"Yes, very happy he's gone now."
"Who?"
"My husband. Wouldn't have approved of all this. Drinking. Socializing. Stay in the kitchen!, he'd say."
"Ah. Well, congratulations on getting rid of him then. Cheers!"
John, a born-and-bred Londoner, knocked back another Guinness as the old lady walked away. It was his fourth of the hour. Going by his composure, I would have guessed it was his first.
"Who... who was that?"
"Some batty crone. Came up to me a few hours ago grumbling about her dead cat. Now she's moved on to her husband. I don't care to hear what's next!"
Here I was, sitting at the pub of an inn in a tiny Scottish village, listening to a senile lady discussing her deceased family to an an insurance salesman - a complete stranger - who downed beers like they were M&Ms. What on earth was happening?
. . .
The night before, I had arranged plans to wake up early, buy a bus day pass, and head off to Dunfermline, a small Scottish city. Well, when I say small, I mean it in terms of India. 11 million in Bangalore can make pretty much anything seem small. Dunfermline's population is a mammoth 50,000, which in Scottish terms, is essentially a civilization in itself. For me, I think that's about the size of my apartment complex.
I digress. I was ready to head out to Dunfermline, camera battery charged, alarm(s) set, exact change for the bus driver in hand. I sent out a quick text to Sam, asking if he would be interested in joining. It was a Saturday, after all, and for two study abroad students looking to see as much of Scotland as they could, it was an opportunity worth taking.
At 8:30 sharp, we greeted each other at the St. Andrews bus station. A small little shack, with some brochures, a nicely laid out map, a paid restroom, and weird semi-chairs that are common around bus stands. What's the point of those? I can perfectly well lean against a wall, and don't need some sort of implement to figure out how to rest my weight on my bum, without completely sitting down. I mean, which genius decided that instead of installing some nice seats, they would fix a series of plates four feet off the ground, at 45˚ angles? Useless.
I digress. There we were, waiting for the X24 to show up, on its way to Fife's largest town. Why Dunfermline? Well, the city is home to Andrew Carnegie, one of the world's most prominent philanthropists, and a big name across the pond. The gorgeous Pittencrieff park is home to multiple museums, a gazebo overlooking a water feature, and a local peacock, who wanders around the city much to the ire of vehicular traffic. No, I'm not lying. There's an actual resident peacock who will walk around Dunfermline until he is tired. Or bored.
But if I'm honest, there is one thing that draws me to a place more than anything else. No, it's not fudge donuts. That is high up on the list, however. Speaking of, if you ever make it to St. Andrews (or Cupar or Dundee), go out of your way to grab a fudge donut from Fisher and Donaldson. It's not just divine - you'll start to see the world in brighter colors.
It's a nice, juicy castle. I want to see crumbling stone stacked on top of one another, walk through broken archways, and smell musty cellars. I want to stroll through the courtyard and breathe in the crisp air. I want to run up and down the spiral staircases, running my hand along the ancient walls. I want to feel like a King.
Dunfermline Abbey was on my list. Yes, I have a list, created when I was in the 10th grade. I was going to check that one off today, even if it meant waking up at an ungodly hour (any time in the AMs), braving the infamous Scottish weather, and dodging a highly territorial peacock. And by god, we made it.
The abbey itself was nice. The walls were nice. The stones were nice. The receptionist at the ticket office was nice.
Overall, it was nice.
And then we sat down for lunch at a local pub. The food - not so nice. But it was good company. Generally, I'm a lone wolf. Friends know me as a person who likes his space. Enough so that some people tend to avoid me if I'm in a mood. Today, however, I was happy to have another friend accompanying me. Somehow - and I don't quite know why - it makes it easier to appreciate the history when you can talk to someone about it.
It was just past noon, and we had explored the entirety of Dunfermline. A nice walk around the park, a look at the Abbey, and a pitstop at some vendors who were selling some fresh fish and local cheese. Scotland, if anything, is pleasant. Despite the volatile weather and raging alcoholism, it has this annoying ability to just make you feel... happy.
