On a Quest to Find the Family Castle

I am a MacGregor. That does not mean much as a MacGregor, except my father loves to sport a kilt, we always had a set of old, malfunctioning bagpipes stashed in the bottom of our hall closet, and my father likes to tell stories about the long-armed warrior Rob Roy every 10 years or so (less, now that my sister is dating a man who really is named Rob Roy, who is sweet and solid, but short, not long-armed, and not a warrior).

Suddenly, though, I feel a desire to see the family castle in Scotland. I asked my mother about it this fall, when the vision came to me and she said: " Castle? There is no castle. Just sort of a cottage at the end of a road, and a rose garden, and the dowager MacGregor."

Disappointing, but still I would like to go.

Then, yesterday I talked to my brother, who lives in England. We will visit soon, and quizzed him. How far to Scotland? Had he been to search for MacGregors? What did he know? He said only 4-5 hours to Scotland, and seemed to know more than I. He thought there was a fortress with a moat, at least, even if no castle. And someone--not our mother--had told him it was an incredibly beautiful part of Scotland, and could not believe he had not gone. He was up for the journey. Perhaps two families of MacGregors, in search of a castle.

I know this is embarassing to his wife, who is British, and is puzzled and ashamed of Americans who cling to their Scottishness for generations, though they know nothing about the place except their family tartan. Yup, that's us. But she is always always game for anything, so I bet she will come along.

But then, last night, it was as if the fates lined up. We went to the most magical New Year's Eve party I have ever attended. There was a table set for 24 in a hunter's cottage in Laurel Canyon--heart of the Seventies music scene in LA. It was an under the sea theme and I sat beside a towering Scot named Lachy--short for Lachlan MacKenzie. I heard his story and he heard mine. I told him we were thinking of going on a quest to find the family castle. i told him I knew, yes, that there would be no castle. Maybe a cottage. Maybe, if we were lucky, a moat.

Oh, NO, he said. There will be a clan seat. Every clan has a seat. And MacGregor is a big name. There will definitely be a castle. My hopes soared, with the bubbles in my umpteenth glass of champagne. "Really?" I asked. "You think so?"
"Blimey," he said. "Absolutely. There will be a clan seat--every clan has one--and a castle--and a village of people who look just like you, only they speak differently, like me."

The idea was absurd, delightful, unbelievable! Then my husband jumped in to say Lachy looked like my father--tall, a little gaunt, Abe Lincoln-ish. Lachy said we could be related. There was a lot of inbreeding between the clans.

My vision was getting blurry with drink, but it felt like destiny, that Lachy would sit beside me and make me believe there really IS a castle out there. He did not think it crazy that an American would go in search of their family castle. He thought it was crazy that I had not been yet.

I hope we will go--two families crammed into two cars, driving down rambling country roads through mountains filled with history and magic--in search of MacGregors, our story, our family, our descendants.

And I hope we find a village full of people who look like us--but talk different.

I will wear a tartan scarf, or bring a tartan tablecloth for a picnic. And we, the next generation of MacGregors and our children, will find what there is to find.