My First Trip to Scotland - a travel journal

[Noel Christian Riddell]

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.

[Noel Christian Riddell]

Scotland Journal - 'Lilliesleaf'

'Find me sitting at this table
With my friend Finn and my friend John.
Our friend Muldine tells us stories
Of things long gone, things long gone.
And we might take a glass together,
Whisky makes it all so clear.
It fires our dulled imaginations
And it feels so near.'

- Dougie Maclean


9:15 PM at The Plough Inn in the diminutive village of Lilliesleaf, Scotland.

I'm sitting at a low stool with a little gas stove at my back. It casts a delicous heat and illuminates the old hardwood floor with an orange glow. Outside a cold rain streams down the windows and rattles against the roof. Inside the stove and whisky provide more than ample warmth.

I'm drinking Glenmorangie. Four locals trickle in and each is greeted by the five people already at the bar as well as the barman and his wife. Each nods to Ian and I in turn.

Drinks in hand, they find their table and one of them empties a worn wooden box of dominoes. They clatter against each other as one of the women shuffles them.

Savoring the liquid amber from my plain glass cup I hear Douglas, the barman, a stout, steady fellow with a bald forehead announce to the regulars, "Two direct descendents of Riddell' are in the bar. Black apron over a white shirt, he gestures toward us. Everyone turns to say hello again, to shake the hands of two Riddell brothers returned to Lilliesleaf.

Three single malts had I in that cozy room, talking with the locals. A barrel-chested guy with long blonde hair, Duncan, had plenty to say. Scottish independence, local histories, our professions, whisky, immigration, rain, beer, football, and Riddell House, we discussed it all. An idea struck Douglas and he slipped through a door behind the bar, emerging a minute later with an armload of old parchments. "When I first purchased this place, I found these, hundreds of them", he continued, "in fact, the previous owner was going to burn them." He unfolded one document before me and asked me to (try to) read it. Dated 1730-something, the script was clear, written on thick, firm vellum; scarcely yellowed, they were the color of ivory. I read through four sentences of their older English and the barman pointed midway down the page. The word: Riddell

The presence of the documents alone amazed me. To see my name was astounding. Maybe what struck me the most was that Douglas had never bothered to show anyone the documents before our arrival (save his wife).

All nights come to a close. I thought of my warm, welcoming bed at Easter Cottage 100 yards away. Hugs, handshakes, and kind wishes saw us to the door. Once outside in the rain I noticed there were no cars; everyone had walked to the inn. We made our way up the narrow street.

[Noel Christian Riddell]

Fred Flintstone is crunching the ice from his Diet Coke. I follow the three white lines down the leg of his track suit to the strangely patterned carpet on the floor of the Boeing 777 Overwater Model we share where the shredded foil of his Toblerone lies at his feet. We fly through strong turbulence and the entire fuselage twists and groans. Two seats to my right a Swedish woman is losing the battle to keep her white wine and water in their cups, one in each hand.

In one hour we've traveled nearly 600 miles. We've crossed the inland sea that is Lake Michigan, moving in a sweeping arc over central Canada with London lying 3,313 miles away and 38,000 feet beneath me. The irritating sounds of someone shuffling cards over and over comes from a nearby seat.

*

The sky is clear and blue above Edinburgh. Ancient masonry stands beside new construction in balanced, diplomatic harmony. Scottish voices blend with the droning tones of an American man, convinced everyone is interested in his story. Norwegian, French, and Indian voices rise above the clatter of flatware and china, the undeniable sound of a hotel.

Outside is the quiet city. Never have I traveled so far to a place which feels so much like home. Last night's conversation and whisky still on my lips I feel the cold air conditioning chill my back. Gulls in flight cast shadows on a stucco wall. The girl from the Hotel Ibis passes, looking at me with a penetrating, discerning stare, a Mona Lisa smile forming on her face as I look up from my coffee. Regally she turns, glancing back twice, toying with this traveler.

*

Traveling opens one's eyes -to the good of the world and to the ridiculous, the appalling, and absurd. With eleven hours of uncomfortable waiting before me I reflect on the week. Much of it already seems long ago, not unlike a dream or remembered film.

Anxious to be home I stood as soon as the little Airbus jet landed at Heathrow. Baby-Cries-A-Lot had screamed all the way from Edinburgh and was still wailing as the little blue plane settled on the tarmac. Scanning the aisles for my brother, I gave him a cruel smile as I notice his proximity to the banshee child. It was then that I noticed a second infant, stretching its arms and yawning silently in its mother's arms in the seat behind me.

A trio of Italian women had taken note and stood whispering their approval. The mother, probably in her mid-40s, glowed with warmth and tenderness. I smiled at them and wanted to hold the baby.

Later Ian and I stood at the baggage carousel. For the second time at Heathrow everyone had taken their luggage while we stood waiting. "Maybe they've sent our suitcases up the oversize luggage belt." I walked to the other chute, fearing the worst. The mother was there watching for her bags.

"You have a beautiful baby; what's his name?" "Seamus", she said in honeyed Irish tones, her eyes glimmered. "I have a Brennan at home." She looked at me. She was the Virgin Mary, she was Everymother. Smiling, she said, "I saw you on the plane. You look a true Scot. Scottish color, Scottish features", touching my cheek as she spoke. Seamus looked about with clear blue eyes, pure cerulean. I brushed his perfect face with two fingertips. His mother told me of some islands in the west of Scotland which I should visit when time permits and that my tartan was one of the ancient ones ("not false like some").

