JUNIOR YEAR ABROAD DEPT.

Early spring, 1985. Over the break, my British Empire History class arranged a traditional ‘reading party’ at a remote country house. I heard ‘reading party’ and my eyes glazed over, but I gleaned it was really a seminar, days-of-Empire-style: we’d be living like stripling lairds and bright young ladyes, home from the ‘Varsity for the hols, padding around the drawing room in woolly jumpers and socks, clutching warm cups of tea and asking each other, “Whither Africa?”

My Prof said “You’re the only Penn student in BEH this year, I think you’d get a lot out of it and bring a lot to the group. Do come if you can.” But the cost was chunky; versus just bumming around for a week on the trains. I had no work-study job that year (by law). I asked a buddy of mine in the class what she thought.

She was a goth-punk pierced Marxist girl from Kirkcaldy, hard as nails, sharp as a tack and sweet as millionaire’s shortbread. She was fun; I thought she’d be eager to go with the reading party. She surprised me with a three minute retort, not at me, but at the British class system: how she wouldn’t be caught dead eating buttered scones from a tray with a lot of twits and toffs, nor poncing along a bloody salmon stream all day, nor would her corpse be seen dancing and singing bloody ol’ Scotch sangs at the ceilidh, nae mair would her whited bains aye be caught chasing up and doonstairs, or fa’in’ into wardrobes, wi’ a ganga grabby-handed public school Yah-boys. Or words to that effect.

Her response came straight from her core principles. I acknowledged that and I thanked her for her honesty:”‘Ta,” and immediately ran to the nearest phone box to call Mom and Dad to beg them for the money. I didn’t get further than “So there’s this reading party up at some old Scottish country house” when Mom said, “Daddy’s writing the check now and putting it in the envelope. What’s the bursar’s postal code?” Thank you, dear parents.

“A late 18th century designed landscape most notable for its semi-ancient woodlands ….The Burn was considered to have outstanding value as a Work of Art in the time of Lord Adam Gordon and today maintains this value although the original design has been lost in places…The Burn has high Historical value due to its associations with Lord Adam Gordon and the presence of his 18th century designed landscape.”

— Historic Environment Scotland’s listing for the Burn

• 

• 

“The designed landscape of The Burn was laid out from an area of previously barren land between 1791-96 and further embellished by subsequent owners…The lands were part of the Thanage of Newdosk and later of the barony of Arnhall. Lord Adam Gordon, a son of the 2nd Duke of Gordon, acquired the estate in 1780, when he was Commander-in- Chief of the Army in Scotland, at which time it was in ‘the wildest state of barrenness’. He began an extensive series of improvements during which time some 475 acres were cultivated, and 526 acres were planted…In addition, some six miles of walks were laid out which, in many places, were blasted through solid rock.“

— Historic Environments Scotland listing

• 

• 

“The house was built between 1791-96 with the intention that His Lordship would retire there. When he did eventually retire in 1798, he was able to enjoy his achievements at The Burn for only three years before his death in 1801…In 1836, the estate passed to Major William McInroy and, during his time, Queen Victoria is known to have visited the property. Between 1933-35, the house was altered and modernised, and during World War II, it was used as a Hospital. In his time as laird, Mr Russel had made many improvements to the estate but in 1945-46 the lands of Arnhall, Dalladies and part of The Burn, were sold. Large areas of low-lying ground by the village of Edzell were acquired by compulsory purchase for the establishment of RAF Edzell. The mansion house, policies and parts of the woodland (190 acres in all) were gifted to the Dominion Students’ Hall Trust, (now London House for Overseas Graduates) together with an endowment in 1946/47. Since then, The Burn has been managed as a holiday and study centre for students…” 

— Historic Environment Scotland listing

Students chose a book, author or subject, and prepared a more or less penetrating paper, then read it to the group. I might have chosen V.S. Naipaul’s ‘A House For Mr. Biswas,” or Lenin’s ‘Imperialism,’ or the South African court cases of Mohandas K. Gandhi. I didn’t — I chose Banjo Patterson’s Australian bush poetry. I was no dummy! I wanted minimal time reading, and maximal time poncing along the bloody salmon stream. So I read Banjo’s entire oeuvre on the first morning, then went walkabout.