So we sat down, finished our meal, and decided that we weren't going to go back home. After all, we had spent a whole £8 on day passes, and neither the Indian kid nor the Jewish kid was going to let that go to waste. Apologies if that's a bit racist. It's true though.
A quick Google search later, and we found out about a tiny village close by called Aberdour. This time, I really mean it. It was tiny. 1,600 people. That's less than my extended family!
So off we went. The bus dropped us off at the village centre, a large metropolis that spanned 50, maybe 60 yards, and it was bustling. A grandmother hobbled out of an antique shop, her tote bag hanging from the elbow. A motorcycle whizzed by. A few birds chirped. Yep, this was Scotland all right.
A large sign pointed us towards Aberdour Castle. Ah, you see, I told you. I can sniff out a castle from a thousand miles away. It's no coincidence that this village that we landed up in also had a castle!
One thing I don't like doing is spoiling things. So I won't spoil Aberdour Castle for you. If you care enough, you'll find information and pictures online. A little over an hour later, the two of us walked away with grins plastered on our faces. Some things you just need to experience for yourself. A chilly ocean breeze, two huskies running around the open fields, and a castle. What more do you need?
There was time to kill. A lot of time. In Scotland, time moves slower than normal, and it isn't a bad thing. Every stone has history to it. You can feel it as you walk down the streets. The buildings are trying to speak to you, their whispers lost in the stiff winds. The stories are everywhere. My walking slowed. This wasn't New York, where you walk with a purpose, head down, headphones in, arms pumping. Scotland changes you. Eyes up, ears open. Listen closely, and you'll start to learn something new every second.
I digress. Next to the castle was a church. A little hut, more like, with a well-kept cemetery and trimmed hedges. Sam and I pushed the old wooden doors aside, stepping into the cool, dark room. Shafts of crimson, gold, and violet streamed through the stained glass window near the altar. Three rows of pews sat neatly in line, enough to seat a small gathering. A crucifix stood at the front, modest, majestic.
"1200 AD, it was built. Isn't it beautiful?"
The light Fife accent cut through the silence. The lady from the castle had joined us here as well.
"Sometimes I like to end my day here. Not praying, but just out of respect for our ancestors."
Goosebumps. It's not often that you are in an 800 year old hut. And to think, this little room with a small wooden cross at the front and wooden seats, would have been so important for Aberdour. We were visitors in a holy place. It was our pilgrimage of sorts. Traveling thousands of miles, enrolling in a foreign university, hopping on a bus, wanting to waste some more time, ending up at this church. No, it was more than just a church. It was a portal. A connection between us and them. A fracture in linear time.
I digress. We headed out of the church, made our way to the stunning beach, underestimated the cold, and ran back to the village. Fingers frozen, noses runny, and itching for some hot tea, we hurried over to the closest pub we could find. Turns out, at 6pm, every resident of Aberdour gathers at Foresters Arms to have a pint. Not a chance we could squeeze past the entryway, never mind reach the bar.
20 minutes later, we reluctantly walked into the Aberdour Hotel, the only facility that wasn't packed like a tin of sardines. As we walked into the bar, our faces fell. Yet again, the room was packed. Slowly, we turned around, when right at the moment, an angel from heaven tapped on my shoulder.
"Do you lads need a seat? Pop down over here, there's plenty of room!"
In five minutes, we felt at home. John introduced us to his friends, who were having their university reunion party in Fife, far away from their school in Aberdeen. Aberdeen, Aberdour, I guess someone messed up the invites. The names in Scotland are truly weird. You'd think that they'd be somewhat similar to their English cousins, but nope, not even in the same realm. Also, they don't appreciate it when you call them their "cousins", especially after a certain... ahem... exit.