A woman from BMI drew close to help her. Bob Hoskins was coming toward me with my luggage on a cart. The mother and I wished each other well, agreeing Heathrow was the worst airport in the world, and said goodbye.

*

Edinburgh, Coldstream, Kelso, Peebles, Lilliesleaf, Dundee, Broughty Ferry, and Monifeith. No place in Scotland felt foreign. Conversely London is a racist, multi-cultural hive.

A man from Bangladesh takes my order at AMT Coffee -then promptly waves another Hindi man forth, takes his order, preparing it and completing the sale before starting on mine. The lid is not secure and three drops of the hot Americano splashes, marring my clean white shirt.

We stop to leave our bags at the 'Left Luggage' counter where a smug tandem comprised of college-age Dutch and Indian boys deliberately keep us waiting. [Later we'll find they not only tore the front of my suitcase, but also rifled through our belongings and even took the time to open our shave kits and squirt the liquid soaps all over everything]

The blend of voices is both inspiring and chaotic. London is the only place where I do not hear American voices. Ian and I have a conversation with Timmy from Lagos, Nigeria, a broad-faced man with an immense smile who joins us at our glass table after I indicate 'this seat is open'. Australian, Japanese, Malaysian, German, Italian, Belgian, Arabian, and African accents are all heard within minutes.

Men in gowns and turbans act as if they don't see us. Families from Qatar breeze by, letting their luggage trolleys hit our legs. Indians refuse to yield as they step through a doorway. I am white and hated by these invaders of the city of invaders. Feeling my hands become fists I square my shoulders and press through the human current, growing bitter and rigid. It is probably for the best that Ian and I slip into a corner cafe.

*

Airports are the last true crossroads.

One can easily picture Byzantium at its height, with East and West flowing into each other. Awaiting departure at my gate I love to see travelers disembarking after their flights. Some look weary, but most enter the terminal with smiles and anticipation.

All around me I see brothers embracing, new parents introducing newborns, families reuniting. There is a great confluence of colors. We see an African woman with her hair woven into a tight, ornate chain perfectly arranged in a pattern on her scalp. Turbans, saris, and burkhas appear amid the raincoats and business suits. Silk robes with gold brocade conjure images of The Arabian Nights. I see Danish girls with golden skin and hair, men with auburn curls and tweed caps, children with piercing almond eyes, and Italian families in garish fashion. I want to drop to one knee and photograph the faces, the bitter, weathered faces, the lineless youthful faces, and the stern, focused faces. The human visage is a roadmap of suffering and joy.

*

The kaleidoscope of flesh and proximity couples with curiosity in a traveler's blood and from it is born a sexuality. Appraising eyes meet in flights of imagination and potential.

[Noel Christian Riddell]

Riddell House

'The Tass' - we were pitched out of here along with a few Canadian girls

Riddell Tower

The Church in Lilliesleaf 'whereupon the Laird of Riddell drew his sword, threatening murder, chased the Douglases out of the churchyard... '

[SteveB]

A nice travelogue. Congratulations on the successful find.

Slainte

[Rollo]

Congratulations ! Very interesting journal !

[cessna152towser]

Fabulous story, great photos. I can identify with this all these places as I have lived in Hawick for the past twenty years. For a time my commute to work took me along that narrow main street in Lilliesleaf.
I am wondering what you did to get yourself pitched out of the Tass!!

[Galician]

Nearly eight centuries of occupancy! as a historian, my mind boggles at the thought.

You have indeed had a priceless experience of family roots.

I'm now curious about the fate of those documents the men showed you, and what information you might have gotten from them.

[Noel Christian Riddell]

Thanks everyone. Even with vines and brambles invading the husk of the old house it was EASY to feel the weight of centuries. Oh to have a few months in which to scan the grounds with a metal detector and do a bit of excavating! There is no telling what one might uncover.

In the last picture you see us standing on a bridge. It was built by Sir John Buchanan Riddell in the 1790s. The River Ale (Ale Water) was diverted to flow beneath it.

The house itself remained inhabited until 1943. It was being used to quarter the ladies of the British Land Army during the war. One young woman built a fire in a long-unused fireplace and its blocked chimney began to burn. The local fire brigade quickly extinguished the flames and went on their way -not knowing the old straw/mud insulation was still smoldering. The whole place was consumed in conflagration in the night. Fortunately no one died, but a great piece of history was lost.

This is Riddell House in its heyday:
http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/inde...ageID=38001895

When I return to Scotland I hope to visit Traquair House which is contemporaneous with Riddell House in virtually every way (save, of course, that they were Catholic and we were Presbyterians ).

Recovered from one cornice of the house was the oldest known rendering of our coat-of-arms. It now resides in the museum at Hawick. Sadly I didn't learn this until I was on the airplane heading home!
http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/inde...ageID=58664222

I can't say exactly what all the old documents at the Plough Inn were about. There were land deeds, court records, marriages, etc. And to think the previous owner of the tavern was going to BURN THEM!

As for the Tass, I think I'll hang most of the blame on our Canadian counterparts. There was a great band playing that night. In fact they played a great many songs at my request ('Both Sides of the Tweed', 'Caledonia', 'Feel So Near', etc.).

[Noel Christian Riddell]

What I fail to explain in the journal paragraphs is how many places we visited. We slept in Edinburgh, Peebles, Lilliesleaf, and Dundee (Monifeith really). But we were also in Broughty Ferry, Angus, Arbroath, Kelso, Coldstream, Selkirk, Galashiels, Melrose, and a few other places.

I cannot wait to return.