Ms MacPherson's wee fox face sporran

Notes from a morning in Portland, Oregon, during which I continue to be perplexed about the fact that people make sporrans — Scottish manbags/kilt accessories — out of animal heads, after a visit to the Kilt and Thistle Shoppe in Salem.

The next day at the Fresh Pot coffeehouse in Portland, I scroll down the Kilt and Thistle’s MySpace page. Under a video of Darth Vader playing the bagpipes, comments such as “Keep on piping, bro!” and “I love sporrans, too, hu-rah!” appear. Another exclaims, “I wish more guys weren’t too scared to rock the plaid, it’s near impossible to find a hot kilted guy.” Such are the hardships Scotophiles face in Oregon. There are also comments from the Brotherhood of the Kilt and from the Scottish “Holigans” Society. Up top it states, “Kilt and Thistle rocking some kilts.” My favourite comment reads, “Ah, i love you kilt and thistle with your tartan bounty and rich heritage!” Tartan bounty, hu-rah!

I find this all exceedingly amusing, but I am distracted. I keep thinking about those sporran faces I saw yesterday. I surreptitiously take out a leaflet I picked up at the Kilt and Thistle and hope that noone sitting either side of me is an animal rights activist. Rows of wee furry faces stare up glassily at me. Some look fierce. Some look miserable. Is there any line drawn regarding the kinds of creatures that can be origamied up into sporrans?

I think back to Mrs Duncan’s very definite tone of regret that they can’t import arctic seal sporrans from Canada. So, there is one line, at least. Unlike its neighbor to the north, the U.S. draws the line at arctic seals. They don’t however draw any lines when it comes to taste. I am astounded at the sight of dyed green skunk sporrans, and by mini-kilts for cans or bottles. While William Duncan at the Kilt and Thistle was reluctant to admit that women were allowed to wear kilts, your six-pack of Budweiser or bottle of Shiraz doesn’t have to do without.

Craigie Sporrans of Punta Gorda, Western Florida, is a “full mask” sporran making company. I scroll through their site, past the sporraned faces of Icelandic sheep, Tibetan lambs and possums, past the “Angora goat Ultimate.” Even after yesterday’s sight, my eyes still widen at the snarling bobcat head sporran. If you want a badger “with open mouth,” it’ll cost you an extra $85. The raccoon full mask sporran is $400, extra, of course, for one with its wee mouth open. This one’s gaze is disconcertingly similar to the expression on the enormous beastie I tripped over as it was feasting on an aged pumpkin in my yard recently.

People shuffle into seats to my left as I load yet another sporranerie’s wares on screen.

“The last weeks, I’ve just been decompressing,” says the hippy-ster to my right.

“I’ve been going to sleep with the sun,” answers her enthusiastically dredlocked companion, nodding understandingly. I try to angle my screen so they can’t see the ranks of massacred woodland creatures that line my laptop screen.

I glance back at the page that has just loaded. To my simultaneous delight and consternation, I realise that those accordioned alligators are in fact alligator head sporrans. Complete with teeth. I am speechless, which is just as well, considering the people sitting to my immediate right. Who wants the noggin of an eleven-foot-long swamp predator to keep their car keys in? This takes tartan bounty to, well, a new low. Do people hunt their own gators and have ‘em sporraned up as a sort of Scottish-American take on hunting trophies? I may have to call up the Craigies, put on my best Sarah Palin accent and enquire.

Now the two beside me are talking about mutual friends called Space Monkey and Muse.

“Monkey was evicted the same day as she lost her job. Her boss called her a vampire.”

The guy with the dredlocks whistles. “I’m not sure about her energy.”

I glance surreptitiously at the purple and silver clad woman to my left and see her nod her knotty head knowingly, “Yeah, her energy is just tarnished.”

Ms MacPherson's wee hare head

Among all the American sporran masters, I find one Scot quietly rustling up examples of tartan taxidermy. Dave Lamont has a badger full mask sporran on his site, complete with front feet. It looks like it’s giving itself a wee frightened hug. It looks small and meek. I’d like to give it a hug myself. On another site I find a disconcerting sporran nest of three mink heads, a roadkill-esque muskrat and a couple of squinty-eyed silver foxes. Sporranmistress MacPherson does surprising mallard and hare numbers.