I digress. So here we were, crammed into a booth, steaming coffees in front of us, a fireplace crackling at our side, and a bunch of drunk 40 year olds shouting at the top of their lungs. John, an insurance salesman, was trying to shoo away an old lady who had crashed their party, while ordering his fifth Guinness since we had arrived. It was as if we were part of their gang. We talked politics. We talked travel. We talked London, we talked New York. There was laughter, banter, yelling, and singing. It was magical.
And then we asked them why they chose Aberdour. After all, what can this small village offer than Edinburgh, Glasgow, or Aberdeen couldn't? John's face turned solemn.
"Our friend... she isn't feeling too well. Not well at all. We thought we'd have one last get together before- you know, it just isn't possible any more. Here, in her hometown... it just felt right. Out with a bang, they say."
. . .
The night before, I knew how my day was going to pan out. A scenic bus ride, quick stop to eat some breakfast, and tickets to Dunfermline Abbey. Walk around the town, snap some pictures, come home.
I didn't realize that it would be one of the most memorable days of my life.
I didn't meet any celebrities. I didn't win the lottery. I wasn't chased by a dozen Brazilian models.
Instead, I had interacted with history in a way I didn't think was possible. Usually, I focus on the stories that the walls tell me. The bricks and mortar, the rotting wood, the rusting metal. This time, it was the people of today, the alive, the well, the present. The ones whose lives were intertwined with Aberdour's history. The fabric of time had been torn and stitched together. Each seam and each thread wove a new story.
My interactions with this small village in Scotland had began with an ancient structure, and ended with the lives of the people who gave the village its identity. Dunfermline, in my books, went down as a pretty town with a nice abbey. Aberdour's story... is surreal. It is one of history, adventure, experiences, people. What had begun as an innocent trip transformed into a humbling, haunting day.
The memory of Aberdour is more than a polaroid. It has affected me, changed the way I look at travel. Yes, the castles are old, and the abbeys are ancient. But at the end of the day, it's just a date. What if that number - 1200 AD, for example - can be paired with a tale? A tale of adventure, happiness, and sorrow? One that makes you question, think beyond the village as just another village?
This happened a year ago, almost to the day. I learned a valuable lesson that chilly February evening. History is not about the past.
History is about the memories of the past, the people of the present, and the stories of the future.
"Who?"
"My husband. Wouldn't have approved of all this. Drinking. Socializing. Stay in the kitchen!, he'd say."
"Ah. Well, congratulations on getting rid of him then. Cheers!"
John, a born-and-bred Londoner, knocked back another Guinness as the old lady walked away. It was his fourth of the hour. Going by his composure, I would have guessed it was his first.
"Who... who was that?"
"Some batty crone. Came up to me a few hours ago grumbling about her dead cat. Now she's moved on to her husband. I don't care to hear what's next!"
Here I was, sitting at the pub of an inn in a tiny Scottish village, listening to a senile lady discussing her deceased family to an an insurance salesman - a complete stranger - who downed beers like they were M&Ms. What on earth was happening?
. . .
The night before, I had arranged plans to wake up early, buy a bus day pass, and head off to Dunfermline, a small Scottish city. Well, when I say small, I mean it in terms of India. 11 million in Bangalore can make pretty much anything seem small. Dunfermline's population is a mammoth 50,000, which in Scottish terms, is essentially a civilization in itself. For me, I think that's about the size of my apartment complex.
I digress. I was ready to head out to Dunfermline, camera battery charged, alarm(s) set, exact change for the bus driver in hand. I sent out a quick text to Sam, asking if he would be interested in joining. It was a Saturday, after all, and for two study abroad students looking to see as much of Scotland as they could, it was an opportunity worth taking.
At 8:30 sharp, we greeted each other at the St. Andrews bus station. A small little shack, with some brochures, a nicely laid out map, a paid restroom, and weird semi-chairs that are common around bus stands. What's the point of those? I can perfectly well lean against a wall, and don't need some sort of implement to figure out how to rest my weight on my bum, without completely sitting down. I mean, which genius decided that instead of installing some nice seats, they would fix a series of plates four feet off the ground, at 45˚ angles? Useless.
