Christmas Thoughts and A Scottish Trip.

Sunset from home on Christmas Evening

It is Monday morning, and I am looking forward to my week with a mix of trepidation and excitement. My first job is to go and collect a Christmas ham today from a Portuguese English-trained butcher in Avelar for our Christmas lunch, and at the same time, deliver the last few gifts to those who help us in everyday life. Those being the Bombeiros, the voluntary fire service that also runs the ambulance service and finally the team at the Mini Saude (our local clinic), where I see my GP and get my post-operative nursing. I have certainly used the latter's services frequently again this year. So the excitement is about spending Christmas day with Rozanne, our son Selby and his wife Maggie, and our friends the Tideys. We have not cooked a ham for many years; it was always on the menu for Christmas back on the farm in Zimbabwe, where we alternated hosting Christmas lunch between the Belinsky’s house at Arden Park, my in-laws, and ours on Diandra. For my daughters this year, Storm and her partner Duncan are in Spain and Janine and her husband Nathan are entertaining her mum in America, where she now lives. 

“When they took our farms, they also cast our families asunder. Grandparents, parents, children, siblings and grandchildren all set off in search of a new life wherever they could get entry and employment. Our age, skills and financial circumstances made it impossible to remain together. This separation was as devastating to most as the loss of our farms.” - Peter McSporran

That sums up how it is for us, ex-white Zimbabwean farmers. For ourselves, we have close family in Australia, Scotland, America, England and Zimbabwe, making it nigh impossible to ever meet as a whole family again. So we now reflect on those good old days of Christmas on the farms with friends and family. Touch of melancholy there, but such wonderful times. 

While I think of my own and other farmers' hardships, I often reflect on the difficulties imposed on our workers, with no fault of their own, but for the fact that we employed them, white farmers. When we lost our farms, 1.5 million farm workers and their dependents also lost their homes and many of them, their few worldly possessions. I remember so well when the farm children would come to our houses and sing in expectation of the sweets that were sure to come. The adults received a ‘Christmas Box’ in the form of a plastic sack filled with goodies, often what would be to us basic foodstuffs and soaps, a couple of drums of Chibuku (traditional beer), and, of course, a couple of cows would be slaughtered for them. Our lives were very interwoven with our employees, with many generations having spent their lives on the same farm.

Getting back to the present, the trepidation is about the minor surgery I will undergo tomorrow. Not about the operation, but rather more that it takes place and is successful. As mentioned last week, the pod in my scrotum has moved and needs to be both realigned and extended. Rozanne will drop me off at the Coimbra University Hospital and, with luck, pick me up in the afternoon. No doubt I will be cushioning my nether regions during Christmas lunch. I will update you before I post this blog on Friday. 

Myself, Rozanne, Maggie, Selby and the 'cat' they are leaving with us as they continue their travels in the New Year. Perhaps one day it will be grandchildren

It is now Christmas Eve, and the plan did not quite work out as I hoped. I suppose it was far too optimistic to believe you would get out of the hospital following surgery under general anaesthesia. I spent a couple of days in the hospital, but on the positive side, it seems to have been successful. Importantly, I got to spend Christmas Day at home.

"Sometimes you only recognise the extent of a debilitating pain after the cause of that pain is removed. The mind, with time seems to recognise the pain as discomfort with time. That is certainly what happened to me this week."-Peter McSporran

Getting back to 2001, I have forgotten where I spent Christmas Day that year. After all, it is twenty-five years ago this year. I am pretty sure I was staying on the Zambian farm at Graham Rae’s house, now our informal scheme’s headquarters, and, in doing so, that first year, I went to Chaminuka Safari Lodge, which was just down the road, for Christmas lunch. I have no recollection of spending Christmas in Zimbabwe that year, although in following years we would join Rozanne’s folks in Harare. In 2001, I had yet to reacquaint myself with Rozanne, let alone marry her. Sadly, Rozanne’s mum, Shirley, will be spending yet another Christmas at Nazareth House without any close family by her side. 