Back in Western Florida, as well as sporrans made from the heads of swamp-dwelling carnivores, the Craigie people have a lot of badger options. Two pages of them, in fact, the second entitled “Additional Badgers,” which, for some reason I find terribly amusing.

I imagine visiting the sporranerie and asking, “And do you have any additional badgers?”

I’m not sure why I find this superfluity of Floridian den-dwelling mammals so entertaining, perhaps Mr or Mrs Craigie can shed some light on that for me as well. I’m smirking and getting looks like I’m the weirdo from Space Monkey and Muse’s companions.

I was recently in Florida, stuck on a minibus down the Florida Keys with five hung over drag queens and an off duty conch shell, and had no idea such creations were adjacent.

Being a relatively new resident of North America, amusing beasties such as raccoons and skunks still have me pointing and exclaiming with delight. I am still not 100% sure of appropriate creature encounter behaviour. I think I’ve got the basics of bear etiquette down – it’s all in the claws, apparently – and just a couple of months ago I found out that I didn’t need to be fearful of cougars and mountain lions and pumas, I can just pick one and panic, since it turns out that it is just the one crafty beast with a whole litter of aliases. On my travels I’ve also learned that “cougars,” in pejorative North American terms anyway, are also predatory older ladies with a penchant for admirers somewhat younger than themselves. That’s a whole different thing to be afraid of. Despite being at the age when I could probably qualify as one, I’m afraid I can’t offer any advice on how best to evade their pursuit. Our pursuit. It’s probably in the claws.

Soon after I moved to the Pacific Northwest, a local tabloid ran the headline, “Rabid Skunk!” above a photo of a sketchy-looking skunk caught in the kind of bleary-eyed paparazzi-snapped pose usually reserved for the latest freefalling pop disaster du jour and her posse as they cascade out of the week’s chicest emporium. I don’t know whether this provoked exaggerated skunk fears on my part, but on the occasions that I’ve been loping home at night and seen one scurrying about the streets, I’ve pelted off swiftly in the other direction, a look of near matching rabid terror in my eyes. Looking at this wee face on the other side of the window is the closest I’ve ever been to one of the ominously striped critters. It’s an odd experience. If you took a skunk and asked an obliging taxidermist to make you a hot water bottle cover out of it, this is pretty much what it would look like.

Once, when I was an urchin, I was at a puppet making class in Glasgow Art Galleries and inadvertently went through the wrong door, finding myself in the galleries’ taxidermy workshop. It was a more intensive educational experience than the puppet masters probably intended and not one that I’ve ever forgotten. Polar bears look disconcerting inside out. Looking at the sporran display in the Kilt and Thistle Shop in Salem, Oregon, the furry faces look disconcerting, too, in a different way. It seems somehow less dignified than lopping their heads off and sticking them up on the wall. I stand for some time taking in the row of fine North American creatures, parceled up into sporrans.

A couple of years ago I walked down Salem’s Liberty Street and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of an entire shop window full of Scottish-themed Christmas ornaments. Who knew so many people peppered their trees with plaid-clad pooches on an annual basis? Glittery Scottie dogs and a troop of tall hat-wearing pipers adorned a tinsel tree in the Kilt and Thistle shop window. In one corner Santa Mac-ed it up in a kilt. In the other he had a Scottish Saltire flag crossed across his protruding paunch. I was simultaneously delighted and horrified to find this kind of evidence of home so very far away from home, in more ways than one.

Yet this is the place I have come back to in order to learn about the secrets of tartan and other such Scottish sartorial statements. My companion this morning, Erin, who spent a couple of years in Salem (outside the prison and mental health systems, I should add), is being very obliging and supporting me in my quest to attain true Scottish status. I think most of the novelty of my being Scottish has worn off at this stage, but obviously not quite, for here she is. If ever she wants me to accompany her to perfect whichever clichéd skills and abilities are expected of those from her part of the world I’ll happily sign up. Although perhaps I should check what is assumed of those from America’s Dairyland, before I make such a declaration. While, not unlike Scotland, stereotypical Wisconsinite activities seem to revolve around the core activities of alcohol guzzling and the consumption of deep fried items, I have a niggling suspicion that there may also be polka-dancing involved. Whatever, I owe her.

Erin and I park and scamper out of the car. We pass a sign outside the International United Methodist Church that begs, “Lord, Give Me the Persistence of a Weed.” I assume they didn’t have enough SnapLok letters to spell out “Lord, Give Me the Persistence of a Telemarketer.”

