Rooted

Rosie Wells

To be shipwrecked in the Caribbean is one thing, but to be a castaway in West Lothian is quite another...

Only a few months before that momentous October day, we had been enjoying a family holiday in West Lothian. One drizzly morning, we killed spare time by nosing around a building site. We left with a photo of a hole in the ground and the commitment to buy a new home. Friends and relatives thought us mad, at our time of life, what were we thinking, re-inventing ourselves, and in the wilds of Scotland! How could we leave our cosy Cotswold home of 30 years for the unknown of the northern territories?

Gritting teeth determinedly, we experienced the bafflement of being in two types of housing transaction where even our representatives were confused. We packed our books and papers, textiles and mementoes, and left our old home intact, Champagne and glasses, television guide and controller at the ready, awaiting the next occupants.

The arrival at our empty new house was unnerving. Most people downsize later in life. We were upsizing! What would the neighbours be like? How would we adapt to a new community that might view our arrival with suspicion? After all, we were moving from a glorious Gloucestershire village to a former mining town where heavy industry had once thrived and factories had belched dark plumes over their neighbours.

Internally, I rehearsed the reasons that had fuelled our move: affordable housing in an improving area, good transport links, a new railway line, local shops with larger shopping opportunities nearby, two great cities and all their libraries, museums, archives, culture, a short drive away... But why did I feel so adrift?

Exhausted by two days' stressful uprooting, my husband withdrew to snooze away in the familiar comfort of our car. I waited, day-dreaming, finger-drumming, for the one ton of debris that represented our receding former life.

The morning warmed as I peered out of windows, surveying the new landscape. Yes, the surroundings were as green as I remembered, but would the Millennium-planted trees survive? Would we thrive now that we were transplanting ourselves, or would we spend the rest of our lives looking back, reminiscing, wishing 'if only...'?

I blew off steam by making an indignant phone call to a recording machine that did not care. An hour later, I was pacified by the rumbling sounds of our life raft, the lorry, at last. Surely not the one we had observed being packed oh so carefully, but a substitute, brought in hours late by two bemused West Countrymen as crew. The original lorry had broken down on the motorway overnight, thereby needing a rescue craft. Portents of doom filled my imagination. Even our possessions seemed reluctant to be re-located!

The removal men were keen to deposit our boxes and be gone, but they had time enough to subject me to their teasing banter, amused that this mad woman had chosen to leave all behind, preferring to be stranded on the shores of what they eyed suspiciously as a hostile place.

One comment rattled me: 'so far from home'. What had we done? My musings were as short as the comedians' time. Boxes stacked precariously in the garage; nude painting judged and nudged about; jokes made about our unconventional decision. As the Cotswolds rattled and clunked into the distance, I was left at a loss - the loss of my old life.

I looked at the cardboard mountain and it looked back at me, quizzically. Those carefully taped and labelled boxes no longer seemed reassuring or accessible. I shut the door on them only to open another on my first visitor, a short, shifty-looking character. My territorial defence system sprang into action, lamely. He spoke, but I had no idea what he was saying. The intonation, the rhythm, all seemed so alien. What had we done? A foreign land - and an incomprehensible language. Stupid, I thought. Keep calm, it's just the stress of re-location.

The workman tilted his head and smiled, Yer no from these parts, are ye? I'll no keep ye - I can see yer busy. I'll come back next week.

I thanked him, somewhat haughtily I thought later, but I appreciated his translation for my inexperienced ears.

Nae bother, he grinned as he moved on.

That was the defining moment of my conversion to all things Scottish. I was to hear 'nae bother' increasingly over the weeks: as reassurance; as a means of placating my despair at jobs undone; but, most often, as a friendly acknowledgement of my thanks for some kindness or thoughtfulness that eased our transition into Scottish residency.

In the highs and lows of ensuing experiences, we immersed ourselves in local culture and history; created a community website; learned to photograph our environment with kite-flown cameras. We considered our difference as newcomers, while being accepted as incomers; we began to understand community values while trying to achieve community goals.

Four years on, we're no longer strangers on the shore. We've moved inland and we're exploring the undergrowth. Oh, and the natives are friendly!

West Lothian may not be the Caribbean, it may not be the Cotswolds, but it definitely feels like home.