Finding Fraser(106)

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I’d told myself when I stepped off the bus that I’d just take a quick look at the Wallace monument, and then head south again. But the first thing I saw when alighting in Stirling was an Internet cafe. I reasoned a quick look at my email wouldn’t hurt. I had decided not to tell Sophia when I was returning just yet—prolonging the inevitable, I suppose.

I splurged and caught a cab from the bus station. Stirling was almost like a smaller version of Edinburgh; with a medieval center to its old town, topped by a castle at the end of a long, winding road. The castle looked interesting, perched above the city like a gray eagle. A single building stood out from the rest, shining like gold in the hot afternoon sun.

“It’s grand, innit?” said the cab driver, as he wound me through the city and away from the castle. “It’s called the King’s Gold, but is really just a limestone wash. The whole great hall has been reconstructed, though—ye really ought to take time to see it.”

“I have to get to Edinburgh today,” I said, staring back over my shoulder regretfully. “But maybe just a quick look.”

“Ach, weel, tha’s a shame, tha’ is,” said the cabbie. “Enjoy looking around the castle. And as for the rest, yeh can allus return next year, aye?”

“Aye,” I said, absently. “Aye.”





It was the off-season rates that pulled me in. And the stories of the Bruce and the Wallace and all the other heroes who had tread the soil of Stirling, in its place between the Highlands and the Lowlands of this great country. I found myself a student again. Just trying to learn something before heading back to America.

It’s amazing how quickly the days can pass, especially when one is already “an overstay”…





Ten days after I had first stepped off the bus in Stirling, I found myself among a crowd standing at the base of the Wallace Monument.

It was the last significant landmark remaining for me to visit in the area. I had spent several days exploring the castle and the town of Stirling, with its jails and its refurbished townhouses and interpretive centers. It seemed everywhere I wandered I could learn something new. But there, among a busload of late-season tourists listening to a man portraying one of Wallace’s soldiers explain his part of the uprising, I knew it had to be my last day. I’d used up the last of the ‘little bit extra’ I’d saved over what a plane ticket would cost, which was at a premium since I was buying so last-minute. I had enough to catch the bus to Edinburgh, and perhaps buy dinner, if I was lucky.

I looked up at the tower, feeling faintly disappointed. I hadn’t realized until I arrived that, by Scottish standards at least, it was practically new. Built in the nineteenth century by Scottish patriots who felt that Wallace had never been given his due, it towered above the surrounding countryside. But it was built closer to my time than his, and I felt a little sad that this comparatively new edifice would be my last experience in Scotland.

Still. The description noted that at least seven significant battlefields could be viewed from its turrets. It sounded impressive. It looked impressive. I climbed all the way up the crag to see these very views.

But I never saw a single one.

You’d think, being practically a modern building and all, the patriots would have thought to put a reasonable staircase into the thing. But no—Scots practicality won over all, and the only way to scale the two hundred forty six steps of the tower was by spiral staircase.

A tight, dark spiral staircase.

I would have been fine—or if not completely fine, at least able to make it to the top—if there had been a window half way. The stairway was clear when I started up, and I didn’t run into anyone as I climbed. But the first room into which the stairway emerged was packed. Inside, a weird William Wallace hologram spoke of the battle. Across the room, admirers encircled the man’s mighty broadsword in its illuminated glass case.

I could feel my heart begin to squeeze in my chest. I knew I was at least half way up the tower, and I knew the top would be open to the air. But in front of me, a large man clutching a melting ice cream cone lumbered toward the tight staircase. I couldn’t take my eyes off the sight of his substantial buttocks bulging below a straining leather belt. A climb to the top meant his ass would be my view all the way up that tight, dark, twisting stair.

Before I knew what was happening, my legs had propelled me forward. I elbowed past the man and his ice cream and flung myself down the stairs. I pushed past at least two families on the way down, and one woman had to clutch her child’s hand to prevent him falling down behind me. “I’m sorry,” I muttered each time, but by the time I got to the bottom, I was in full-out panic mode. I ran out through the door, past the performer still in full voice as a soldier and down the winding path through the trees.