I mentioned six weeks ago that the culmination of this trip was to be a reunion of Armstrongs, on historical, traditional lands in Scotland, on the fiftieth anniversary of Neil Armstrong landing on the moon. Sounds potentially dull, doesn’t it?

It was anything but.

It is daunting to travel halfway around the world. It is even more so, when the people you’re going to meet are all strangers. We’d corresponded with maybe five or six of them over the years.

This was also our first time in Scotland. When we first arrived we’d travelled to Invergarry to meet up with cousins (who, sadly, were not going to the reunion). They gave us our first taste of Scotland. But the highlands are very different.

We’ve worked our way around UK and France before heading back to the reunion. We drove the last leg from York, arriving on the Thursday afternoon. The events were all due to start on the Friday evening, but we wanted our own preview of the countryside and Armstrong sites.

The reunion was held in Lockerbie, a border town in Scotland which received notoriety it never wanted when a terrorist brought a plane down in December 1988. We drove through the damp evening streets on Thursday, trawling for food. The place was quiet, empty. A few cars were parked, we didn’t see any people around on the street. A couple of fish ‘n chip takeaway shops were open. We grabbed some food and headed to a nearby hillside to eat before going back to the hotel. The town of Lockerbie felt like it still has a generation-sized hole in its heart.

The next day we drove to some of the places we’d come to see. I wanted a tartan shawl to wear to the clan gathering and the best place to get Armstrong tartan would be Gilnockie Tower.

Gilnockie is a pele tower, a kind of fortified multi-storey house which was the seat of operations for Johnnie Armstrong, also known as John o’ Gilnockie. This area is in the Debateable Lands where, for a time, neither the laws of Scotland nor the laws of England were followed. It was lawless there, with theft, pillage and racketeering rife. One of the biggest racketeers was Johnnie Armstrong and his clan. It was survival in a lawless area. Livestock would be raided from south of the border, and then be raided back in turn. Allegiances would ebb and flow with the seasons, the tides or any other random variable. Gilnockie Tower was attacked numerous times but it was a strong fortress. Finally James V, who saw the lawless Armstrongs as a threat to his power, invited Johnnie Armstrong and his retainers to a formal welcome event, a celebration. They walked into an ambush, a grand necktie party. It turned out that what James V intended celebrating was the death of Johnnie Armstrong.

At Gilnockie Tower, we saw preparations in place for the weekend celebrations. Down in the meadow below the tower, a marquee was being erected. Portaloos (also called ‘Border Loos’) were being delivered.

The tower itself is one large rectangular prism of stone, rising from the hilltop. It has been thoroughly and lovingly restored. There is a shop on the ground floor where we found various items including the tartan. They invited us to go upstairs, waiving the usual entry fee because we were members of the Armstrong clan. The ground floor, in Johnnie Armstrong’s day, would have been the kitchen and perhaps at times, somewhere for the animals and/or guards to sleep on the coldest nights or when under siege. On the first floor was the great hall, where soldiers would eat, sleep and live also, and where plans were made, plots thickened and raids organised. The spiral staircase was completely enclosed in one corner of the rectangular tower.

On the next floor was the laird’s bedchamber. There we found a garderobe — a medieval toilet that would have been behind a curtain in the day. As with the staircase, the garderobe was also was completely enclosed within the tower wall.

The floor above the bedchamber was a museum to the history of the Armstrongs, including the building of the tower and right up to Neil Armstrong. NASA had sent the clan a footprint from Neil Armstrong’s space suit. This is proudly displayed in the museum room, along with photos of Neil Armstrong visiting Lockerbie and being given the key to the town. There is a story that Neil Armstrong took a piece of Armstrong tartan to the moon and left it there. This is a strongly held belief in Armstrong territory, but it is difficult to confirm. However, it is nice to think that ours is the first (and only) tartan on the moon.

The next level was just under the tower roof; this weekend it was a ham radio station. We had been warned to not disturb these guys, but they welcomed us in when they realised Jeff was a former signaller in the Australian reserve forces.

From this attic room, there is a door leading to the guard walk just outside. The views are spectacular, but the parapet is very narrow. A higher railing had just been installed, not even officially open.

The restoration of Gilnockie Tower is very complete. Apart from the lack of modern plumbing, it is very liveable. In these modern times the prospect of siege is unlikely, so to reduce draughts the windows and arrow slits have been double-glazed.

Back in the shop, we made our purchases and left, knowing we would be back over the weekend.

As we drove around looking at the sights, we saw the name ‘Armstrong’ on a number of businesses. The clan is going strong. As we arrived back in the hotel we saw people gathering there. Some were checking in, others were staying at a nearby hotel and had come for dinner.

It was an amazing weekend. Although we arrived not having met anybody, by the end of it we had become firm friends with so many Armstrongs from around the world as well as in the local area. There were celebratory dinners and a festival back at Gilnockie Tower on the Sunday.

We had to leave on the Monday — sad to go. On our way out of Lockerbie we stopped off at the cemetery where there is also a memorial to those killed when the Pan Am plane crashed into the town. Most of those killed were on the plane, but the scar still runs deep.

