Still at the Kilt and Thistle Shoppe in Salem, Oregon, I search for my tartan.
William is a man who knows his tartans and is happy to show me my colours on an aged monitor similar to the one I first played Donkey Kong on. We scroll through the 5000 tartans contained in the database of the Scottish Tartans Authority, “the keepers of all tartans,” according to William. But which one is mine?
It turns out that there are really no rules prohibiting who or what can have a tartan. Online, I find commentary on tartan-wearing rights according to the Lyon Court of Scotland. Further research reveals that the Lyon Court is the “heraldic authority for Scotland.” The Court’s representative, Alastair Campbell of Airds, has the splendid title of “Unicorn Pursuivant of Arms.” I have no idea what this means. Who knew Scotland had unicorns? Or that Alistair was a common name for such a creature? Online, suggestions for good unicorn names (from pages such as “Help I need a unicorn name!!!!!” and “Unicorn Names Around the World?”) lurch from Aurora, Twilight, Summer Dream Snowy, Feather and Mystic Dreamer to Cadillac, Tom Cruise, Grondar the Mega Horse, Deformed and Mr Pointy.
Scotland’s now former unicorn says, “Often over the years one has heard people explaining how they have ‘the right’ or that they are “entitled” to wear this or that tartan. In fact no such right, in any legal sense, exists for them or for anyone else. The only considerations which govern the wearing of a particular sett are usage and good taste. … So the answer to the question – “What tartan am I entitled to wear?” is – Any tartan you fancy. … So of course the major consideration ought to be looking good. The advice of Cary Grant regarding choosing a tie is appropriate – always dress to go with your eyes. Perhaps this is also the best criterion for choosing a tartan.”
William offers me a slew of potentially appropriate tartans. MacDonald of the Isles Hunting. MacDonald of the Isles Hunting Ancient. Hunting Weathered. McDonnell of Glengarry. McDonnell of Glengarry Ancient. Hunting tartans. Dress tartans. Weathered tartans. Ancient tartans. Regimental tartans. We scroll through them and I wait to be struck by the right one — one that strikes some long dormant clan chord within me. Nothing moves me. I’ve never been to Glengarry, which shivers on the shores of Loch Oich somewhere between Loch Ness and Loch Lochy — and none of them go with my eyes.
I am perplexed about my land’s need for a unicorn and delve further into the depths of the matter. It turns out that, “The badge of office for Unicorn Pursuivant is ‘A Unicorn couchant Argent gorged of a Coronet of four Fleurs-de-lis and four Crosses paty proper’”. I have absolutely no idea what this means either, but Alisdair was Scotland’s unicorn guy from 1986 to 2008. Further research reveals that in 2008 he followed up his unicorn role with a move to the post of “Islay Herald Extraordinary.” There are so many career choices that nobody ever mentioned to us at school. A skulk of us might have liked to know that we might grow up to be a unicorn or that someday we just might be extraordinary.


Driving toward Salem, we seem to be heading straight into a rain cloud. It looms forbiddingly on the horizon. This Salem, an un-witchy one, is the capital of Oregon, home to a population of 140,000, a stately university campus and dozens of imposing government buildings. It also boasts an impressive tally of no less than five prisons and the psychiatric hospital that was the setting for both the book and the film of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
While my travelling companion wrestles with a belligerent windscreen wiper, I pop into a gas station to pick us up some refreshments. Stepping into the brightly lit store, a fakey doorbell DING! announces my entry and a slow drawl comes from the back,
The scenery soon lurches from Bedraggled Small Town to Smoky Industrial. A sign looms on the right, “Welcome to Aberdeen! Come as you are.” I have. I’ve made it. I’m here.
In Seattle Greyhound Station, disheveled and disgruntled passengers slump in molded plastic chairs. A tumult of arcade machines chirp, ca-ching and whistle off to one side. From the numbers of slumpers, it looks like unless I perfect professional glowering skills and attain truly shocking levels of pungency in the half hour before the bus leaves, I’ll not be so lucky with spacious seating on the next leg.
… or the time I thought it would be amusing to visit Aberdeen, Washington.
I’m back in Portland after my first Highland Games and on the phone to my mum. I tell her about the knight with the chain mail and the visor and she guffaws. I tell her that the only recognizable bits of our Scotland were a few chocolate bars, the fish and chips, and the pricey Irn Bru at the Californian Scottish Shoppe tent.
Portland Highland Games – my first ever Highland Games, is not actually in Portland. It’s in Gresham, Oregon, a good 45 minutes’ drive from the city – a small distance in North American terms, almost the entire width of the country at some points in Scottish terms. Erin, Michelle and I make our way to the main field and arrive as a couple of dozen clan members are doing a plodding lap around the running track. They are followed by a troop of men in Civil War-era uniforms and kilts, representative of the thousands of Scots who fought on both sides of the American Civil War. Four female re-enactors in bonnets and long frocks trek subserviently in their wake. They all halt and hold a practiced pose near the queue for “Scottish Meat Pies” until the hungry herds threaten to absorb them into the pie line and they are forced to disband. The meat pie line is at least four times as long as the beer line. Suddenly I feel very far from home. Alerted by the ever-vigilant Michelle, I have my first sighting of a tie-dye kilt and feel the distance even more keenly.