I digress. There we were, waiting for the X24 to show up, on its way to Fife's largest town. Why Dunfermline? Well, the city is home to Andrew Carnegie, one of the world's most prominent philanthropists, and a big name across the pond. The gorgeous Pittencrieff park is home to multiple museums, a gazebo overlooking a water feature, and a local peacock, who wanders around the city much to the ire of vehicular traffic. No, I'm not lying. There's an actual resident peacock who will walk around Dunfermline until he is tired. Or bored.
But if I'm honest, there is one thing that draws me to a place more than anything else. No, it's not fudge donuts. That is high up on the list, however. Speaking of, if you ever make it to St. Andrews (or Cupar or Dundee), go out of your way to grab a fudge donut from Fisher and Donaldson. It's not just divine - you'll start to see the world in brighter colors.
It's a nice, juicy castle. I want to see crumbling stone stacked on top of one another, walk through broken archways, and smell musty cellars. I want to stroll through the courtyard and breathe in the crisp air. I want to run up and down the spiral staircases, running my hand along the ancient walls. I want to feel like a King.
Dunfermline Abbey was on my list. Yes, I have a list, created when I was in the 10th grade. I was going to check that one off today, even if it meant waking up at an ungodly hour (any time in the AMs), braving the infamous Scottish weather, and dodging a highly territorial peacock. And by god, we made it.
 |
| Dunfermline Abbey, in all its glory |
Overall, it was nice.
And then we sat down for lunch at a local pub. The food - not so nice. But it was good company. Generally, I'm a lone wolf. Friends know me as a person who likes his space. Enough so that some people tend to avoid me if I'm in a mood. Today, however, I was happy to have another friend accompanying me. Somehow - and I don't quite know why - it makes it easier to appreciate the history when you can talk to someone about it.
It was just past noon, and we had explored the entirety of Dunfermline. A nice walk around the park, a look at the Abbey, and a pitstop at some vendors who were selling some fresh fish and local cheese. Scotland, if anything, is pleasant. Despite the volatile weather and raging alcoholism, it has this annoying ability to just make you feel... happy.
So we sat down, finished our meal, and decided that we weren't going to go back home. After all, we had spent a whole £8 on day passes, and neither the Indian kid nor the Jewish kid was going to let that go to waste. Apologies if that's a bit racist. It's true though.
A quick Google search later, and we found out about a tiny village close by called Aberdour. This time, I really mean it. It was tiny. 1,600 people. That's less than my extended family!
So off we went. The bus dropped us off at the village centre, a large metropolis that spanned 50, maybe 60 yards, and it was bustling. A grandmother hobbled out of an antique shop, her tote bag hanging from the elbow. A motorcycle whizzed by. A few birds chirped. Yep, this was Scotland all right.
A large sign pointed us towards Aberdour Castle. Ah, you see, I told you. I can sniff out a castle from a thousand miles away. It's no coincidence that this village that we landed up in also had a castle!
One thing I don't like doing is spoiling things. So I won't spoil Aberdour Castle for you. If you care enough, you'll find information and pictures online. A little over an hour later, the two of us walked away with grins plastered on our faces. Some things you just need to experience for yourself. A chilly ocean breeze, two huskies running around the open fields, and a castle. What more do you need?
 |
| The grand hall at Aberdour Castle. You've seen grander. |
I digress. Next to the castle was a church. A little hut, more like, with a well-kept cemetery and trimmed hedges. Sam and I pushed the old wooden doors aside, stepping into the cool, dark room. Shafts of crimson, gold, and violet streamed through the stained glass window near the altar. Three rows of pews sat neatly in line, enough to seat a small gathering. A crucifix stood at the front, modest, majestic.
 |
| The ancient church. Modest, but stunning. |
The light Fife accent cut through the silence. The lady from the castle had joined us here as well.