There are many scars in this area that run deep through history. The plane crash is still fresh, but town pride and clan pride go back for centuries. It’s a beautiful place, with hidden treasures. Healing can take a long time, but the Armstrong motto is always in mind. Invictus Maneo — I remain unvanquished!

We’ve seen ruined castles from long ago, modern follies built with modern materials, and archaeological digs which need a lot of imagination and understanding to work out what it must have once looked like. Some are simply castles in the air. But Guédelon — this is a castle firmly planted in the earth.

Guédelon is a castle being built now (construction began in 1997) but in keeping with 13th Century design and using 13^th Century materials and methods. A lot of these methods are having to be re-learned. But nothing is permitted to be used (including knowledge) unless it was known to those in the 13^th Century.

Often when you visit a historical site and there are people wandering around in appropriate period costume, they are actors playing a role. If you take their photo they sometimes carry on as if you’re stealing a piece of their soul. Ask them how to get a job like theirs, and they answer in character. But at Guédelon, while they may in various ways be characters, they are very much themselves. This is real. Carpenters, blacksmiths, carters, rope-makers, millers, weavers, bakers and more, all actively practicing, and learning, how it was done way back when. And this knowledge is having unexpected bonuses.

To build a castle takes a town. And in the building of a castle, a town will form and grow. First you need the desire. Then you need the stonemasons and carpenters. The carters to haul the loads; the blacksmiths to forge the nails, to make the hinges and other metalwork and to shoe the horses; the foresters to cut the wood, to produce the charcoal for the blacksmiths and the other crafts; the cooks and gardeners, to feed the people; the fullers, weavers and dyers to clothe them. And so it grows, and so Guédelon is a working example of all these crafts learning by doing. A number of these crafts have to work in cooperation — carpenters, stonemasons and blacksmiths all work as a team to make a door. We watched a carthorse back a cart precisely so the workers could shovel rubble on board to take it away from the construction site.

We continued our exploration, heading down to the new mill where we also saw a pole lathe set up. The miller was there, explaining the problems they’re experiencing with the mill during times of low water levels. We discussed torque, energy conversion rates and maintenance issues. You can buy milled wheat from Guédelon, the grain is grown there too. It’s all part of the exercise, in learning to understand all the issues around building a castle in the 13^th Century.

They have discovered, however, that they need a back story. The fictional lord who has arranged for this castle to be built, needs to be kept in mind. He is a fairly ordinary feudal lord who was given permission to build a castle. But he is not immensely wealthy, nor does he have a huge army. So the work has to reflect his lack of wealth. For example, they found early on that the stonemasons were doing too perfect a job for someone of our fictional lord’s status. The work began in 1228 (fictionally) and for each year that passes in construction today, a year passes in the fictional world. So the castle is expected to be completed in 2023 in our world, which will be 1253 in the 13^th Century world.

As with the fictional lord, the site for Guédelon was chosen because of the availability of raw materials — timber, stone, sand and running water.

Guédelon is described as a Chantier — a construction site. And that is very much what it is. When you see scaffolding being built, or bread being baked, it is not just for show. The bread feeds the workers — when the bell rings at 1 pm, the workers stop for lunch.

The scaffolding is a genuine aid to construction. In the Great Hall we saw an oak hammerbeam ceiling. It took a forest of oak trees to build, a lot of swearing and discussion, a lot of cooperation with blacksmiths (because who else maintains the edge on tools?) and, at the end of it, a lot more knowledge gained. And when historical buildings need repair or restoration, the skills and knowledge will be there. We have been told that authorities have already spoken to experts at Guédelon about what they will need to begin replacement of the oak hammerbeam ceiling in Notre Dame, so tragically damaged by fire a few months ago.

There is no better way to really understand history, than to live it.

For further reading, check out:
https://www.guedelon.fr/en/

On our tour of France, we covered a lot of French history, mostly medieval and renaissance. But occasionally we passed a war memorial and our tour guide made reference to it. As we drove into Tours, the US war memorial was emblazoned, ‘1917–1918’ and I thought, ‘Another war the US was late to.’ But perhaps that is a bit simplistic. If the US had entered both world wars sooner, what would have been the outcome in each case? It’s not such an easy answer.

On our second-last full day of the tour we started our study of war with a visit to the Bayeux Tapestry. It’s surprisingly detailed and graphic. In a sort of MAD Magazine, Sergio Aragones style, the borders of this embroidery work at first showed hunting birds, animals and trees. But as the battle developed into its full fury, the border below is littered with bodies and pieces of bodies. The final scenes show these bodies stripped and abandoned. Perhaps this is one of the earliest well-known examples of war propaganda.

After this we went to Utah, the first of the D-Day beaches. Since most of our tour members are from the US, the focus was exclusively on the US involvement in D-Day. We were prepared for an overload of emotion and jingoism, but there was none of that. Quiet respect, primarily. And from all tour members, including the Aussies.

Inside the church are some lovely stained glass windows. Not unusual, you say. But one shows the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, protected by US paratroopers. Another window shows what looks like a medieval crusader, winged. But the caption says, ‘Ils sont revenus’ or ‘They Have Returned’. Beside this is written, ‘to the memory of those who through their sacrifice have liberated Ste-Mère-Eglise’. A winged crusader re-imaged as representative of the US paratroopers who liberated this little town from German occupation in WWII — it brought home the strength of feeling in France.

