Taking the Low Road

Pay Attention to Tour Guides’ Rotation . . .

. . . especially when information hasn’t exactly been forthcoming.

My husband and I have met and known more Scots than your average American tourist. We’ve toured Scotland 17 weeks altogether. We’ve stayed in 15 (that I can remember) private homes and met many of the owners. While shopping for groceries, petrol, and trying to work out the washer-dryer thing, we’ve met their neighbors, relatives, friends, and fellow villagers. We’ve struck up countless conversations on trains, waiting in the ubiquitous queue, in shops, on great-house tours, while staying in B&Bs, you name it.

What have I learned? The Scots are . . . a lot like us. Much more so than the English. That may be because so many Scots immigrated to this country that our collective psyche has been subtly, yet deeply, shaped by this proliferation of Scottish descendants. (Read Born Fighting to see what I mean. James Webb says it much better than I ever could, so I won’t even try to paraphrase him.)

Because of all this immigration, many Scots have a built-in affinity for us, viewing us kindly as American cousins they haven’t yet met. They’ve also heard the stories, handed down by previous generations, of family members who immigrated to the U.S. and – sure enough – made good on the American Dream.

They like us. They really do.

When someone likes you, it’s easy to communicate with them. Good news for American tourists: most Scots want to tell us any and every thing they know about our shared heritage – Scotland’s wonderful country, history, and culture. And if you’re the least bit enthusiastic, they’ll tell you things they don’t know, making it up as they go – if you happen to be conversing in a pub.

Now, as any thinking person will realize, I’ve been speaking in generalities. There will always be the odd man out. And for some quirky, mysterious reason, the exceptions to the rule about friendly, talkative Scots seem to show up from time to time as . . . tour guides.

Yes, well. I don’t understand it either. My best guess is that those employed by the National Trust of Scotland and Historic Scotland to hire guides for their bazillion properties must be very busy indeed. I’m quite certain they don’t intentionally hire someone so ill-suited to the job. I think they’re just distracted – not entirely paying attention – when they hire the people who will be paid to give out information about their properties. No other way to account for the occasional hiring of someone who isn’t terribly fond of parting with knowledge . . . or good will . . . or even a tepid smile.

I’m just telling you to be forewarned. You will eventually encounter one of these types, not very often, but enough that you need to be prepared. We’ve toured literally hundreds of sites, and here’s the score.

Friendly, Informative Scottish Tour Guides: 544
Unfriendly, Tight-mouthed Scottish Tour Guides: 2

Which, when you think about it, is a w-a-a-a-y better score than we’d have here in the States.

Here’s how you cope, which is not to say it’s how I coped. When it’s obvious, by their terse one-liners, they’re not about to give you answers to your innocent questions, stop. Like an idiot, I just kept asking questions, thinking maybe he didn’t understand my American accent or maybe if I just demonstrated my sincere interest, he’d relent. I persisted in this till hubby yanked me into the next room and hissed, “SHUT UP.” You, profiting from my faux pas, will know to stop after the second rebuff.

And you’ll also know – because I’m telling you – that all is not lost. The unfortunate hiring of Mr. Tight Lips does not mean you will never get your questions answered. No, no, no. Just keep your eyes peeled for that very discreet rotation of the tour guides from one room to the next. (NTS and HS do this, I suspect, to ensure their guides are cross-trained and to alleviate their boredom.) Once you see the changing of the guard, just cycle back to the room where your questions went stubbornly unanswered and lo and behold, you’ll find a fresh, new face. And I’ll just bet she’ll be delighted to answer your question about the type of wood in the great hall’s overmantel or the origin of celluloid toiletry set of the eighth laird’s wife.

I can’t tell you how close I came to mailing the scathing letter I wrote to the NTS about a tour guide at Falkland Palace. In the end, I dumped my letter in the dust bin, figuring one so ill-equipped for a job wouldn’t last long – with or without my indignant letter. There are just some things you don’t do, in the interest of downplaying the Ugly American reputation. This was one of them. Let the Scots complain about their own, I figure – and you may want to follow suit.