How COVID delivered us from a concrete jungle to an evergreen holiday cottage in the Highlands
When we crash-landed in Nethy Bridge that first COVID summer, it was like the moment Dorothy’s world went from grayscale to Technicolor.
Originally from Aberdeenshire, we left Scotland when work took us to Texas in 2012. Two kids and another on the way later, the events of 2020 had certainly dulled the sheen of our brave new life abroad. Borders closed and flight paths were cancelled. Factor in remote working and a foreseeable without seeing family, and the conversation that began ’Shall we just get out of here?’ was very brief indeed.
We packed three suitcases for the four (and a half) of us and boarded a plane bound for Scotland. Did we even empty the fridge? Unclear. This was a 'flee first, ask questions later' situation. With Scotland coming out of a full lockdown the day we landed, we headed for the only place open to us: an empty investment property in Cairngorms National Park that my in-laws had been about to sell before real estate was added to the list of restrictions.
We’re not in Texas anymore ...
First impressions: green. So green! Bear in mind, our Houston home is situated within a neighbourhood called Green Trails. And it is, by the standards of much of the Gulf Coast, a notably leafy suburb of HOA-mandated live oaks and lawns. (Truly: it’s written into our deeds that we must have no fewer than three oaks in our front yard.) But no two greens are created equal: to make Houston 'green' requires a sprinkler positioned beneath each and every tree. To make Scotland green, the Heavens merely need to do their celestial thing. And they do, reliably on cue, and often with a few bonus sprinkles thrown in too!
But once my eyes had calibrated to the verdant hues of the upper canopies, I looked down at the forest floor and I saw a purple haze. I kept asking the locals — again and again — 'Is this an especially good summer for the heather?' They didn’t understand the question. Because every summer the air fills with that familiar light honey-like aroma. And like all smells — alas, like all beautiful things — you get used to it. The thrumming of happy bees is the soundtrack to this season as they gather nectar and turn it into lavalike liquid gold. Let's just say: there’s a reason ling honey sells for the highest price of all the native jars!
'Is this an especially good year for blaeberries?' I asked. Again, blank stares. Because the acidic soil of the arctic-alpine ground is perennially hospitable to the Scottish take on these sweet-tart fruits. They’re much smaller than their North American cousins, but so much more flavourful: like little beads of inky jam that can be stripped from the stem one-handed and inhaled up to ten at a time. (My then one-year-old was apt to plonk himself down and denude entire bushes before coming up for air.) It was impossible to conceal your anytime snacking when your palms and fingers bore those telltale purple stains ... you had been caught redhanded!
An orangier red — or rather, amber — is every loch, river and swimming hole. It is also every raised glass of single malt (Sláinte!) from one of the 50+ distilleries that syphon off the River Spey to make Scotland’s best-known export. (By the way, Glenmorangie rhymes with ‘orangey’ … the more you know!) But the most orange of all was the sycamore leaves in autumn, swept off the trees in the garden to form a crunchy deep pile carpet for kicking through, collapsing into or ... flinging in your little brother’s face.
And so many other colours besides. Fudgy, almost-black peaty soil. A rosebay willowherb so shocking pink the '80s want it back. Buttercups so bright that they cast yellow sunbeams beneath each and every chin regardless. (They don't have a dairy-free option, sorry.) The wind combing through fields of golden barley like the swirling blonde tresses of a fairytale princess. And speaking of: Snow White peaks that keep their salt-and-pepper quiffs until well into the summer, almost until it’s time to go in for their annual root touch-up.
It was hard not to be over-stimulated, at first. Every view was stop-and-stare magnificent, from the macro bell heather blossoms to the wide-angle mountain ranges. Every lungful of clean air was like a cleansing purge. Every plunge into snowmelt river water on a warm day was like a christening in clean living. It was the purest of antidotes to the months of isolation that had preceded it: when ‘stay home’ really meant ‘stay inside your air-conditioned house’ because outside there was way too much humanity and way too much heat.
There’s no place like home
Our planned six weeks of summer camp in the Highlands was up. But now what? Return to the sunbaked concrete and the horrors of virtual school that still haunted us from the spring? Or stay in the wilderness where the living was made for COVID. Where you can walk for 10 miles and not see another (human) soul. Where the primary school (business as usual) has an outdoor classroom and devotes the preponderance of its curriculum to building dens in the woods. No one questioned our decision to leave, so why would they question our decision to stay a little longer?
'Choose the next right thing' was our modus operandi during those confusing, open-ended early months of the pandemic. (Bookmark it: as a rule, it continues to serve us pretty well!) And so, sealed with a kiss of summer rain on our cheeks, like Dorothy we kept calm and carried on our Scottish adventure knowing that the world wasn’t going anywhere, that COVID was still raging, and that in the safe haven of the Highlands we could live a life relatively untouched by the ravages of a global pandemic. Of course, all that was to change … but that’s a story for another time!
It felt as though we had been swept up, spun around, carried 5,000 miles across an ocean, and dropped from a great height, landing softly on the mossy grass behind Balnagowan Cottage. This wasn’t home — yet. This certainly wasn't the home away from home that we would build for ourselves and eventually turn over to others to enjoy as a holiday home. But it was cosy, comfortable and safe. It was a Boys Own playground of tree swings and wild swimming. It was — despite my best efforts with these words — indescribably beautiful. And there was no other place like it.
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