Our last visit was the US military cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer. It was the end of our day, and the end of the day for the cemetery too. From the path we could see the sea, the English Channel where many of these men had come to liberate a foreign country. It was this liberation that in turn led to freedom for prisoners of war of Germany — another story I plan to work on. So all this has a strong relevance to me personally, in the story of one man in particular I have been following — my father-in-law.

The tour guide handed out flowers that we all hoped to be able to lay on the graves (it turned out to not be possible — the graves were roped off). She then said she would read ‘a poem’ which turned out to be the Ode, as it is known in Australia. Many of the US tourists among our group did not know it. The Ode is an extract of ‘For the Fallen’ by Lawrence Binyon. In RSL clubs in Australia, at Remembrance Days in Australia, New Zealand, UK and in some other locations, the extract is completed by adding the words, ‘Lest We Forget’ which are actually from Kipling’s poem, ‘Recessional’. These words are repeated by those present.

I listened to the Ode and found my lips moving in memory of the words. As a child at school, we had also learned the words to the previous verse.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

And then the Ode:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

From ‘For the Fallen’ by Lawrence Binyon

When we had finished, I walked away to a quiet corner. My throat was tight and my face was wet.

We stayed for an hour, listening to birdsong and watching the many tourists there. I heard many voices, most speaking French. There were children, young families, older people. At five minutes to 5 pm, the peace was shattered by two fighter jets zooming in formation from west to east — the direction of the freedom for France that followed D-Day. The planes bracketed the two flag poles surmounted by US flags. Then at 5 pm, we heard the lone trumpet of The Last Post, and the first flag slowly lowered. Through the trees we could see the care with which the officials handled the flag. They caught it carefully, folded it neatly so no part of the flag was at risk of contact with the ground, and packed it away safely.

Then the second flag slowly lowered.

The two flagpoles now rose empty in the late afternoon. People who had stood to watch respectfully, turned and made their way back along the path. There must have been hundreds. My throat felt tight again.

I spoke to a couple of people from our tour. ‘They showed such respect. This is a foreign country, this is not the US. But they do this every day. Here. And it’s been seventy-five years. And it’s not a weekend, it’s a weekday here. Just another day. But this — this is ongoing respect.’

I commented on the careful way the flag had been folded and my US friend said, ‘This is a US cemetery, they’re probably using US officials.’ He smiled and move to speak to another.

As I made my way back to the bus, I saw the golf buggy come past with the formally-dressed officials. They were all speaking French.

None of this was war propaganda. None of this was done for public show for the tourists. Most of those present were not tourists. This was just another day, but every day this is done.

In Australia every day at 6 pm in RSL clubs, the trumpet note sounds and everything stops. All those present stand and face the memorial flame in the west wall while the Ode is read. We finish by repeating, ‘Lest We Forget’. Then we go about our business again.

They say those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.

Let’s all remember, eh?

While we have a number of different reasons for travel this year, the chance to visit and explore castles (modern, ancient, ruined, intact) was just too good to miss. Along the way a refresher course in cathedrals is not going astray. Castled out? We have come close at times, but there’s something always fascinating about castles. While there may be a type, the location and terrain means that castles are each unique.

My particular focus has been Scottish castles, one of which features prominently in my current novel in progress. But herein lies a problem — in the 14^th Century, Robert the Bruce ordered the destruction of almost all Scottish castles built in stone. There had been a proliferation of castle building and he could not risk any castles being impregnable, in case their lords decided to turn hostile to him. Those castles not destroyed by the Bruce have decayed with time. There are a few exceptions which I’ve already mentioned, but even those have been heavily remodelled by later generations, making it more difficult to get a sound understanding of what a working castle in the 14^th Century might have been like. When a stone castle is damaged and left to fall apart, it rapidly gets pillaged by people living nearby. Can’t let all that good, dressed stone go to waste.

But there are English castles, and churches…

True. But there have also been wars. The Wars of the Roses did a lot of damage in the 14^th Century, along with incursions from the Welsh (hey, with all this squabbling there could be some spare plunder for the neighbours). In the 15^th Century Henry VIII made a lot of money out of dismantling abbeys and associated churches. A number of castles which were held by Catholic families were confiscated and handed out to the king’s favourites (who often lost their heads later on in all the excitement). The buildings that survived, especially those with rich ornamentation, caught the frown of disapproval from Oliver Cromwell’s forces in the 17^th Century and were often scraped bare. As a result, of the many castles that we know existed, most are gone. Apart from a few exceptions, all that remains are a few plain parts of some old buildings, hidden amid all the new ornamentation of the late 17^th Century modifications.

It was all rather sad, really. We found the signs of the old buildings that had been there and torn down. We followed signs and saw some wonderful walls and gates, but the castles inside were too often just empty shells.

However, across the channel there are castles galore. True, there are some stylistic differences, but the functions are primarily the same — fortified structures designed for defence. We trawled the French countryside, seeing random castles on hills and sometimes entire fortified townships. The architecture was exquisite, the detail just brilliant. On one particular day, we had a detailed look at two churches, toured two royal castles and had a long-distance look at a third (we’d simply run out of time).  

