Revisiting My Idyllic Childhood!
Robert the Bruce and His Minion 📷 Sharon McMenemy Khan
In suburban Dunfermline, we lived with a strawberry patch, a cherry tree, two dogs, a cat and a grandmother.
"Know then that is the year 20 thousand and 18. The known universe is ruled by…," Dune, desert planet. We loved this movie when I was growing up. It flopped in the box office, but it was on heavy rotation in our childhood home.
I loved to watch movies with my little brother. If we wanted to watch Dune, we were both onboard. He was always sweet, even then. I love Tootsie, he’d roll his eyes and he’d watch it just for me. He loved Duck Soup, and I’d always let him pick this the next time we sat down together after school to watch movies.
The Spider Story!
Despite the conversation about the full-frontal in Outlaw King, my memories of Robert the Bruce, the Abbey and the cave he spent time in are so different to this film.
I remember walking up through the Glen with my grandmother. She had an adorable cottage at the entrance. We used to cross the old country road and walk through the grandest, most out of place, set of gates you’ve ever seen.
Speak friend and enter!
The brook babbles past you. Swings occupy an odd clearing. A strange nod to organized play in a spiritual place.
We would walk up past the places Robert the Bruce used to survive. There weren’t any markers when I was young. Oddly, there are a few of the most humble plaques I have ever seen now.
When I walked there as a child, I felt safe and loved. Now, I think of it as the source of my patriotism, my love for country.
When I took my husband there to connect with the places that are special to me, he instantly felt at home. It’s just like Northern Virginia, he said.
The places Robert the Bruce hid are without comparison for me.
Tasting the spring water in the brook, hiding in the cave and, it would seem to my sixth sense, hunting in the raveen.
It’s dark in the cave.
I’d contemplated his fate often when I was growing up. I’d stand outside the cave and look in. I’m afraid of the dark. Likewise, I’d force myself to be brave. I’d wonder how he survived. Darkness is engulfing.
Like all greatness, his was hard-earned.
I turn to walk the path around the cliffs edge and in to the Arbor. I imagine how it must have felt to be free when he stepped from the cave. I’d burn through the feeling; it’s time to leave.
My brother Barry and I are a strange combination of bookworms, sporty, party people.
Our favourite book as children was Lord of the Rings. We owned a copy of this. We both read it and loved it. Barry was so young he committed it to memory.
We religiously watched Ralph Bakshi's animated version of Lord of the Rings at home together.
We’d hole up every Saturday in the town library together.
I read the Hobbit, the Silmarillion and the Belgarion in that warm, safe corner of the world.
Somehow I couldn’t enter the abbey when I was young. I felt an invisible force stopping me at the steps. I’d turn away and forget the place.
Enchanted even then.
My Dunfermline is a different place than Robert the Bruce. It’s this tiny little town that’s touched by greatness: an ancient capital, birthplace to one of the world’s richest men.
In our contribution to Scottish history, I got the highest grade in the country for my Geography Higher, an A band 1. My little brother, the highest reading comprehension in the nation.
It’s the place I played my first 8 holes. It’s why I love cherry blossoms. And it’s where I climbed trees with my cousins.
My Dunfermline is walking from outskirts to outskirts making a land use survey. I still like town planning (that’s the source of the first time my husband mocked me. That and turnip carving.)
When I took my husband to introduce him to my idyllic childhood, I thought of what it means to show someone my history. We’ve danced in the great hall in Parliament, we’ve dined in fine restaurants and our beloved Johnny plays our favourite songs when we walk in to The Savoy in London.
Here’s something no-one but I’ve lived.
When we started our journey, I had to ask which train station to get on. It is a strange idea to know somewhere when you arrive, but not know how to get there any more.
Kim was most excited when we sat in the Old Bell pub. He looked at the glory days of Dunfermline’s football club and I thought about what it means to be with someone nothing like you. What it brings in to your life that you’d never know if they didn’t love you.
I wanted to show my husband my reading list at the library, but they were computerizing the records. We went for a drink in the garden next to the abbey instead. This wasn’t there when I was a child.
I had my first curry in Dunfermline. Barry and I loved Korma. When I took Kim we didn’t have time to go to the (really) Indian restaurant, if it does still exist. Instead, we jumped in a cab and went to the Ship on the Shore in Limekilns.
After too many Edinburgh Gins, we felt the modern world calling. We caught the train back to Edinburgh and returned to the present.
First published on medium.com on Nov 20, 2018.