Some
uninformed folks still express doubt about the existence of “Nessie” – the
proper name for the legendary monster that inhabits Loch Ness in northern Scotland. I would like to clarify this issue once and for
all, as I know the truth. I am not the
only one who knows – but perhaps I have been chosen to reveal certain heretofore
hidden facts - for both their historic and touristic values.
As
an introduction to these mysteries which are about to be revealed, I feel I must establish both my own identity as
well as my bona fides. How, you may well ask,
could an old ex-Texas Aggie cowboy, possess infallible information
concerning the existence, appearance and whereabouts of the fabled monster which inhabits
Loch Ness (Lake Ness in Arkansas)?
My
maternal great grandmother still lived when I was a young lad. She preferred to stay down on Chalk Level
Plantation rather than with her daughter and son-in-law (my grandmother and grandfather)
in their town house in Shreveport. Whenever a
group of great grandchildren gathered around her, she always would repeat her favorite
admonition to us.
“Neverrr forrrgettt yourrr a McDonald.” Only she pronounced it like McDooonald in a strong
Scottish brogue … as she had come to the
States as a young lassie from Scotland, and never got the hang of Deep Southernese
English.
What’s
this got to do with the Loch Ness monster, you might well inquire? Just about everything, that’s what.
In
my professional life I had traveled numerous times through London, often with overnight or longer layovers. But, I had never had the opportunity to tour the
United Kingdom and had always harbored a wish to visit my great grandmother’s
homeland and find the birthplace of the Clan Donald.
That opportunity came some years past.
I had just completed a short assignment in Guatemala for the Central
American Development Bank (a regional branch of the World Bank) and flying back and forth
between Washington, D.C. and Guatemala City had once more boosted my mileage in the United
Airlines Frequent Flyers club, to a level which entitled me to a free round trip to
Europe. So I had both the time and the means
to spend at least a month or so leisurely touring the British Isles.
In
addition to visiting my British and Scotch ancestral breeding grounds, I could also renew
my friendship with some singularly valued and dear old associates. In London, I could spend a few days with John Naylor – a retired civil
engineer who had worked with me on a project in Panama in the mid-seventies. Then there was a dear friend – Ivan White
– whom I had met in Casablanca when we were thrown together due to a cancelled BOAC flight.
John lived in retirement in an old area of ship dock’s, repair shops
and ship chandlers along the Thames in central London.
Lastly, there was the Gallatine family who had been so close to Sandra and I
during her fatal illness in Swaziland.
John
suggested I purchase a 30-day pass on the British rail system rather than buying separate
tickets every time I moved to another town. I
did this and headed north for Whitley Bay which is east from Newcastle. After visiting the Gallantines for a few days, I
once more boarded my train and headed north for Scotland.
First stop … Inverness and the Loch Ness monster.
At
this point in my story, I must detour briefly to establish what should be a widely known
biologic truism. There can’t be a
singular monster . . . even a monster “must” have a father and a mother. They are not just created from primordial ooze and
lightening flashes, but are the product of reproduction resulting from mating between a
male and a female monster. Period. Full Stop. No arguing this basic fact. Now from this firm foundation of indisputable
knowledge and lore, we may consider the possibility of a single remaining monster as
compared to the probability of numerous surviving monsters including, not only sibling
monsters, but parent and grand parent monsters as well.
As you must surely know, Loch Ness has an unrestricted access to the sea,
thus monsters throughout the ages could have come and gone.
Most likely, they enter the loch from their habitat in the depths of the
frigid North Atlantic, to breed in the warmer, more tranquil waters of Ness. In these calmer waters, they are
occasionally seen by unsuspecting visitors to the loch.
But, as only one has been viewed at any one time, the myth has grown that
there is but one single monster. I shall
prove the contrary to be true – there are, indeed, numerous monsters of various ages
and sizes.
Upon
detraining in Inverness, I hailed a passing cab, asking the driver to recommend a good but
inexpensive hotel. He took me to an excellent
one. It was an old, large, three story,
converted manor house located on a bluff overlooking the downtown area. Upon entering and walking towards the desk, I
noticed the hotel also had what appeared to be an excellent pub with a capacity crowd of
local patrons. I hastened to my room, dumped
my bags, quickly washed and combed a bit, then headed back downstairs for the center of
activity. I was famished and had quickly
learned that the best food in England was found in the pubs.
I
was lucky to spot one empty bar stool and quickly slipped onto it. While surveying the beer pumps and looking for the
menu, I felt a rough but friendly hand on my shoulder.
Turning towards the hand, I saw it was attached to a ruddy, handsome
Scottish chap about 10 or 15 years my junior and my same size.
“What
are you drinking Yank?” He almost
demanded. When I hesitated, he ordered some
dark ale for me. It was delicious and just
what I needed. But I was disturbed. How had he known I was an American? There wasn’t that much difference between his
clothes and mine. We were both white-headed
and blue-eyed. In fact, we could have been
relatives.
“How
did you know I was American?” I asked. I
hadn’t spoken a word when he called me “Yank”’
“You
just look like a Yank, Yank.” He smiled
and slapped me on the back. “Eddie”,
he called to the barman. “This
Yank’s money is no good here.”
The
man on my other side introduced himself and bought the next round. “What are you doing here, Yank?” He
asked.
I
told him about my great grand mother always reminding me when I was a child, not to
forrrgettt I was a McDooonald. The
first man then asked for the telephone directory of Inverness and showed me that nearly
half of the pages were for the McDonalds, “Most
of the people here are related to you, Mon.”
The
pub was still going strong when I said my good nights to my new friends. Robert McCoy, the first man I had met, said he
would pick me up at 10AM and drive me around the area.
I was exhausted and went to my bed early.
The following morning, Robert
was at the hotel promptly at 10AM and was an excellent host and guide. Not only did he drive me around Loch Ness but
also took me to see the battlegrounds where the British defeated the Scots and buried the
slain warriors of each clan together in mass graves.
The McDonald gravesite area seemed to be the biggest.
That
evening was a repeat of the night before. It
seems like the same people were at the same tables or stools. Perhaps they really did have legal claim on them
– possession by constant occupancy – or some similar Scottish law. Everyone knew where Robert and I had been and they
knew of my disappointment at not seeing “Nessie”.
“Never
ye mind,” said one old timer, rolling his “r’s”. “Ye’ll see them tonight.” I was obviously shocked. “Just ye wait.” He shook a gnarled old finger in my face. “By the time the publican ejects us at 1AM,
they’ll be bloody monsters all over the place. I see them every night. They’re all sizes and all shapes.” He was right.
I think. I seem to remember
them when I walked out the front door to say good night to my unsteady Scottish friends.