems to have forgotten about them.

Finally, the sun emerges. People shed their Gore-tex and bask in the hard-earned rays. At one end of the field, the Highland dancers have escaped from the village hall and are dancing on a covered stage. While one set of little girls carefully toe their routines for the judges, others practice on the sidelines. The youngest lassies, with less control over their swinging limbs, work hard but lack grace. But the older dancers are graceful and poised.

At one point, crossed swords are set on the stage for the performers to delicately dance over. As an indication that the feats of strength may be more my cup of tea, I keep waiting for the dancers to pick up the swords and start fencing. (They never do.)

By the day’s end, the brief breaks of sun have turned into steady sunshine. Cotton-candy clouds echo the candy floss that kids gobble as they watch the final few events, including the village-wide tug-of-war. A good time is had by all…rain or no rain.

Heading back to my car, I realize this may have been the most satisfying, most culturally enlightening, most affordable, and least touristy experience I’ve had in Scotland so far. Taynuilt puts on a great Highland games. But so do dozens of other villages. If you’re heading to Scotland in the summertime, be sure to check the schedule and, if you can, fit one into your itinerary.

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This post was published in 2015.

August 4, 2015January 4, 2018

Rosslyn Chapel: When Great Sights Transcend Pop Culture

For many people, popular culture is an enticing “in” to their travels. When visiting a new city, a strong homing instinct pulls us to the landmarks we’ve seen on TV or in the movies. (On my first visit to New York City, I just had to check out the coffee shop from Seinfeld.) Working on our guidebooks, I could just dismiss the locations attached to famous movies or TV shows. But let’s face it: In Scotland, people are as every bit as interested in seeing the Hogwarts Express viaduct or the Outlander castle as they are in the more “serious” sights.

Of course, pop culture ebbs and flows. Right now, Outlander is on the upswing. Harry Potter has plateaued. And The Da Vinci Code books and DVDs are gathering dust in bargain bins. A decade ago, in the hubbub surrounding Dan Brown’s page-turner, we added a few Da Vinci Code landmarks to our guidebooks. Updating our Edinburgh material on this trip, I came across a listing for the Rosslyn Chapel (where the climax of the novel and the film are set). And, given the declining interest in the Da Vinci Code, I almost took it out of the book without another thought.

But thank goodness I made the trip out to see it. Sitting in the countryside about a half-hour outside of Edinburgh, the Rosslyn Chapel is a riot of carved iconography. It was built in the mid-15th century as the personal burial chapel for the aristocratic St. Clair family. Master stonemasons were brought in to slather the building, inside and out, with a stunning mishmash of Christian, pagan, family, Templar, and other symbolism. While romantics and historians have always been fascinated with Rosslyn, the docent told me that annual visits more than quadrupled after the publication of The Da Vinci Code (funding, among other things, extensive restoration works and a slick new visitors center).

Exploring the carvings, you’ll see everything from the seven deadly sins and the seven acts of mercy to a puffy-cheeked angel playing bagpipes, serenading a skeleton dancing with its human form. The family’s symbol (an “engrailed,” or serrated, cross) is everywhere, as are more than a hundred “green men” — chubby faces with leaves and vines growing out of their orifices. This paradise/Garden of Eden theme is enhanced by a smattering of exotic animals (monkey, elephant, camel, dragon, and a lion fighting a unicorn) and some exotic foliage: aloe vera, trillium, and corn.

Of all the chapel’s fanciful carvings, it’s that last one — the lowly corn — that really captured my imagination. (I wasn’t allowed to take a photo of the corn, but you can find plenty of pictures if you do a Google Images search for “Rosslyn corn.”) These carvings date from the mid-to-late 15th century, certainly well before Columbus sailed the ocean blue, at a time when corn was unknown in Europe. So how did it wind up here? Some claim that the father of the chapel’s builder explored the New World before Columbus. That seems like a stretch. Other theories are more feasible: The St. Clairs were of Norman (Viking) descent, with strong ties to the Orkney Islands (which were part of Norway throughout the Middle Ages). Perhaps some depiction of corn from the Viking explorations of the New World (around A.D. 1000) remained a part of family lore, until it was immortalized in this chapel. The most practical solution: Maybe it’s not corn at all — maybe it’s just stylized stalks of wheat.

Is the Holy Grail, some great Templar treasure, or anything else hidden in a secret underground vault at Rosslyn, as Dan Brown and others have speculated? I don’t know — and don’t care. I just want the skinny on that corn.

Pondering mysteries like this, it’s clear why Rosslyn Chapel still grabs the attention of historians, novelists, and tourists. It also reinforces my feeling that there’s no point being a snob about pop culture, because in many cases, it succeeds in pointing travelers to worthwhile (and otherwise underrated) sights. Just keep in mind that a film or TV appearance is just one more little blip in the centuries-long history of a fascinating place. If you use pop culture as an excuse to travel, that’s wonderful…but let it be a starting point, rather than an end in itself.