Tuesday 25th September 2018, Cumwitton, near Carlisle
Our next venture was also quite exciting. We went in search of the Holy Grail! This, according to Dan Brown's 2003 novel, is to be found somewhere in the 15th century Rosslyn Chapel on the outskirts of Edinburgh in the heart of Midlothian. Grail or not it was an interesting place to visit and the decorative carving was something we have long thought we really should see before we stop travelling.
In fact, I was a little disappointed. The building has been neglected for so long that damp and mould have done much to erode the fine carving - which I was surprised to discover has been executed in sandstone rather than a more enduring stone such as marble or granite. It has been given a wash of lime at some stage in its history to conserve it. Unfortunately this has robbed the carving of its fine lines. There is hope however that with the sudden, seemingly unstoppable flow of money still pouring in to the chapel coffers following the fictitious claims of Dan Brown in his novel The Da Vinci Code based on the acclaimed book The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, work can begin on restoring the carvings by gradually removing the accretions of lime wash currently "protecting" the walls. In fact, it would seem that the lime wash sealed moisture into the mouldings, adding to the speed at which they have been deteriorating.
Rosslyn Chapel. Roslin. Scotland.
Rosslyn Chapel. Roslin. Scotland.
Rosslyn Chapel. Roslin. Scotland.
Somewhere in this chapel, according to the novel, lay the secret of the Holy Grail. It has always seemed a highly unlikely story to us but Hollywood made it into a block buster and, from struggling to do basic conservation work with visits numbering around 32,000 a year, overnight visits shot up to 145,000 and counting! I thought the novel good fun and a great page-turner but Ian was always too much of a realist to be seduced by the story.
We continued our journey along winding roads with narrow stone bridges towards Galashiels and on to Melrose where we hoped to camp. Diversions sent us off along massive detours, even passing the grounds of the estate of Sir Walter Scott along the way. When we finally reached Melrose the campsite, which was nothing very special, demanded £36 to park Modestine for the night! Apparently it is run by the Caravanning and Motorhome club who wanted to charge us an extra £12 as non-members. Even without that charge the site wasn't worth it so we declined their invitation and then spent a nightmarish hour trying to locate somewhere more reasonable before sunset. (I cannot drive after dark since my eye problem.) The "open all year" campsite in Selkirk was closed up with a barrier to prevent even Modestine from limbo dancing her way beneath. Eventually we were forced to return to Galashiels where a site was marked on our map but not in any of our directories. Turning in we found reception closed but lots of people coming and going. We quickly came to the conclusion that we'd entered a travellers' camp. However, they seemed friendly enough and assured us the owner would find us next morning. We hooked up to the electricity but in the darkness we could not find a water tap but had several bottles on board anyway. The real shock was the sanitation! There were three toilets used by everyone. One didn't flush and one didn't lock. there were three sinks, one with a scalding hot tap the others without water at all! As for the showers .... We did no more than look and shudder!
A little dog, whose incoherent Glaswegian owner told us was called Snowy, took a fancy to us and settled on our doormat. Given the state of its coat it we renamed him Slushy. He was cute in a filthy, matted sort of way.
Surprisingly we slept really well, exhausted by the long journey and the frustration of finding anywhere for the night. No thought of washing next morning. We never saw anyone else doing so either. We drove back to the entrance where the owner had just arrived. Ian told him we'd spent the night and offered him £10 for the use we'd made of the "facilities". The owner said it should be £12 with electricity. Seeing Ian's expression he quickly added that "£10 will do fine". So we lived to fight another day.
Feeling grubby and unwashed, as we were, we headed back to the home of Sir Walter Scott, set in parkland just outside of Galashiels. He was the J. K. Rowlins of Scottish literature back in the early 19th century. We have both tried him but both found him verbose and difficult to enjoy. Ian is currently reading Waverley and says it is growing on him. I have only tried Ivanhoe which I read as a teenager when in France so it was in French. Given my knowledge of French back then and the complexity of Scott's writing style I don't think I really benefited much. However, that does not prevent us from finding out more about the man and his writings. There was obviously money to be earned it writing adventure fiction and he was the heart-throb of the day. Jane Austen was supposed to have been an avid fan of his writings.
Sir Walter Scott, Abbotsford. Scotland.
Sir Walter Scott, Death mask. Abbotsford. Scotland.
His home, Abbotsford, was built on the profits from his writing. It is a magnificent Scottish castle set in wonderful gardens with woodland walks and the river Harris visible across the gardens from within the house. We spent the entire morning there. It was excellent and the gardens were bright and beautiful in the autumn sunshine.
Abbotsford. Scotland.
Abbotsford. Scotland.
Gardens. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Gardens. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Sundial. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Entrance hall. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Study. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Library. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Library. Broadside ballads. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Drawing room. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Drawing room. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Armory. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Dining room. Abbotsford. Scotland.
We'd not stopped for breakfast before leaving the awful campsite so used the cafe while waiting for the house to open. After coffee and the usual horrid Scottish cheese scones (why do they always seem to add sugar to them?) and the use of the impeccable facilities with lashings of hot water to freshen up we felt back to normal. We wandered the house with an audio guide that explained the lay out , talked of the artifacts in each room, gave information about the family and the contacts Scott had made through his writing. In particular it mentioned among invited guests, J. M. W. Turner, the artist, who was commissioned to produce a number of illustrations for Scott's novels and poems as well as for certain topographical works with which Scott was involved. Their friendship was turbulent but long-lasting. Two great men of their age, both talented but from completely different backgrounds and sectors of society.
J. M. W. Turner's Paintbox. Abbotsford. Scotland.
Scott built Abbotsford on the strength of his publications. However, he overreached himself and built up debts. He was let down by publishers and eventually found himself with debts of £145,000 - around £10,000,000 in today's money! He refused to declare himself bankrupt, thereby leaving his creditors to suffer the loss, and he set to work to earn enough to repay his debts. By the time he died he had halved the outstanding amount. We were told he actually worked himself to death in the attempt. I suppose his debt was the nation's gain. He is Scotland's super-hero with his writings of derring-do! Following his death the publication rights to his novels passed to his creditors. Thus his outstanding debt was more than repaid by subsequent sales.
We left Scott and Galashiels behind and headed south through the glens and moorland of southern Scotland. The landscape became vast, empty and very beautiful. This was the land of the Reivers where the English and Scots would send out raiding parties across the borders to steal each other's cattle and sheep. Neither side took any care about violence, pillage or even murder. It was an empty wilderness where law and order were unenforceable. Now though it is one of the most remote areas of Great Britain. We had not only the surrounding countryside to ourselves, but also the road. For miles we never saw another car or person. Apart from flights of birds preparing to migrate for the winter, sheep out on the moors were the only creatures that seemed to be moving.
Soon we were at Carlisle. We had arranged to meet up with our friends Peter and Jill at their home near Carlisle this morning so made our way to the campsite we'd used on out way up to Scotland back at the end of August. The same nice lady welcomed us back, even remembering we had friends living just a few miles away. She charged us £14 with electricity and hot showers. We were only too glad to clean up and cook ourselves a hot meal.