"Sometimes I like to end my day here. Not praying, but just out of respect for our ancestors."
Goosebumps. It's not often that you are in an 800 year old hut. And to think, this little room with a small wooden cross at the front and wooden seats, would have been so important for Aberdour. We were visitors in a holy place. It was our pilgrimage of sorts. Traveling thousands of miles, enrolling in a foreign university, hopping on a bus, wanting to waste some more time, ending up at this church. No, it was more than just a church. It was a portal. A connection between us and them. A fracture in linear time.
I digress. We headed out of the church, made our way to the stunning beach, underestimated the cold, and ran back to the village. Fingers frozen, noses runny, and itching for some hot tea, we hurried over to the closest pub we could find. Turns out, at 6pm, every resident of Aberdour gathers at Foresters Arms to have a pint. Not a chance we could squeeze past the entryway, never mind reach the bar.
20 minutes later, we reluctantly walked into the Aberdour Hotel, the only facility that wasn't packed like a tin of sardines. As we walked into the bar, our faces fell. Yet again, the room was packed. Slowly, we turned around, when right at the moment, an angel from heaven tapped on my shoulder.
"Do you lads need a seat? Pop down over here, there's plenty of room!"
In five minutes, we felt at home. John introduced us to his friends, who were having their university reunion party in Fife, far away from their school in Aberdeen. Aberdeen, Aberdour, I guess someone messed up the invites. The names in Scotland are truly weird. You'd think that they'd be somewhat similar to their English cousins, but nope, not even in the same realm. Also, they don't appreciate it when you call them their "cousins", especially after a certain... ahem... exit.
I digress. So here we were, crammed into a booth, steaming coffees in front of us, a fireplace crackling at our side, and a bunch of drunk 40 year olds shouting at the top of their lungs. John, an insurance salesman, was trying to shoo away an old lady who had crashed their party, while ordering his fifth Guinness since we had arrived. It was as if we were part of their gang. We talked politics. We talked travel. We talked London, we talked New York. There was laughter, banter, yelling, and singing. It was magical.
And then we asked them why they chose Aberdour. After all, what can this small village offer than Edinburgh, Glasgow, or Aberdeen couldn't? John's face turned solemn.
"Our friend... she isn't feeling too well. Not well at all. We thought we'd have one last get together before- you know, it just isn't possible any more. Here, in her hometown... it just felt right. Out with a bang, they say."
. . .
The night before, I knew how my day was going to pan out. A scenic bus ride, quick stop to eat some breakfast, and tickets to Dunfermline Abbey. Walk around the town, snap some pictures, come home.
I didn't realize that it would be one of the most memorable days of my life.
I didn't meet any celebrities. I didn't win the lottery. I wasn't chased by a dozen Brazilian models.
Instead, I had interacted with history in a way I didn't think was possible. Usually, I focus on the stories that the walls tell me. The bricks and mortar, the rotting wood, the rusting metal. This time, it was the people of today, the alive, the well, the present. The ones whose lives were intertwined with Aberdour's history. The fabric of time had been torn and stitched together. Each seam and each thread wove a new story.
My interactions with this small village in Scotland had began with an ancient structure, and ended with the lives of the people who gave the village its identity. Dunfermline, in my books, went down as a pretty town with a nice abbey. Aberdour's story... is surreal. It is one of history, adventure, experiences, people. What had begun as an innocent trip transformed into a humbling, haunting day.
The memory of Aberdour is more than a polaroid. It has affected me, changed the way I look at travel. Yes, the castles are old, and the abbeys are ancient. But at the end of the day, it's just a date. What if that number - 1200 AD, for example - can be paired with a tale? A tale of adventure, happiness, and sorrow? One that makes you question, think beyond the village as just another village?
This happened a year ago, almost to the day. I learned a valuable lesson that chilly February evening. History is not about the past.
History is about the memories of the past, the people of the present, and the stories of the future.
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