Were we ‘castled out’? Perish the thought. A particularly amazing ‘squee!’ moment came when we approached Carcassonne and saw the shining confection of castle surmounting the clifftop, like some child’s fantasy birthday cake. Our hotel was inside those walls!

Sadly, we were only staying one night. But in the next 20 hours we did everything castle that we could. First we explored the main castle. Although it looked fairytale, it was very much a fort: with walls within walls; arrowslits carefully tooled to allow maximum coverage by archers of vulnerable approaches; multiple murder holes from which large rocks could be dropped onto any enemy foolish enough to make the attempt; courtyards overlooked by battlements from which archers could rain down further attack on anyone who made it that far.

As we walked the battlements we noticed our hotel courtyard almost within touching distance. The weather was scorchingly hot, and the hotel pool beckoned.

As I floated on my back, trying to cool off after borderline heatstroke, I could see the towers of the castle and a few stragglers still trying to find their way out. There was a music performance about to start in the main castle courtyard, and I could hear them setting up.

The next morning we were met by perhaps the most romantic sight — a breakfast table set on the balcony, champagne chilling next to the fresh fruit, with the conical castle tower roof shining in the morning sun.

What a pity the reality of castles was far less romantic … given the complexity of women’s dresses back in medieval times, and the narrowness of those spiral stairs, once a woman reached her quarters in the tower she was unlikely to leave very readily. Not without a lot of help. And as for the latrines … they were a small room with a wooden seat over a hole. Bodily wastes delivered through the hole would drop down either into the moat (festy!) or into a pit which some poor serf had to dig out. Often there were multiple latrines almost above one another (but not quite, of course) on each level of a tower, so one column could deal with the accumulated waste for one tower. In the delightful photo above, note the square column to one side of the central tower. There would have been a series of latrines down that column. (Enjoy your romantic breakfast, guys).

We have been told that expensive garments for the gentry were often hung near these latrines so the smell would keep away any insect life likely to damage the clothing. Perhaps that is why the aristocracy favoured strong perfumes?

As we continue our tour of castles through the Loire valley, the part of France with more castles than anywhere else in the world, I again think about the difference between circumstances in different countries. The United Kingdom castles suffered repeated depradations through different ruling regimes, while damage to French castles was on an individual basis depending on who was invading whom at the time. As a result, it is the French who can give us the best examples.

Ah, well. More castles tomorrow.

Bring it on!

We’d had trouble finding accommodation in the Lakes District, it seemed every man and his dog, literally — these towns are very dog friendly — had gone for a weekend holiday. But we finally found a small B&B overnight. In the morning we headed for Shrewbury, determined to find accommodation earlier in the day and avoid the risk of nowhere to stay.

Why Shrewsbury? We’re fans of the Brother Cadfael series by Ellis Peters, which was made into a TV series starring Derek Jacobi. While the books are fiction, the history and the places described are very real.

Still looking at castles, and not locked in to any particular accommodation, we followed our noses to Beeston Castle. It had a lovely Double D towered gate but we simply didn’t have time, or the energy, to climb a steep hill to the castle itself, which was just a shell anyway.

In the gift shop we chatted to a volunteer who advised, if we wanted lunch, a nearby pub. So we went there, ordered lunch and waited. And waited. Then waited some more…

While waiting, and beginning to worry about not getting accommodation this late in the afternoon, I searched for B&Bs and found a farmstay on our way. I started the booking process and saw they had vacancies but was reluctant to pay a deposit over a mobile phone, so we drove there on spec. This is very much the ‘on spec’ part of our journey.

Once we’d eaten (and just as the rain started again) we got under way and decided to detour a little to check out this farmstay. Soulton Hall. It looked a little grand in the photos, but hey, how grand can a farmstay be?

As we turned the corner and saw the place, Jeff began making sounds reminiscent of Graham Kennedy’s famous crow call. A more polite Aussie translation is, ‘Bloody hell!’

The place is gorgeous. The current building is Elizabethan, late medieval/Tudor. However, parts of the property go back to Saxon times. The original building burned down sometime in the 15^th Century, possibly due to conflict in the Wars of the Roses or perhaps Welsh incursions into English territory. This building is on a new site on the same property, a bit further away from the water.

We chose to stay, with choice of two rooms. One room was larger with a canopy bed. The other room was smaller but in an older part of the building with a floor that perhaps slopes more than is healthy; timber-panelled wainscoting; a secret door into the bathroom that creaks like a horror movie and tiny casement windows with deep sills. It screams, ‘Atmosphere!’

Downstairs mine host (John) brought a much-needed cup of tea. He apologised for the distractions: a team of archaeologists had spent the weekend digging what was thought to be a barrow, or could be related to an earlier structure. While we sat sipping tea we overheard a discussion between one of the team and the owners of Soulton Hall about the findings. It was just a preliminary, investigative dig: crowd-funded and staffed by enthusiastic volunteers, overseen by professionals. If you ever watched the Time Team series on TV, these are the people who continued on with the work after the cameras stopped rolling.

We invited ourselves in to the debrief talk to the team. What had been thought to be a barrow initially seemed to be just a pile of heavy clay, but tantalising pieces of pottery were found, some dating back to 12^th Century. A pipe was found which could be identified by a stamp as coming from a nearby factory from the 16^th Century. Some animal bones have also been found but need identifying. We offered to take a look.