There is a terrible moment when we realize that the storefront is vacant. Could the search have gone to seed so soon?  I display a moment’s distinctly un-weedy lack of persistence and am on the verge of sloping back to the car. However, we prospect a bit further and discover the Kilt and Thistle Shop lurking downstairs at the back of the Reed Opera House shopping arcade, a quirky building from 1870, somewhat perplexingly decorated with 1930s swimwear ads.

I halt at the foot of the stairs, barely able to contain my glee at the sight of so much tartan. A female mannequin models a floor-length kilt, ruffled white blouse and black velvet waistcoat. A suit of armour stands to attention by the shop’s doorway in a rather forbidding manner. But what really stops me in my tracks is the row of sporrans.

I squeal with amazement on spying their display case. Luckily only Erin, the knight and the mannequin can see my cartoon surprised face. I have only ever seen Mark’s faux leather Boy Scout sporran up close, and never paid much attention to the few other kilt-accessorising Scottish man-bags that I’ve seen on show at the weddings and the one Burns Supper I attended back home. These sporrans are furry. These sporrans have faces. These sporrans are made from taxidermied animal heads.

“Do you think they’re real?” I ask with astonishment.

Erin does. I am amazed anew. I continue to stare and get a wee start on seeing the beady eyes of a muskrat staring glassily back at me. A red fox looks snappy. A badger has tassels. I’d never really thought of badgers as the kind of mammal that makes that much of an effort. I’d half expect those vampy foxes to camp it up a bit when going out on the town, but I always picture the badger as more of a leisurewear kind of mammal. Perhaps this will teach me not to make such hasty judgments in the future.

Anyway, this wee one took up residence in my yard in Little Scotland a couple of years ago. I named her Morag and was all set to incorporate her wee snout into Little Scotland’s official crest.

We made each other’s acquaintance one morning when I was sitting downstairs, scowling at the latest border infraction on the part of the Little Portuguese (elderly neighbours George and Tony had once again pulled up various pricey plants in my garden, proclaiming “these jus’ weeds!”), when I heard a succession of startling cracking noises. Fearing what G&T were up to now, I dashed to the front door and encountered this wee beastie – even smaller than when I took this photo – crunching and snarfing down the plate of cat food I’d left out for the wee stray that lived on the street. I was as surprised as Morag was — although I didn’t fall over backwards with my wee toes in the air as a result. 

I won’t say that Morag and I ever became friends, but she got used to coming round, hanging out in the back yard, and developed a serious cat food habit. Her cat food-smelling abilities were outstanding! I would have been proud to incorporate her into Little Scotland’s crest, alongside the weeds and a motto that said something offensive about the Little Portuguese’s gardening techniques in Latin.

I think Morag eventually got too fat to fit under the fence. 

1.

2. Tried to play upwind while golfing on a desert sand course where they harden the sand round holes with leftover grease from the RV park diner. Tilted Kilts, Apache Junction, Arizona

3. Kept a wary eye out for sidewinders at the fifth hole and rattlesnakes on the seventh — the holes closest to the banks of snake holes scattered all over the Snakehole Golf and Country Club course. Tilted Kilts, Apache Junction, Arizona

4. Had to display ID several times to the same server in allegedly Scottish-themed bar where servers appear not to have been chosen for their intellects and have a combined IQ slightly below that of the average carrot. Tilted Kilts, Tempe, Arizona

5. Traveled in close proximity to a pot of fast-curdling sour cream — and its strung out owner — on a Greyhound bus to Olympia. The sour cream continued on to San Francisco. Hellhole of the Pacific, Olympia, Washington

6. Attended four Highland Games in quick succession. Portland, Oregon, Memphis, Tennessee, Las Vegas, Nevada and Gatlinburg, Tennessee

7. Cringed with horror at the sight of the finale of New York’s Tartan Day Parade — a bedraggled three-person/one-green-bedsheet-Nessie who had lost her middle legs somewhere further back along Avenue of the Americas. Killing the Chanter, New York and New Orleans

8. Became an unwilling part of a Jacobite love song recital in Memphis suburb. I am still recovering from the fear of freshly starched peasant smocks that this has instilled in me. Memphis, Tennessee

9. Got piped out of the parking lot of the Florida Police’s Blue Light Lounge by troupe of Floridian pipers. Banquet of Consequences, Fort Lauderdale, Florida

