My brother Ian and I visited our family's ancestral home in bonny Scotchland in 2008. It felt very much like home. Between the warmth of the people, the daily showers of cool rain, and the sight of gorse a'bloom on the hills, I was very much at ease and at peace. I'm anxious to return again soon. On the journey I kept my notebook handy; and though I did all the driving in our right-hand drive Vauxhall, I took the time to write down some impressions...

April & May 2008

Scotland Journal - ’Riddell House’

It appeared on a great map in the Peebles, Scotland tourism office. It appeared on a Google search, Riddell in the heart of the Scottish Borders. We drove from Peebles to Galashiels, Galashiels to Selkirk where Robert Scott held court, and from Selkirk to a tiny village called Ancrum.

Somewhere on this B-road was my family's home, but it was proving to be as elusive as Brigadoon.


The road grew narrower as it twined through the green and gold. Hedgerows grew taller. Brightly colored pheasants appeared in the brush. We pulled along a cyclist who said, "Riddell", chewing on the word, "that does ring a bell, but it escapes me for the moment. And now you've forced me to start my hill anew from the middle." Of perhaps 20 people asked, she was the first and only one who even claimed to recognize the name. "It has to be here!"

We drove into Ancrum again where some local women directed us to see either the postman or the butcher. The postman failed us as did the butcher's son, though Ian and I both agreed on the remarkable quality of the lamb, beef, and haggis behind the glass. A short old man in umber tweed came into the place. Ewan, the butcher's son, asked him quite loudly, "Riddell. These boys are looking for Riddell. Diya know where t'is?" His bushy grey eyebrows arched slightly and he let out a quiet string of words which I could not understand. Apparently he couldn't remember it.

Everyone said goodbye and a woman added, "I hope you find what it is you're looking for." It was a phrase we had heard from four others since our arrival. Frustrated, hungry, and quite sick of driving, we asked the obvious questions. "Well, what do you want to do now?" "We've come this far... "

"RIDDLE HOOS". A clear voice rang out. "It's Riddle Hoos you want." It was the old man. "You'll drive down this road to Lilliesleaf. Go all the way through it 'til you find Sport Lodge. It will be on your right. And down a little lane, there you'll find Riddle Hoos."

Lilliesleaf was not far. In fact we had passed through it previously and questioned some workmen only to find them not locals. Most of the town's buildings seemed afraid the cross the main street. Midway, through the long row of old cottages, there stood a tall Celtic cross in memory of the village men who fought in World War Two. Twenty six of fifty did not return.

On the other side of the narrow town nothing was signposted; no Riddell or Sport anything. I drove my little silver Vauxhall down a hill and across a bridge shadowed by a tangled stand of old hardwoods -and I stopped. "This is it, Ian." Nothing was marked. "Yes, I think it is", he agreed. Turning down the slender entrance between tall collumnar bushes at the end of a double hedge, I proceeded cautiously. Far down the drive we found a large house with a proper fence and gate. Buttercream in color and with a red tile roof, it seemed to be the main residence. The property unfolded to reveal several tall stone buildings which were ancient, but still in use, evidenced by the present of two proud horses peering out at us from their granite stalls.

Some of the buildings seem to house property workers, though none were seen about. I drove around the grounds as much as I dared. We could see glimpses of a decayed structure through the trees. And with no other options, I drove back to the main house and knocked upon the door. Through the glass I could see a man at a desk. Dressed in outdoor sporting gear he struck me at once as refined and possibly arristocratic. The crisp, almost British accent which greeted me at the door confirmed this. Andrew Grant, the proprietor of the estate, let me into his house.

"Hello, I'm Noel Christian Riddell."

He shook my hand and asked, "Are you a direct descendent?" From the corner of my eye I saw an antique book bound in green leather which read VISITOR BOOK RIDDELL in gold leaf. "So have you been to the house yet?", he asked.

We noticed through the glass a fierce black dog, all teeth, holding Ian at bay. Grant called off the dog and Ian came in much relieved. "You're only the second Riddells to return here since 1823." The walls of his house, which we would learn was called Riddell Mains, were covered with paintings, drawings, and photographs of a great manor house and estate, each one bearing the same word: RIDDELL.

More of the story began to unfold as he explained details of the estate and its history, how the Riddells moved from Roxburgh to North Umberland, and about the great house itself. "Had it not burned in '43, it would have been the longest, continually inhabited home in all of Scotland. You're welcome to go back and see what you like. Oh, and let me give you the key to the tower." Ian and I exchanged glances.

Past Solo, the savage black dog, and into the silver Vauxhall, we drove through a maze of stone buildings and down a twisting lane flanked by tall stone walls and old trees. It opened to lush green fields dotted with sheep. I parked beneath a great oak, still leafless from winter, and there on our left, overlooking the lands stood Riddell, the great house, the cradle of our family.

Though our history in Roxburgh dates to the 700s, the house was built in 1176. Everything inside was consumed in flame in 1943, though the walls survive. 32 windows marked the main wall of the south front alone. Despite the unfathomable loss of history and heritage in the fire, the ruined grey shell of stone conveyed a strong and ancient presence. The great doorway stands proud yet.

Trees and vines were growing through some of the windows and countless tons of stone rubble covered the floors. Charred wood was visible amid the stonework even yet. A fireplace and mantle clung to a wall in midair, the floor beneath long since collapsed. I strained to see past the loss and damage. We stood on the very soil where our family had lived for more than a thousand years, in a house we inhabited for nearly 650 years. If there were ghosts they were quiet.