‘It’s been a good dirty weekend,’ the archaeologist announced. Their clothing bore witness to the hard work of shifting heavy clay, but they all looked like they’d enjoyed every minute of it.

The other interesting angle to this place —  in the Brother Cadfael books there are references to places such as Salton, Eaton, Frankwell, Pulley, Beiston and Ludlow. Could this place be one of those referenced? The previous manor house would have been here in that time. In Ellis Peters’ book, ‘An Excellent Mystery’, the manor house of Salton is described as upriver from Shrewsbury. Soulton Hall is upriver from Shrewsbury by about the same distance and we know that the author was thorough with her research.

So, for a place where we dropped in away from our route, while exploring, it appears that once more we found a historic treasure with some side stories.

Life is an adventure. Travel doubly so. Research opportunities never stop but keep landing in our laps.

For more information about this and other archaeological digs, look up digventures.com. Worth a look!

I was sitting on a bench at Stirling Castle, catching my breath and chatting to a US tourist next to me.

‘Are you team Wallace or team Bruce?’ she asked me.

I replied that I didn’t think they were in opposition.

‘But Wallace was a traitor, so we’ve been told,’ she replied.

And there began a brief discussion on what makes a traitor, and what makes a hero. It comes down to who writes the history, and that generally is the winners.

William Wallace was born in 1270, Robert the Bruce in 1274. At a time when Scotland was without a monarch after the death of Alexander III of Scotland, and then his only heir, Margaret of Norway. The Scottish nobles argued amongst themselves and eventually invited Edward I of England to come and help decide who should rule Scotland. This was, unfortunately, like inviting the fox to come in and guard the henhouse.

There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, but Edward I was clearly working towards annexing Scotland to the English throne. William Wallace, a minor noble but a physical giant of a man according to legend, fought against the loss of Scottish freedom. While Robert the Bruce’s father and grandfather were English allies, they also were in line for the contested Scottish throne. Robert Bruce wanted Scottish freedom but was prepared at times to side with the English if it seemed in Scotland’s best interests to do so. Wallace, on the other hand, never swore allegiance to Edward I.

When the Scottish nobles rebelled against Edward I, Robert the Bruce was among them. So he was with William Wallace at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in September 1297 when the English were soundly defeated.

In the absence of a king, the nobles appointed William Wallace as Guardian of Scotland, to rule until a king was decided upon from those claiming the hereditary right. Among the claimants was Robert the Bruce and John Comyn (aka ‘the Red Comyn’).

In April 1298 Wallace was defeated by Edward, but escaped. He resigned the Guardianship, to be replaced by Robert the Bruce and John Comyn. They were rivals for the throne and it was not a workable relationship. Eventually, they resigned the position.

Meanwhile Wallace was negotiating across the Channel with the French but Edward had got there first. All the Scots got was a free passage back home.

Wallace, back on Scottish soil, was a marked man. But for a year he was harrying the British until he was betrayed and handed over to Edward I. The English king was determined to wreak vengeance on the man who had fallen into his hands and all his rage at all the Scots who rebelled was taken out on Wallace. The mighty Scot was accused of treason against the English even though he had never sworn allegiance to Edward I, unlike the Bruce. Wallace was given an appalling traitor’s death at the hands of the English. Hanged by the neck but cut down while still alive; castrated, disembowelled and his entrails burned in front of him while still alive (they’d have to be quick) then quartered — head and limbs removed and sent to different places. It was the kind of death reserved for traitors and one which Edward I also meted out to one of Robert the Bruce’s brothers when he got his hands on him.

Robert the Bruce, on the other hand, killed John Comyn and was crowned King of Scotland a year after the death of Wallace. He continued a deliberate, steady war against the English to win the astounding victory at Bannockburn in 1314 which led to Robert the Bruce taking Stirling Castle.

Bruce continued to strengthen his power base with guerrilla warfare against his enemies, the Comyns and the English. However, he also was able to negotiate peace with the English with Edward III, among other diplomatic achievements.

Was Wallace a traitor or a hero? One can only be a traitor if you have previously been trusted, and broken that trust. Wallace had never made any pact with Edward I and his only cause was Scotland’s freedom. Robert the Bruce fought for Scotland, but it could be argued also for his own ambition. While he was at times allied with Edward I, in the end his cause was his country’s, and Scotland benefited.

Stirling Castle was a fascinating place to explore. Much of what we see now has been adapted over the centuries, but the strategic position is clear. The double D towers at the gate still have the garderobe/latrines in there, a small hole which would have had a wooden bench across it, from where the excrement would fall to below the castle walls. This sort of lavatory arrangement was common in castles for the nobility. However, in the gate towers the arrangement would have meant that the guards could stay put and not have to leave the tower for ‘comfort stops’. There are even arrow slits next to the latrine, so a guard technically could have kept an eye on proceedings even during — well, proceedings…

In Stirling town, the wealthier people lived higher up the hill, with the poorer people living lower down. The lowest dwelling-places were at the very bottom of the hill, called ‘Dirt Raw’ (or Dirt Row). That was where the refuse in general would wash down if it was not carted away in time before it rained…

A number of Scottish rulers were crowned here, born here and died here. Notably Mary Queen of Scots was born here and crowned here. Her son James VI of Scotland was actually born in Edinburgh Castle which we’d visited the day before, but was crowned and grew up in Stirling. Again, an amazing place rich with history and wonderfully preserved.

