“When Bonnie Prince Charlie came to Scotland in 1745 to make his gallant but unsuccessful attempt to regain the throne of his ancestors, he presented the recipe to a MacKinnon of Skye as a reward for his services,” I’d pronounce, not really knowing what or where Skye was (this was before smartphones and Wikipedia). There was also Drambuie: I don’t remember the first time I tried the honey-sweetened take on Scotch, and I’m not sure it ranks in the pantheon of great whiskys, but for years my favourite bar trick was to spin the dark red bottle around and proudly read out my family history to my drinking companions. McSkimming – and token gestures such as wearing a vest with our clan’s “hunting tartan” on my wedding day. Haggis was served at my father’s 50th birthday party, but I avoided eating it after hearing what it was made of – sheep’s innards.īeing Scottish mainly meant having to correct misspellings – Mckinnon is the most common, although I’ve also received mail for Mr. I felt more in touch with my mother’s Irish side and my grandmother’s French ancestry than with the traditions associated with my family’s name. While growing up in Ottawa, being of Scottish descent meant little to me. My starting point is the story on the back of a whisky bottle. I decided that, before answering, I need to better understand the land my ancestors left so long ago, and perhaps a little of what it means to be Scottish today – as well as what’s at stake in next week’s crucial vote. But wherever I go in Scotland I am inevitably asked: “How would you vote, if you could?” Of course, I’m not quite a participant – only those who have lived in Scotland for the past five years may cast a ballot on Thursday.
Now, their cause is within “my” people’s grasp. My ancestors died fighting for Scottish independence, most recently with Charles Edward Stuart, better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie – the “young pretender” to the British throne who led them to disaster at Culloden. And the history that has led to next week’s referendum on leaving the United Kingdom is interwoven with that of my family. My name adorns hotels and war monuments from Glasgow to the Isle of Skye. But now in faraway Scotland, I’m immediately recognized – by a man in a Glasgow church with an accent so thick his Rs rumble like an old car starting in winter – as “one of them.”
0 kommentar(er)
