A Scottish Journey: At the National Archives of Scotland
By Nujma Bond
I call myself a “water person” meaning I love anything by the water and having to do with water; especially the endless ocean. So of course, before leaving for Scotland I had closely scanned its geographical perimeters, looking for a trek near the ocean that might be close enough to my main destinations of Glasgow and Edinburgh to reasonably attempt.
While I had originally planned for an opportunity to spend time by the water while in St Andrews, that whole visit had had to be scrapped due to foul weather. But I had also read about the Ayrshire region and a seaside town named Ayr which sounded vaguely familiar; I had likely read about it somewhere. It seemed interesting, close to Glasgow, plus there was an interesting bookstore in the region that would make a delightful destination. I kept it in mind. Why I’m mentioning this, will soon become clear.
It was a dreary and rainy morning in Edinburgh when I stepped into the National Archives of Scotland, the building not dissimilar in style to some government buildings we see in Canada. Friendly receptionists listened carefully as I described what I hoped to do. They walked me through a fairly straightforward process of booking an available desk in the archival room. Once you’re in, you can pay for the service of printing files of interest. A staff member retrieves printed material on your behalf and you then find your pages stacked in a neat pile under your name at a common desk.
I walked through a very pleasant entryway with very high ceiling and through a door, found my assigned seat, and began my search. I had some dates to start with, and names. My grandfather was born in Glasgow and I began with that key piece of information. It didn’t take long to find matching records, and I went back in time as far as I could. Along the way, there was some variation in the personal details I could find. The carefully handwritten - and later typed – records were occasionally tricky to read, and as good as those who had created them. I found relatives who had lived in Glasgow, but the records pointed to great grandfathers having lived in Ayr! I was pleasantly surprised to see this town mentioned since it was already in the back of my mind as a possible place to visit. Of all the locations in Scotland that could have come up in the records, what were the chances of it being Ayr, I thought.
Some aspects of Scottish archival exploration were further explained to me by a knowledgeable attendant whom I had asked for assistance. Another Canadian connection was made when he told me he had been in the Merchant Navy and was stationed at one time in Saint John, New Brunswick. How neat! It again brought home how close the ties between Scotland and Canada really are.
I realized I’d made some great headway and I’d taken my initial search in these archives as far as I was going to get at the moment, without added information. And I was peckish; so the next stop was a next-door Starbucks where I found a hot chocolate and a very Scottish sandwich: Red Leicester and Pickle.
I also wanted to visit the Family History Centre in a different part of the downtown, but I was running out of time. I decided I could likely make it just before it closed. What I hadn’t counted on was the great difficulty in finding a parking spot. I finally found one, but as luck would have it, I couldn’t plug the meter because it wasn’t working. There was no-one around to ask, I was on a tight schedule, and I would not be able to make it back. With less than half an hour to spare before the centre closed, I left the vehicle parked, hoping the faulty meter was known to officials and there would be leeway.
Except, the centre wasn’t where it was supposed to be, just a two minutes’ walk from the vehicle. I walked up and down the street a couple of times to no avail, now with little over fifteen minutes to go. Then, I walked into the first open shop I saw near an historic church where the centre should have been. It was the place in town to buy official Black Watch memorabilia: every imaginable item from ties to mugs to clothing. The friendly shopkeeper inside shared the secret that likely only locals know… you have to walk further down the street past where you’d expect the address to be, turn left into an opening, and it’s actually around back. I regretfully left, not even having time to visit the shop.
Walking down the street and reaching the opening, I stepped into another shop door, and was told I was almost there. Further around back I went, but stopped in my tracks as I looked down an empty and bleak narrow alleyway. At dusk and in the rain, it looked like a slightly unnerving and suspenseful scene. But I knew there was nothing to worry about, and trekked on. This was part of the adventure, and surely my ancestors had my back.
Finally, there it was. I walked into what seemed like an underground cave painted a whitish colour and filled with books and resources. With literally minutes to spare, the kind people within shared a few key resources that might be of use. I absorbed as much of their expertise as possible, and was satisfied that I’d made two great genealogical stops that day. Success! With more pieces of the puzzle now in place, it was the main reason I had come all this way to Edinburgh. On another day, I would stop at another library – the Mitchell Library archive in Glasgow where I would glean other facts from census records, and learn more about a local Glaswegian neighbourhood where it appeared a relative had once lived.
Returning to the vehicle, a ticket officer who had clearly been lurking about waiting for the next target, had already found the non-plugged meter and left me a memento: a hefty 100-pound fine (reduced to 50 if you paid on time). Turns out parking officers in Scotland are just as efficient as in Canada.
After a pretty eventful and mostly rewarding day, I knew one thing for sure: while I wasn’t quite done exploring Edinburgh, I’d need to visit Ayr at some point during the time I had left. As I contemplated with some excitement making this unexpected side trip, the irritation of the ticket started to fade. The history I was learning, after all, was truly priceless.