From Stirling Castle we could look across to the Wallace Monument, built in 1869 to memorialise the efforts of William Wallace and his heroism for Scotland. It stands on the hill from where Wallace assessed the movements of English troops before the battle for Stirling Bridge.

Hero or traitor? By his own standards, there is no question. And for the Scottish people, there is no doubt. Both William Wallace and Robert the Bruce are valued as heroes of the Scottish people.

As some of you may know, I’ve been working on a novel set in Scotland in the fifteenth century during the reign of James II. I did a lot of research online, but the opportunity to check out locations and castles is just too good to miss.

I’ve never been to Scotland before. I’ve been an armchair traveller in my research and worried about how much I had possibly got wrong.

Scotland is cooler than I expected, and I’d packed light cotton dresses and thongs (footwear thongs, not string underwear). My first mistake. This did not augur well…

Our first castle, Glengarry Castle Hotel, is the one we’re staying in, although it’s far too recent to be of use to my book. Still, the romance of sleeping in a four-poster bed set my mood for some exploring.

Just up the driveway is Invergarry Castle. It’s a ruin, of course, and small, but I spent a very informative half hour walking around it.

The castle in my novel is a small one on the edge of the loch, and part of one wall on the loch side has fallen. The castle is away from the village and surrounded by moorland, and then forest. Through the forest is a path to another village.

Invergarry Castle is also a small castle, about fifteenth century, on the edge of a loch. It has a similar internal layout to the castle in my novel. So much of it has collapsed that we can see inside it. It’s like looking at a child’s dollhouse with the front opened up so you can see the rooms inside. It has a keep with four levels, a large Great Hall and kitchen/storage areas. There appears to be an undercroft, perhaps also used for storage.

As we stood there studying this structure (through a fence — the castle is in poor condition) I realised the value of research. I had not heard of or seen anything on this castle before we stood there, staring. But it fits! However, it can really only be studied close-up. If we had not been staying where we are, and even that only through a family recommendation, we would never have found this place.

We drove further up the road to a more well-known ruined Scottish castle, Urquhart Castle. While it is much bigger than the castle in my novel, it has features, which I have also described, in my imaginary castle. Urquhart Castle is also on the loch edge; it’s also got a four-storey keep and narrow spiral stairs in places. Some of the rooms I described in my novel are there in Urquhart Castle, almost exactly as I have seen them in my mind. The kitchen, the storage room, and the steward’s quarters — it was wonderful to explore.

The nearby forest in my novel would these days be described as old Calydonian. There is not a lot of it left, but there are people here who have shown me the types of trees, the density of the growth and the way the timber would have been used.

A castle supported a town but it also needed a town to support it. A castle plus town was a symbiosis that led to mutual growth and advantage, although numerous kings in succession did their best to keep control of the keeps, so to speak. The last thing kings needed was any small area getting ambitions of autonomy. A castle needed to be defensible, it needed to be maintained and the inhabitants fed and supplied.

I will be studying more castles.

My novel’s castle was not a ruin by any means, despite having a damaged wall. There are modern rebuilds of castles that are also a way of studying what might have been seen around a castle, back in the day.

I’m really looking forward to getting to grips with it all.

But meanwhile, dinner in this castle is imminent. We’ve worked up an appetite in our research today and well deserve something warming, by the fireside, in the castle by the edge of the loch.

Heathrow is huge. Despite this, the transit to the fresh air outside only took half an hour. We waited in the cool evening in the long queue for a cab. The distinctive round, black (mostly) vehicles lined up and efficiently moved people and luggage away from the terminal.

When our turn came our cabbie loaded our two large bags onto the front seat and we clambered in to the main passenger compartment with our two cabin bags. Plenty of room, these London cabs are like working-class limousines. Comfortable and very functional.

It’s a long drive from Heathrow to the centre of London and we chatted to the cabbie on the way.

We broke the ice, and I think earned his respect, when we mentioned our preference for the London cabs over the über experiences we’ve had elsewhere. London cabbies deserve a lot of respect for the hoops they have to jump through just to be allowed the job. Most important of all is ‘The Knowledge’, a test to prove how well they know London and all its landmarks. Every street, every hospital, police station, railway station, major bus terminals, hotels — everything. A London cabbie has to be able to take you right where you need to go effectively and efficiently. And, as we found, with the option of great conversation.

As we drove past the glorious architecture of London’s Natural History Museum, our cabbie said, “I’ll give you a fiver if you can tell me what type of architecture that is.”

All I knew, is that it’s not Gothic. To answer the question, it’s Romanesque. He kept his fiver.

We talked about movies, our favourite comedians and the Aussie flood that spilled into London in the Sixties as part of the Cultural Cringe. He’d not heard that term before, and we rattled off names of Aussies now famous in the UK for having gone to London as a sort of post-uni gap year, and never truly left. Germaine Greer, Clive James, Barry Humphries. He’d not recalled Richard Neville but when I mentioned the Oz trial, he knew that one. A young Geoffrey Robertson was assisting on that case back in the day. We discussed the images of Rupert the Bear in various stages of undress which led to those obscenity trials.

