May 9, 2013

EDITOR’S ESSAY, FINEST HOUR 144, AUTUMN 2009

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Scotland shot itself in the foot in August, releasing on “compassionate grounds” a terrorist responsible for compassionately bombing 270 people over Lockerbie—for which the dictator Qadaffi quickly arranged an impromptu celebration: which says more about our modern tendency to turn all four cheeks than it does about Islamic fascists. The Scotland we know is a different place, steeped in heroic figures and great deeds. Most of Britain’s wartime intelligence effort was directed by Scots. Churchill was born on St. Andrew’s Day, married a Scot, commanded a Scottish batallion, and forever celebrated the disproportionate contribution of Scots in both world wars. We were reminded of this Churchillian Scotland in July, when we logged 550 miles from Edinburgh to Skye and Argyll, beginning with a 50,000- strong celebration and Scottish games, “The Gathering” at Edinburgh on July 22nd-23rd.

Scotland had declared 2009, the 250th birthday of Robert Burns, a “Homecoming,” and there were more foreigners in Edinburgh that weekend than natives. We dined at a pub with a charming Aussie from Canberra:

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“So tell me, mate, what’d the blinkin’ Poms ever do for our two countries, hey?”
“What about parliamentary democracy?” (I took a Churchillian approach to the debate.)
“Yeah, well…what else?”
“Magna Carta, Habeas Corpus, Trial by Jury….Imagine if we’d been colonized by the Germans or Russians.”
“All right, but what else, mate?”
“Beer.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that…”

After dining with Professor Paul and Rosy Addison at the Royal Scots Club we headed for Skye, driving a very quick VW Passat diesel six-speed. (It is useful to have a fast car in Britain. In 1974, at the outset of what is now 50,000 miles of UK driving, I asked a local why they always pass on curves. “Because,” he laughed, “we don’t have anything else.”)

Skye is magnificent, though you need at least a week there. Barbara found a fine inn where a Michelin chef produced five-star dinners. We walked, drove one-track roads, saw gardens, castles, ruins and sheep. We even did some sailing in the Sound of Sleat, which is better than its name sounds, despite stiff 25 knot breezes and Atlantic rollers.

In the Scotland we love are many places to reward Churchillians. Approaching Edinburgh from the south, you should visit Lennoxlove, near where Rudolf Hess parachuted in 1941, hoping to make contact with pro-Hitler elements and take Britain out of the war. (Instead he met the Duke of Hamilton, who locked him up.) Edinburgh is full of history, including the National War Museum, documenting Scotland’s role in Britain’s wars for the past 200 years.

Crossing the Firth of Forth, where Union Jacks snapped in the wind as Admiral Beatty watched the German High Seas Fleet sail into captivity in 1919, you reach Dundee, which Churchill served as MP for fourteen years. A vibrant modern city, Dundee is filled with Churchilliana: Sheriff Court, where WSC greeted his supporters in 1908; Marryat Hall, where he was declared the loser in 1922; Caird Hall, where he defied hecklers; Meadowside St. Paul’s Church, where The Churchill Centre helped subscribe to a plaque marking his tenure. In the lobby of the Queen’s Hotel, Churchill’s headquarters, is the plaque unveiled by Molly and Marcus Frost during the fifteenth Churchill Tour in 2008 (see Chartwell Bulletin 17).

For Churchillians willing to drive far north and take the Orkney ferry, there is Scapa Flow, the great fleet anchorage which Churchill visited as First Lord of the Admiralty in both World Wars. There in October 1939, the German submarine U-47 skillfully navigated a tiny strait and torpedoed the battleship Royal Oak, which rests on the bottom, still oozing oil, like the Arizona at Pearl Harbor. Every year, Royal Navy divers place a new White Ensign on the stern of this war memorial. After the sinking, the surrounding islets were connected by the Churchill Barriers: huge blocks of granite barring entry except through defended passages.

Near Fort William at Spean Bridge, in a rugged glen where hawks soar, is an impressive monument to the Commando units, raised by Churchill to raid Europe when the Germans seemed unbeatable. (WSC to Mountbatten: “Everyone is thinking defensively; you are to think offensively, and pray inform me at what time we may expect to reestablish a lodgment on the continent.”) Farther south, at Strachur on the Kintyre Peninsula, is Creggans Inn, established by WSC’s friends Sir Fitzroy and Lady Veronica Maclean, still carrying on their tradition of fine Scottish cuisine.

We drove to Strachur on a lovely single-track road through Glen Orchy. Saturday it was back to Edinburgh over the A811, which offers magnificent scenery and no traffic to speak of from Loch Lomond to Stirling.

I really do find driving in Scotland as much fun as it was thirty years ago. (England, sadly, is now just one big traffic jam.) Also, there’s a wider choice of whisky. Jura Superstition is the best malt I ever tasted, but I’m biased because I’ve been twice to Jura, where Orwell, no doubt nursing the odd dram, wrote 1984.

Never give up on the Scots. Over long years, Scotland has been with us, do or die, and the outrage expressed over the terrorist’s release was as great there as anywhere. RML