• 

• 

Next day I spent playing the cavernous morning-room piano, rifling the bench for the inevitable scraps of Victorian sheet music. Scots are — clannish — until they suddenly open up. Classmates I had barely known all year for a smile, would be drawn by the tinkling piano, in their woolly jumpers and socks, clutching their tea, and sit down right beside me (Charlie sings!?) for a chorus or two, riffling through the rack for their next favorite. I knew only a few of these songs, so I was grateful they could ‘sing me how it really goes.’

• 

• 

One night I sat in on the VCR showing of ‘The Man From Snowy River,’ with all of us hooting at the screen and throwing popcorn at the ridiculous parts. (We also had ‘Gandhi,’ ‘Chariots of Fire,’ ‘Lawrence of Arabia….’) But most of my time I spent walking the glen, composing my paper in my head. I planned it in verse, like one of Banjo’s bush poems. Well, give ’em a bit of the ol’ Mask and Wig, eh?

One night after dinner, sure enough, somebody suggested “Sardines” — kind of reverse hide and seek, where you all run around and stuff yourselves into wardrobes and cupboards and hall closets. People end up in groups and piles, in all kinds of scandalous tight spots.

I found a bedroom dark and empty and I dove into the wardrobe. My elbow landed on somebody’s (tight, toned) abs. “It’s Andrew, sorry! Who’s that?” He laughed, his abs tautening with each puff, “Hello Andrreiw. It’s Charrlie, mon.” He pulled me in tighter so we could close the door. We were both breathing hard, chest to chest, and couldn’t stop laughing. If there were one boy at University you’d want to get stuck in dark wardrobe with in a country house, it was Charlie — locks like the raven, his bonnie brow was brent. Was this the farcical free-loving promiscuous upper class decadence of my Kirkcaldy Communist friend’s nightmare? Well, I was ready. Then the warm pile under us shifted. “And Jean! Hi Andrreiw.” She gave a girlish giggle in the dark. “Oh…hi, Jean.” Sardines is a cruel tease.

• 

• 

• 

On the last day, I was scheduled to give the last paper; and at the last minute, I looked around the drawing room and was terrified suddenly that the class — my Professor — wouldn’t get it — that they’d sit stone-faced. This is an academic seminar! How dare he not give a paper with footnotes!? Well, too late: so I struck up my “Ballad of Banjo Patterson,” reciting the doggerel with a brash, vaudeville ‘Strine’ accent. It brought down the country house. I was relieved my hill-walking plan had paid off.

That night was the ceilidh, in the Hall. Many of the Scots came in their Highland dress (boys: kilts and brass-button coats; girls: slim, Empire-waisted pastel frocks, flowery things in their hair, and dancing slippers). The best I could manage was my Harris tweed jacket, white button-down Oxford, and khakis. A grad student coached us through country dances — reels, strathspeys, the Gay Gordon, etc. Another strapping laddie from the history department — in full kit — tuned the bagpipes, and we were off for the next three hours, flinging a Highland fancy. (Since the Penn Exchange students were popular guests at Uni parties, all of us became creditable country dancers.)

The dance took a break; and while the saloon threw off the last skirl of the pipes, and everyone drank punch and cooled off, and the hunky piper sat wiping his brow, I asked him shyly if I could handle the bag. “They all laughed as I gathered the pipes…”

Polite but puzzled, the piper waved, sure, go ahead. I was never terrifically successful as a piper, but I got a wind up, and the drones sounded, and my fingers found the chanter holes, and I croaked into ‘Scots Wha Hae Wi’ Wallace Bled,’ which was the only thing I could think of that I had off by heart. At the end of the first phrase I got flustered, but the stunned piper motioned, “Go on,” so I got the wind back, and the gang hushed, as I played ‘Scots Wha Hae’ all the way through, fumbling to get the grace notes and doublings right. I slyly clocked the dropped jaws in the room, revealing all those British teeth. A New Jersey boy playin’ the pipes? Now they’d seen everything! I got a big hand.

It was an amazing time, like a trip to Brigadoon. I have only these misty pictures, the story, and the best souvenir of my whole year abroad: the old Scottish songs, which slipped into my ear, and my suitcase.

Thanks again, Mom and Dad. I promise I’ll return the book when I’ve learnt the songs.

I