We talked about Oliver Sachs, about psychology, about neuroplasticity. About raising kids. 

Amid him pointing out places to see — ‘that building there is much better to go to the top for a view, it’s free. Forget the expensive touristy hype of some of the others. And you can get great sushi in the restaurant at the top’ — we talked about movies, about Australia, about London and about politicians. About Brexit, as well as Adam Hills’ determination to not shave until Brexit happens and how he now looks like a villain from Wolf Creek.

The cabbie was amused at my collecting photos of places named on the Monopoly board game. ‘Bet you didn’t get Old Kent Rd though,’ he commented.

We compared politicians, and shared a lot of laughs. I described how some of the phrases that our Aussie Prime Ministers each will have follow them. When I mentioned Tony Abbott’s claim to be the ‘suppository of all wisdom’ our cabbie almost lost it. ‘Stop it — you’re killing me!’ he chortled, wiping his eyes.

Another cabbie pulled up beside us and pointed out that our cab’s front passenger door was not quite shut. The adjacent cabbie leaned over and obligingly opened and then fully shut our cab’s door while we waited at the lights. ‘Cheers, mate!’ our bloke called to him.

The drive was a long one, we’d had thick traffic towards the end, but the time had been an enjoyable introduction to London. When we got to the hotel he helped us out with our bags, pointed out the hotel door and was on his way.

We never even got his name, but we felt like old friends.

We’ve just had three days in Hong Kong. This island state was a British colony until 1997 when, by agreement from the time of the original lease, it was handed back to the Chinese government.

There were concerns expressed back then by the Hong Kong-ese that their much valued freedoms and democracy would be at risk. Some officials warned in 1997 that freedoms would risk being slowly eroded over time. While Hong Kong has continued to thrive as a commercial trade centre, it is no longer the largest shipping harbour in the world. Only third largest now.

Our first morning here was Sunday. We’d arrived too late the previous day to organise our usual half-day city tour, but we scored space that afternoon. We had a choice — the Lentau Island tour, or the Hong Kong Island tour. With the prospect of damp weather settling in for Monday, we chose Lentau for Sunday as it would mean a better chance of seeing the giant Buddha statue without fog in the way.

And so it proved. It was a very enjoyable tour, but on the way to the last stop, the tour guide Elvis was profusely apologetic. ‘There is a demonstration on Hong Kong Island today. It is peaceful, but the traffic is disrupted. More people have come out onto the streets than were anticipated. My tour company is keeping me up to date with events, but those of you on this bus who are staying on Hong Kong Island may do better to come back to Kowloon and have dinner there, then catch the ferry back. Otherwise you risk being stuck in big traffic jams.’

Someone asked Elvis why the demonstrations.

‘It is about extradition. A man from Hong Kong took his pregnant girlfriend to Taiwan and killed her there. Then he came back to Hong Kong. The girlfriend was also from Hong Kong but the murder happened in Taiwan so he cannot be charged in Hong Kong for the murder. He could be charged in Taiwan but there is no extradition treaty. The man is in jail, but only for fraud because he was using the girlfriend’s bank accounts.’

According to Elvis, extradition was needed for justice in this case, but people in Hong Kong wondered if the risk was too high. Whatever Elvis said about this, however, downplayed concerns and focussed on immediate impacts for us. The route back to the hotels would have to change. ‘Nothing to see here, we’ll move on another route.’

We came back via Kowloon which is where we were staying anyway. Elvis appeared to not even break a sweat but his eyes were a little anxious.

That night we ate in a local eatery which had Hong Kong TV on the wall. No English, but the footage we could see showed the immense crowds. But then the footage showed the evening change in the demonstration — attempts to enter the buildings to occupy them in protest. We caught each other’s eyes over the dumplings. This was no longer peaceful, although there was little evidence of actual violence to people.

Back in the hotel we tuned in to TV Australia. Much of the feed was from ABC News and what we saw was a much clearer view of events. Tear gas, people running, blood…

Demonstration organisers claimed over a million people attending — a significant proportion of Hong Kong’s population. Apparently Hong Kong authorities were saying only a quarter of that number had turned out.

Next day turned out wet and foggy, for our morning tour to Hong Kong Island with a different tour guide named Joe. He told us a bit more about the demonstration, but only mentioned the peaceful bit. ‘Over a million people came out. Hong Kong has a population of seven and a half million. People are concerned about extradition and what it could mean.’

In mentioning the number as a million, he was matching the statement from the demonstration organisers, not the official government statement. He showed us where his own sympathies lie. He said little more, although he did tell us a lot about Hong Kong’s population density — the highest in the world at 6,300 people per square kilometre. Hong Kong is small in area, so they build up. High up.

Then that evening we watched TV again, and found out more. Apparently, the distress is because in order to be able to extradite this Hong Kong murderer to Taiwan, not only does the extradition treaty with Taiwan have to be put in place, but part of it has to recognise Chinese sovereignty over Taiwan. That is the game-changer and it opens the door for China to apply controls over Hong Kong’s current autonomy.

