On Monday 27th June I travelled to Ballindalloch Castle, which is in Banffshire and about a forty-minute drive from where I live. Upon arriving at the entrance, I spoke to a man in a slatted wooden hut who confirmed my prebooked ticket and provided me with a map of the estate. He regaled me with his thoughts on the previous couple he had spoken to, whose BMW I saw driving off into the distance. He was less than enthused by their attitude and was more than chuffed by my pleasant smile.
I followed the man’s instructions and drove down the long winding approach to the car park – on the way, I saw the walled garden from a higher vantage, which was quite dazzling in the midday sunshine. I filled a bag with my lunch and headed towards the castle. The short walk to the entrance took in the castle grounds and the surrounding vistas, whose sublimity mobile phones refuse to capture.
Creepers creep in places along the grey stuccoed outer walls of the castle. Their controlled presence hints at the castle’s eventual succumbing to nature. Inside the entranceway, a series of Vanity Fair caricatures of professions line the interior. At the welcome desk – quite literally a desk placed in a nook next to a restricted staircase – a lady, the husband of the man I saw at the hut, told me where to begin my journey, not to take photographs and not to lean over the barriers. By doing so, she said sensitive alarms are easily triggered.
From lounge, to smoking room, up the staircase to the library. Panelling covers the walls of the room, which creates a comforting ambience. This style is typical of these kinds of homes. It’s easy to imagine yourself sitting reading in this kind of inspirational lavishness. Certainly, this was my favourite room in the house. A place where worlds collapse into worlds that collapse into the world of your reality.
Along a narrow corridor I walked and gazed at a timeless collection of paintings painted by some of the greatest Spanish painters, including a Velázquez! I continued roaming between narrow walls, admired four-poster bedrooms and rooms dedicated to childhood recreation. One unsuspecting picture would last with me for the remainder of the day. It was located near the playroom, opposite the doorway on the inner wall of a windowed alcove. The picture contained two contrasting cartoons: One depicting a poorly dressed child flanked by a mutt; the other, a richly attired girl with a purebred. Both were ‘taken’ on the same stone steps. The captions read, ‘the masses’ and ‘the classes’.
From here I scaled a steep stone staircase to the tower, passing a servant’s sleeping area along the way. Admittedly, the staircase’s construction did induce the bodily stiffness associated with a fear of heights, but I reached the top, where I walked cautiously along a creaking, flexing wooden floor to a glass unit containing letters written and signed by Rob Roy and George Washington. Spectacularly, they were recently found in the attic!
On the way back down, I shouted gardyloo! and saw two taxidermy eagles encased in glass chambers. One was dubbed the winner and it wasn’t until I descended further that I saw the other, dubbed the loser. The latter was missing much of its neck. From here, I returned to the entrance via a hallway charting the history of the Macpherson-Grants. Back in the reception, the man from the hut had returned and he joked that his brother had mentioned me to him.
I left the castle and visited the café where I obtained a pot of Earl Grey tea and cake to accompany my premade peanut butter and Vegemite sandwiches. I took the tray outside and sat at one of the wrought iron garden tables. As I sipped my Earl Grey tea, which I selected based on my exemplary location, I was reminded of the picture I saw earlier – Those monumental decisions throughout history are often left to people who are privileged enough to relax in these circumstances. Much of this is chance of course; we don’t get to choose where or to whom we are born. What saddens me most is that history and the future are going to be no different.
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