10. Drove Tennessee backroads at midnight with Dolly Parton’s third cousin. Land of My Heart Forever, Gatlinburg, Tennessee

The menu also offers Hebridean Leek Pie. I hadn’t realized leeks were a major crop on the outer isles. The summer my family spent on Eriskay, a tiny wee wind-whipped dot of an island at the southern tail of the Outer Hebrides, it seemed to me that the main Hebridean crops were rain, whisky and kelp. I don’t believe I consumed a single leek that summer. Meanwhile, the rain won no fans, my dad was in favour of the whisky and my mum was enthusiastic enough about the seaweed to add chocolate and boil it up into a disconcertingly putty-like dessert that we all made valiant, but ultimately unsuccessful, efforts to consume.

I was seven when we went to Eriskay and my strongest memory of the island, other than how long it took to chew each lovingly made tentacle of dessert, is what happened immediately after I promised my parents that I wouldn’t stray off the planks that lead the way through the island’s patches of bog. Of course, the minute I was out of sight of the house, I tested the waters, as it were, to see what would happen if I didn’t walk on the planks. I sunk impressively quickly. The peaty muck rose to my middle before I managed to grab and cling onto the plank that had been placed at that spot expressly to prevent such scenarios. But I wasn’t too worried. My parents would soon save me. Help would come. My mum had given us all whistles to blow if we needed her whilst we explored. I blew and blew and blew and was getting quite exasperated when a shadow finally fell. I looked up expecting to see a concerned parent bursting with worry and sympathy, and was extremely surprised to see a petite three-foot-high pony looming above me. I was delighted that my whistle had summoned such an unlikely saviour! This would be a splendid story to tell the others! It was just like in the Scottish fairytales I read where kindly animals came to the rescue of Scottish children who had inconveniently scampered into the path of misfortune. I held my hand up to pat the helpful creature to thank it for its assistance. The wee scunner promptly bit me and trotted off, whinnying in an evil manner. Then I remembered Scots writer Mollie Hunter’s tales of the kelpie—the evil water sprite that took the form of a horse to lure foolish humans to their doom. The whinny sounded again, hooves were coming closer. Sheer terror gave me the strength to clamber onto the plank, leaving one welly boot behind. I dashed the hundred yards home.

My parents seemed remarkably unconcerned about my narrow escape from the demonic horse, no matter how many times I increased the pony’s girth and dental dimensions. In fact, it seemed to rather amuse them. Their amusement only got worse when the stupid wee beast cantered meekly up to the house looking for carrots, thistles or whatever it is that satanic three-foot ponies eat when they’re not feasting on the blood of seven-year-olds.

As a result, the Hebrides do not make me think of leeks.

Sometimes people say this kind of stuff to me when I’m on the road. Sometimes I eavesdrop.

1. “You speak really good English for someone from Scotland.” Gas station attendant, Hoquiam, Washington, Chapter 6: Hellhole of the Pacific

2. “Well, when you find a woman who ain’t your cousin round these parts, you want to grab them fast. Why don’t you stay, we’ll get a cabin up in the woods, have us a shackload of kids?” Man with three teeth, Gatlinburg, Tennessee, Chapter 14: Land of my Heart Forever

3. “There ain’t no dress code in the desert.” Charlie, President of the Snakehole Golf and Country Club, Apache Junction, Arizona, Chapter 7: Tilted Kilts

4. “To play golf round here, you play with your wife if she plays. If she don’t, you go git somebody else’s wife. Or a widow lady. Then you git cake and coffee.” Charlie, President of the Snakehole Golf and Country Club, Apache Junction, Arizona, Chapter 7: Tilted Kilts

5. “Ah, i love you kilt and thistle with your tartan bounty and rich heritage! Tartan bounty, hu-rah!” Kilt and Thistle Shoppe MySpace page, Salem, Oregon, Chapter 2: Additional Badgers

6. “Of course, I have a favourite president and that president was Mitterand. … Mitterand rocked it.” Strung out guy on Greyhound bus from Seattle to Olympia, Washington, Chapter 6: Hellhole of the Pacific

7. “Your accent! It’s real! Ah’ve only heard Scottish accents on TV!” Woman in “Scottish milkmaid” outfit, Memphis, Tennessee, Chapter 5: Hark, The Pies Are Calling