The demonstrations will continue. This is deeply distressing for the residents of Hong Kong. But the government appears adamant and will not budge. They are steamrollering ahead to do China’s bidding. This one legal extradition case has led the way for China to put formal controls in place which many fear will begin to remove Hong Kong’s sovereignty.

Truth here appears to be increasingly a luxury. Hong Kong has enjoyed a lot of freedoms and autonomy since 1997, but from our arrival we observed surveillance. In the airport lounge we could access wi-fi but the terms and conditions told us that browsing data is recorded. We felt the strong scrutiny of a foreign government. We’ve heard the stories of people disappearing, suspected kidnapped. There was no mention at all of the recent anniversary of Tiananmen Square. Despite the freedoms, what people say here, on television and to one another, is already carefully guarded.

The people of Hong Kong are generous, welcoming and hard-working. They love their home and are intensely protective of their freedoms. But when truth becomes relative, when secrecy becomes a way to control information, then where is freedom and justice?

We are seeing this here, in action. We need to also look to our own lives where secrecy and re-casting the truth is being done, ostensibly for good reason. But a good reason today can be a bad reason tomorrow. Openness and honesty is the only way to go forward.

We logged on to free wi-fi in the hotel and at the airport, but the Terms and Conditions made it clear — the search history and activity log was being monitored ‘for quality control of service’.

We will not be in Hong Kong when the bill is presented. I will probably not be in Hong Kong when I post this.

But I will be watching.

STOP PRESS 15-6-19
While we were in Hong Kong I sent out a few emails. The ones to Yahoo addresses bounced on the Sunday and Monday morning. And this morning I have just read that there was a DDoS attack, originating from mainland china, on a Messaging app called Telegram which was used by protestors to organise the demonstration with low risk of surveillance. When Telegram failed due to the overload caused by the DDoS, it forced organisers to use more porous methods of communication, thereby ‘outing’ their involvement. And, along the way, my problems with certain emails were symptomatic.

We’re in the air somewhere over Indonesia, about two hours out of Hong Kong. I just set the TV screen to maps setting, and the blue globe of the Earth grew in my field of vision to show our location and route. But as it zoomed in, it reminded me of that ‘Earth Rise’ photo taken from space, from that first shot of blessed relief as Apollo 8, the first craft to enter lunar orbit, emerged from radio shadow from behind the moon.

Why is this relevant? Well, it’s all to do with why we’re flying to the UK now, at this time, this year. It comes back to Neil Armstrong. You may notice we have the same surname.

Fifty years ago this coming July, Neil Armstrong was the first man to step onto the moon, closely followed by Buzz Aldrin. And let’s never forget Michael Collins up there in lunar orbit in Columbia. I always felt sorry for him, the wallflower not invited to the party. But someone had to stay behind in lunar orbit and keep house so the guys could get back and they could all get home. Collins, the designated driver, the chauffeur waiting outside with the engine on idle. It must have been lonely up there, so very alone and wondering if it was all going to work out, or would he have to fly back alone, knowing the others would never make it back. Anything could have gone wrong, the whole program had been so rushed. They went to the wire on landing with fuel allowance. They could have snagged a rock, sunk in silt, lost pressure — anything. Even a fall while doing that (later banned) kangaroo hop.

But they made it, there are no spoilers here.

We just watched the movie, ‘First Man’. It added an extra thrill to have the imagery on the screen of the vibrations of flight in various experimental developmental ‘pilot’ (sorry, I couldn’t resist) projects all leading to the moon. The movement of the plane I’m sitting in made it all feel very real. They even had a warning before the movie, in case it might upset nervous passengers to view images that included deaths in tests and flights, as well as a spectacular crash on Earth of a test lunar module from which Neil Armstrong barely walked away.

It’s a long film, but that’s okay. This is a long flight. As was Apollo 11, fifty years ago.

And fifty years ago, a group of Armstrongs in Scotland decided it was about time to get back in touch with Armstrongs around the world. After all, one had just left his footprints on the moon! The Armstrong Clan Association was formed that day on July 20, 1969.

I married an Armstrong, and embraced the family heritage of Scottish culture. I’m a Sassenach by birth, myself. But they’re a forgiving lot, these descendants from Scottish border raiders…

A few years after we married we made contact with the Armstrong Clan Association and joined up. We were NSW representatives at one point, until we needed to take a break when the kids were little. But now we are the Australian representatives of the Armstrong Clan Association. Jeff’s clan work is mainly acting as a clearing house, keeping the records. Family tree data is being gathered for all members and is held in one great archive back in Scotland. From this expanding data, long-lost links have been found. New technologies and genome work is finding more connections. It’s an amazing ride. Funding through a generous donor to the Armstrong Clan Association has bought and restored an important building for the Armstrongs, Gilnockie Tower in Dumfries.

Every two years, there has been an Armstrong clan reunion. Of course, we could never go. The kids were little, we had other responsibilities and it is expensive. But we’ve been saving up. I’ve already talked a little about last year’s journey. It was going to be combined with this year’s clan reunion, until life added in some extra adventures and reasons to go earlier.

But this year, it’s the Armstrong Clan Association’s fifty year reunion. Because fifty years ago, a man called Armstrong was the first human being to set foot on another world.

And this year, we’ll be in Dumfries for the reunion. We’ll share legends of the past, and look to the excitement of the future. One big family.