The Forgotten Monarchy of Scotland

Goodby to Brussels
My ambition never changed. I read books about Scotland, I bought pictures of Scotland, and I listened regularly to BBC radio to become accustomed to the language. When I left the room, Mother would re-tune to a French-speaking station, and when I returned I would switch back to the British channel. There was such a rivalry of interests that it became a family joke, and eventually I bought my own radio, which was permanently tuned to BBC News, plays and, of course, The Archers. I would even sing songs in English at college accompanied by my friend Christian on his guitar. Actually, they were hardly in English at all, with just the odd recognizable English word thrown in, but they sounded good to the others.

By the middle of 1975 I was working for an insurance broking company in Brussels, and it was my ambition to save as much of my earnings as possible, so as to fund my journey. But saving was not that easy in a city environment, where living standards are high and their upkeep expensive. Nevertheless, from my early days I had earned the nickname 'Perseverance'; even as a small child I had saved birthday money, Christmas money, and whatever other cash came along, rarely spending without good reason. And so it was that, within a year, I decided the time had come to pack my bags for Scotland.

I gave Thilly and Ritweger notice in August 1976, but preferred not to make any announcement to my parents until the last. Under Belgian law employees are entitled to a free afternoon each week after serving notice, and at the first opportunity I changed my Belgian money for British currency, and wrote letters to some prominent people in Scotland, informing them of my intention. Goodness knows what they must have thought on receiving the letters for as I was soon to discover, the majority of people in Britain had absolutely no idea that we Stewarts still existed.

Back home I was quite unaware that my parents had discovered my plan. But early that same evening the entry bell ran and my father demanded that I let him in. He had not crossed our threshold for years, but there he was - and within no time my mother appeared, exclaiming, 'He's off to Scotland, of all places!' Stewarts do not often raise their voices, but that day the whole apartment building rang with word of my impending departure! Somehow I must have foreseen the possibility of such encounter, for earlier that day I had photocopied all my papers leaving only the copies in my room. I was, therefore, neither surprised nor particularly bothered when my father directed to search my belongings for any documents that would need to take with me. He found only the copies, which he tore to shreds in his anger whereupon he left the flat, and mother went about her business. At that, I retired to my room, and determined that I would leave in the morning.

Next day, instead of going to my office, I went to the Station du Nord, where l bought a one-way ticket to London. I returned to the apartment to collect my suitcase, and left an explanatory note on the dining-table: 'Gone to Scotland. Will be okay. Love, Michael'.

Before long I was on the train to Ostende, from where I took the ferry to Dover. By that time the excitement of the adventure had taken hold of me, and I knew that until I reached Scotland all else would pale into the ordinary - as indeed did the famous white cliffs and the city of London where I spent my first night, longing to board the train for Edinburgh.

As the train approached the Scottish Border I felt an enormous sense of relief - a relief that only a Scottish heart can feel. The back of my neck was tingling, and I looked about to see how my fellow travellers were behaving. The general level of conversation increased; the once sober people were smiling, and the quiet ones began to hum Scottish tunes. Even the tea suddenly tasted better as we rounded the rugged coastline, and at last we pulled into Edinburgh's Waverley Station.

Whereas London had left me somewhat nonplussed, majestic Edinburgh gave me a shock of joy. It was comparable with Imperial Vienna, and a true jewel in the crown of Europe - the seven hills, the towering Castle, the Royal Mile, the New Town, and the constant reminders of history at every turn. But shame on those councillors who allowed Princes Street to be so defaced with its modern shop facades.