8. “Ah shoot ‘em. Ah hunt an’ kill ‘em.” Duck hunter at next table, Automatic Slim’s Tonga Club, Memphis, Tennessee, Chapter 5: Hark, The Pies Are Calling

9. “I am not a fan of this city. In my next life I will not come back to Memphis. I don’t like Elvis.” Jama, Somalian taxi driver, Memphis, Tennessee, Chapter 5: Hark, the Pies are Calling

10. “They speak what in Scotland, Dutch?” Jama, Somalian taxi driver, Memphis, Tennessee, Chapter 5: Hark, the Pies are Calling

11. “Braveheart! Yes, yes! And this is true? The ending? The quarters?” Jama, Somalian taxi driver, Memphis, Tennessee, Chapter 5: Hark, the Pies are Calling

12. “When I moved here forty years ago, I’d never seen so much tartan in my life. We’re Glaswegians. We don’t do that.” 86-year-old Alex Pratt from Springburn, Glasgow in Honolulu, Oahu, Chapter 1: Far Off In Sunlit Places

13. “This isn’t Scotland, this is bloody Brigadoon. It certainly isn’t the Scotland I come from.” Scottish politician’s wife watching New York’s Tartan Day Parade, Chapter 11: Bloody Brigadoon

14. “This is a weird amount of enthusiasm for a bunch of white people.” Charles from South Carolina watching New York’s Tartan Day Parade, Chapter 11: Bloody Brigadoon

15. “I don’t like hot cheese. I only like cold cheese.” Dan, former police officer and Clan Gow representative, Gatlinburg, Tennessee, Chapter 14: Land of my Heart Forever

1. Midge Forecast

A bug fix for you. Daily and 7-day Midge Forecasts so you can avoid the wee beasties, rated from level 1 (pesky) to level 5 (being devoured alive by a cloud of upwards of a million of the tiny wee demons.)

2. Scottish Slang

The ultimate Aye Phone! Part slang, part Scots, this is the one to have to hand when visiting Scotland and faced with sentences featuring the likes of “ah’murnie” and “a’m gaggin fira swally”. Also useful for mastering  “tumshie”, “nyaff”, “midgy-raker” and other such handy Scots insults.

3. ScotClans

All the clans and tartanry you can tuck on one telephonic device.

4. I’m Proclaimer

It’s the Proclaimers on your phone! It’s your ultimate Hogmanay karaoke! It’s your chance to choose whether you’re Craig or Charlie! It’s your Proclaimers backing tracks! It’s free!

5. Scotch Hunter

A guide to single malt that you can pour onto your phone and never again be confused as to whether you want an Auchentoshan, a Bruichladdich or a Laphroaig.

I had no idea so many countries had national animals. The official Afghani mammal is a snow leopard. Algeria is represented on the four-footed stakes by something called a “Fennec Fox”—a wee desert fox with huge ears. Good call. Both Angola and Kiribati have swiftly vaulted high up my Must Visit in 2012 list because they’ve both chosen the Magnificent Frigatebird as their animal. Nice work, Angola and Kiribati! So what it’s not actually an animal, it’s magnificent. Argentina has opted for the Cougar, Lebanon for the Striped Hyena, Bangladesh for the Royal Bengal Tiger, Belarus for the Wisent, which looks like some sort of buffalo-esque beastie, Japan the funny wee Raccoon Dog. Bhutan has bet on some weird goaty thing called a Takin, Gibraltar has put its money on the Barbary Macaque, Luxembourg and the Netherlands stretch the imagination a little by picking the Lion. Many countries have National Birds. A few, such as Indonesia, have a National Fish. India has a National Animal (Bengal Tiger), Bird (Indian Peacock), Icon (Gray Langur Monkey), Marine Animal (Gangetic Dolphin), Heritage Animal (Indian Elephant) and Reptile (King Cobra). Mexico has a National Arthropod (the Grasshopper), which is taking things a hop too far. Iran is either greedy or indecisive with three animal ambassadors (Asiatic Cheetah, Persian Leopard and the Persian Fallow Deer). Even Ireland has a couple of creatures on its books, the Irish Woldhound and the Red Deer. And Scotland? The National Animal of Scotland is the Unicorn.

