This Is Why

Dragging four bags of shavings to the barn, my hand slips and a heavy plastic-wrapped bale slams against my right leg. I swear without delicacy, grab hold of the corner and heft it the rest of the way. When they are all safely stacked in the hay storage I move to check the galvanized steel cans of cracked corn, chicken feed/scratch and sheep minerals, making sure they are full.

Walking up the hill I watch Paul and Jeff fork hay out of the sheep barn: the winter bedding pack almost two feet deep at this point: the strands of straw interwoven making it more a mat than loose material. They fill a wagon full and then drive it down to our compost piles: when the wagon is behind the manure it becomes barely visible. It takes them seven full loads to empty the barn. The sheep stand and ruminate on the project. It is a few weeks before shearing and, as we will be away before then, we need the barn floor easily accessible for Mary, our intrepid shearer.

On the kitchen counter I keep a paper to-do list. Randomly included are groceries to buy for Josh’s farm/house sitting, a reminder not to forget prescriptions, a list of errands to run including taking winter tires off the Civic. I live by this list. Walking by I scratch things off that I have done but, more frequently, scribble something new. Besides the paper list, I keep one in my brain. I think forward about my student spring recital and getting music to my pianist and the final two concerts I am committed to before leaving. I struggle not to think too far forward and pull my brain back to business at hand.

We wait to pack until the last minute and argue with the woman organizing our flights about Paul’s misspelled middle name on our itinerary. While Paul finishes outdoor projects I take over packing for us both. I look up the weather in Scotland and shrug as I tri-fold both t-shirts and sweaters. I count days on my fingers as I throw in underwear and socks. When I am finished I want to feel satisfaction, but I don’t. I feel I have no idea of what I have packed and what I have forgotten. Paul comes in and opens his suitcase for a check. He wants to take his crocks which, as carry-on onlies, will definitely not fit. He begins taking out socks, which he considers extraneous and I don’t. We snip at each other and I feel tears burning. I fling a blue crock and he stops and comes over.

“Why are we doing this?” I half-talk, half-sob, “it is too much work to get everybody and everything ready. It is going to be insane trying to put things back together when we return.” Paul wraps his arms around me quietly. I drop the other crock and fold into his embrace. He reminds me, gently, that we feel this way every time we travel and that change is hard, but worth it. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and go back to folding, not committing an answer.

We land the first leg of our trip in London and wheel our suitcases into the airport hotel for the night. Sitting in the cafe we split a pizza, the signals of hunger from our stomachs on US time.

In the morning we wake up and begin dragging our luggage through Heathrow to reach the terminal for Inverness, Scotland. Sitting on the plastic airport chairs, organizing our passports for the hundredth time, we fist pump being “almost there.”

Mid day we land in Inverness, grab a taxi and begin the last leg. The driver pulls up in front of our hotel and lets us out. As we walk into the hotel I turn and see ancient spires that always tell me I am in Europe.

Our room is a turret of an old Palace. I drop my bag and look out the bay windows directly at the Inverness Castle, built in the 1200s. The river Ness, the color of dark tea, roils past.

This is why.

We wake up and there is no hay to toss, no sheep to feed, no instruments to fix, no students to teach. We lay in bed and talk about whether to take a train or bus to our day’s destination and where to eat breakfast. We toss a room key, raincoats and a credit card into a small backpack, pull hiking shoes on and disappear.

On Loch Ness the wind is cold but the sun warm on our boat as the river opens wider. We clutch hands, look at each other and just laugh. The people in front of us are from England, we joke about seeing Nessie and, as we leave the boat, exchange emails. We choose gelatos as we get ready to board the bus. We have no thought as to what is next.

The wheels of the train clack rhythmically as we head Northwest to the town of Plockton. We hike a small trail from the train station to the village on the seashore. At the bottom of the hill is a chippy and we pick up egg and mayonnaise sandwiches and crisps to eat at a wooden picnic table. Gulls swoop over us calling for a bite. We watch boats chug into the inlet. I turn my face up to the sunshine and as I am filled by food, I begin to be drained of stress.

We push a bit harder on the walk back to the station where we meet a group of young fiddlers headed home from a local music school. It is the end of the season for them and two of them have graduated. We mention their instruments and make the correlation between us. They are excited to meet us and one opens her violin case and asks Paul to look at her sound post. We all board the train and they clump into the seats ahead of us, laughing. As the porter goes by with sweeties, I ask to buy them all one in celebration of the end of school. He does and they turn in their seats and thank me, waving their candy.

Suddenly we hear instruments tuning and in moments they stand, look at us, and begin to fiddle. The train comes to life with music and laughter. A woman stands next to us taking pictures and introduces herself as a school music teacher from France. Her daughter, Camille, interprets for us both as we shake hands and talk about students and school music. There is no scolding from the conductor as he weaves his way through the chaos, no asking people to sit down or sternly chastising the gentle rule breaking. This moment feels surreal in its perfection and I am filled with gratitude.

This is why.

I remember that travel has nothing to do with preparation, tickets, laundry or what is left behind. We travel because it broadens us, it reminds us that we are part of something much bigger than ourselves, that our community is vast. Sitting with a glass of wine one evening, watching the lights of the castle come on and listening to the chatting of people walking on the sidewalk below our room we talk about why we like visiting countries with age. Underneath that castle is a fortress wall that extends the length of the castle that looms above it. There is an old stone stairway to the castle proper, its individual stones worn smooth from hundreds of feet in hundreds of kinds of footwear walking on them. As I sit looking at these things I am directly looking into the past. It is as if I can see where I have emerged from. In an instant I understand the importance in the work to take this trip, even the crocks.

I believe that we are better humans when we take time to honor and attempt to understand people and places that have brought us to where we are.

And this is why.