Can you imagine this was Portugal, North East of us this week

In January 2001, mainly because of my unsettled circumstances, I decided to take my daughters back to the country of my birth and introduce them to my family in Scotland. Janine, my youngest daughter, had just completed her tertiary education in Cape Town and was working there while Storm was in London. Both were having a tough life with a pretty (understatement) unattentive father who was focused on building a new life rather than his children's welfare. Janine and I flew from Africa and on a cold, wintry January evening, picked up Storm from the train station in Edinburgh. Luckily, I had remained close to my cousin Linda Hamilton and her husband Robert, who had frequently visited us in Zimbabwe, and I had, on occasion in the past, abused their hospitality while attending the Royal Highland Show. My girls had met Archie, my brother, who had visited us in Zimbabwe, but had yet to meet my sisters Mandy and Fiona. All were half-sisters, while my full sister, Morag, and her husband, Lindsay Ross, were in Malawi, though their daughter, Nicky, was living near Edinburgh. The girls had not met any of their Scottish cousins, nor had they met any of the father's surviving sisters, that is, remaining aunts. My father and his brothers were long gone, but I still had three aunts living in Campbeltown, my father's hometown. Although we were still tenuously holding onto the farms in Zimbabwe, I knew it was only a matter of time before we lost them. That meant that my daughters would have to leave the country of their birth, and I felt they needed to know more about their Scottish roots. That was the rationale for the trip in my mind; it would also give me some special time with my daughters ahead of an uncertain future. The lowest part of the trip was when I told Storm and Janine they would not be returning to the farm, let alone be able to pack up their personal belongings. 

“Even today, I often wonder what was the driver that made me take my children back to the country of my birth and introduce them to my siblings, their Scottish cousins, and my surviving aunts. Had I got a stronger connection to my roots than I thought? I personally would only have returned to Scotland after I had exhausted all alternate opportunities.” - Peter McSporran

The 'Rest and Be Thankful' in winter just as the day we drove up it in 2001

After meeting with my siblings, all of whom resided near Edinburgh, and their cousin Nicky, we set off to Cambeltown via the ‘Rest and be Thankful’, a steep, notorious, windy piece of road. This was despite the heavy snow warning, which could have made it impassable at the time. I think I took that route because it was one often driven in winter with my dad on the way home to Mull for my Christmas school holidays. More than once, in my father's Jaguar, we would skid off the road while negotiating it in the snow. This time, no such problems with my small rental Volvo, which proved excellent on compacted snow. At the top of the hill, despite the -9°C, we stopped for a photograph, much to the girls' chagrin. It certainly wasn't what they were used to in Africa. We then went the same windy road as always, down Kintyre, to Campbeltown and spent an evening with our relations there, the last time I was to see my aunts Mary, Elizabeth and Catherine alive. The conversation was stilted because my daughters had difficulty understanding a word they said; luckily, the younger generation was a bit better at communicating with their African family. 

From Campbeltown, we headed for the Island of Mull, where we drove from Craignure and spent a night in Tobermory. I took the girls to a ceilidh at the McLeod's hotel, the Mishness. Here I renewed my acquaintance with Robert McLeod, the owner and son of renowned accordion player Bobby McLeod, who, with Pibrogh McKenzie on the fiddle, played at local dances in my mispent youth. The band was world-renowned, yes, we danced to Scottish dance music when I was a teenager, no discos for us. I found Robert a bit more morose than I remembered his father. He was to go bankrupt, bringing to an end an era: the five generations of McLeods who had owned the hotel. From there through the snowbound road via Dervaig up Loch-na-Keal and to where I was brought up on Killiechronan. Snow all the way. We did not stop or visit the house of my childhood, but rather quickly pressed on to Fionnphort and Iona, which retained its beauty despite the inclement weather. On coming back on the same road, by then, the wind was lashing the sea onto the road around the Griban Rocks, to the highlight of my visit to Mull, visiting Lachie and Chrissie McLean at Knock Farm and their two sons, Lachie and Donald. Both Lachies, father and son, have now both passed. The elderly Lachie, by the time we visited, had Parkinson's but still remembered me well, as did Chris and the boys, both younger than me but having attended Gruline school with my brother and sister. Thanks to an old school friend for reminding me of Chrissie's name when I came to write this account of the trip.

A painting of Tobermory posted by the well-known amateur photographer, the 'Binman' of the Isle of Mull. He takes his pictures while on collection around the island and sells an annual calendar for local charities. Look him up.

From Mull back to Linlithgow, where we were hosted by my old college mate, Mike Clerk, and his wife, Varie, at Bonnington Farm. On leaving, I was incredibly touched by Michael's offer to provide financial assistance if I needed it because of our circumstances. I could never have accepted it, but his generosity had a massive impact on me and strengthened my determination to succeed in whatever my new life brought.

Once back in London, Storm remained behind in England while Janine and I flew back to Africa, going our separate ways on arrival in Johannesburg. She went to Cape Town, while I went back to Zimbabwe. All rather poignant.

Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.