The Unicorn? As the reliable source site OMG-Facts.com says, “The national animal of Scotland is not a real animal!”  Outrage. We have to face the other countries of the world with a makey-uppey monster as our mascot? This is not going to help my efforts to alert the cloak sellers and dragon stand shoppers of Scottish-America’s Highland Games to the fact that Harry Potter and Scotland are not the same thing. But, yes, Scotland has to settle for the Unicorn. Why? When we have plenty of fine Scottish mammals that could clamour for the title of top Scot critter. We could be represented on the animal plane by the Pine Marten, the Scottish Wildcat, the Red Squirrel, Red Fox, Red Deer, Roe Deer, Badger, Otter, Grey Seal, by dolphins or porpoises, by the stunning white Mountain Hare, by Minke Whales. Glitzy Monaco proudly named the European Hedgehog, European Rabbit and the wee Wood Mouse as its mammals, why doesn’t Scotland have something un-fancy but not fictional?

I’d vote for the Scottish Wildcat, Britain’s only free-living native forest cat and the UK’s last remaining large wild predator. The Scottish Wildcat Association describes the “Tiger of the Highlands” as “one of the most impressive predators in the world: intelligent, fearless, resourceful, patient, agile and powerful” and also as a “superpredator.” They’re about 50% bigger than the average domestic tabby (which still leaves them significantly lighter than my Canadian companion’s vast, black 20-pound feline back in Toronto). I just promised Adrian I’d get her a Wildcat kitten for a belated Hanukkah present, but, alas, the Wildcat Association folks state that they are “the only wild animal that can never be tamed by human hand.” Sigh.

I still think we should have a Wildcat as our National Animal. We could hold our head up when we meet the Angolans and Kiribatis if we had a superpredator to pit against their measly Magnificent Frigatebird and our Wildcat would work through Monaco’s trio of hedgerow hopefuls as a pre-breakfast snack. But we better make it fast—there are less than 400 Wildcats left at large in Scotland and they’re threatened with extinction within the next five years. I’ve just told Adrian that not only can she not have a Wildcat kitten for Hanukkah, but that she only has around five years to become the first person to tame one. Two glasses of wine later, she has now decided to devote her life to saving the Scottish Wildcat. I’ll toast to that.

Texas Longhorn, Fort Worth Stockyards

“Let me tell you all the things that might put you off first,” says the email. Texas summer heat is not for the faint-hearted. Or for the easily burned. It is mostly triple digit temperatures and usually no rain to break the heat. This year is an inferno and we are having a drought.”

This is not encouraging.

“If you are thinking of a vacation and seeing other parts of the state, be aware that Texas is very large and it can take a day or more to drive from one part to another.”

It continues, “I teach to give myself the discipline to learn. I am not fluent. I am a learner-teacher. There are many, more-fluent learner-teachers in Toronto, Ohio, Washington, DC, Seattle, North Carolina, not to mention Cape Breton. This is the back of beyond for learners.”

And there’s more.

“Most baby beginners are glassy-eyed after three hours. Even experienced learners are wiped out after an immersion weekend.”

My correspondent has saved one assumed deterrent for last.

“Also, I have four cats.”

It’s not quite the upbeat and persuasive course information I was looking for in my search for the ideal, beginner’s Scottish Gaelic class, although I tend to tuck cats into plus columns.

The email then skims over a distinctly slimmer handful of reasons why I might want to head to North Texas. “Now here’s the flip side, so that you can make an informed choice: I have a pool, I am a good teacher and I live on an acre southwest of Fort Worth. There are lots of stars and it is normally quiet and peaceful.”

She signs off, “Tioraidh an drasda, Jonquele Jones.”

I have no idea what Tioraidh an drasda means, but a Texan cat ranch during a heat wave seems like a perfect place to further my Scottish education, so I write back immediately and book a place on a mid-August Scottish Gaelic immersion weekend in Benbrook, Texas. Stars, cats and a swimming pool versus an exhausting, sprawling inferno, sign me up.

When my sister Orla learned Gaelic as an extracurricular subject as a teenager, she traipsed about various picturesque parts of the Inner and Outer Hebrides and some slightly less picturesque parts of Glasgow for lessons. I will be learning in what is now described rather lifelessly as an “exurban area”, but once was ranchland, and before that, buffalo hunting grounds for the Wichita, Caddo, Comanche and Lipan Apache tribes. When Orla learned Gaelic, she wrote an impassioned article in the Glasgow Herald about the decline of Gaelic. So far, my plans for a literary take on this trip to Texas don’t extend too much farther than a few postcards proclaiming, “Cats! Big hair! Hot!”