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I’m quite sure Willie was uncomfortable with the way I was staring at him as we sat in the well-appointed dining room of the Lamont Manse. It was the culmination of our genealogy efforts over the past couple years. We certainly never expected to meet the current gracious head of Scotland’s Clan Lamont Society, so when she offered to host us in the ancestral home, our excitement was incalculable!
It felt like stepping into a dream spun from the threads of time. The walls around us, adorned with oil portraits of long-departed ancestors, seemed to whisper. Behind Willie’s shoulder hung a face that mirrored his own. Then another. And another. The resemblance—especially in the strong, unmistakable nose—was almost eerie, and deeply moving. I kept stealing glances, caught between past and present.
Beyond the dining room stretched the rest of the manor, a treasure trove of memory. Each room held relics of lives once lived: letters, ledgers, mementos softened by age. We turned pages of old household records and saw, in faded ink, names we once knew only as entries on a chart. They were no longer just facts—we were walking through the living breath of history. I remember thinking: So this is what it means when they say the past comes alive.
The Lamont tartan, in its various iterations, was everywhere. From sumptuous silk drapes, to upholstery, placemats, and even the carpet on the unique staircase—we were enveloped in beauty and history. We learned so much about the when’s and why’s of each version of the tartan. This would prove useful beyond measure when we decided to honor Willie’s heritage with tartan drapes in our own little cottage.
And the view! From every window, the landscape unfolded like a painting in motion. The loch shimmered in the soft morning mist, gradually peeling away to reveal a stony shore on our side and a mossy blue-green ribbon of land across the water. We watched it every day, that gentle unfurling—each time feeling just as stunned, just as soothed. One night, we were invited to a great bonfire on that very shore. It was followed by a lovely party with plenty of high spirits (both in human form and via wine and whiskey bottles). The memory of it still burns as brightly as the fire that night.
Not far from the manse, nestled between the loch and the shoulder of a solitary mountain, stood a small stone kirk and its weathered graveyard—final resting place for many of the Lamonts. Moss-draped headstones leaned against time’s slow pull, encircled by walls built lovingly, stone by stone, centuries ago. We walked beneath a royal-blue sky, the air crisp, the leaves drifting downward in slow, golden spirals. Tall grasses brushed our legs. There were no voices, only the soft rustle of weeds and the whisper of history. In those moments, the modern world receded. We became wanderers between centuries.
They say the sense of wonder fades as we grow older, but I believe it only lies dormant, waiting for the right key to unlock it. We found it again in Scotland—tucked in ancient stones, in tartan threads, in the echo of footsteps long since stilled.
And we cannot wait to return.