My journey of self-discovery in Stirling, Scotland part two

This is part two of a two-part story. Read part one here. 

The driver was fascinated by my quest, providing me with as much additional information about the history of the area as he was able to. We travelled along Drip Road which is a busy highway linking Stirling to the north of Scotland and the Highlands.

We soon found the old Drip Bridge which was covered in moss. It is no longer used. I picked up several tiny pieces of stone which had broken off and put them in my pocket to share with my birth siblings. Cottages near the bridge had obviously been renovated by locals who wished to live a quiet country life.

Read more: Warsaw: One foot in the past, one foot in the future

We drove slowly along the narrow country lane past a man walking a border collie and stopped near the Baad cottages opposite fields of long grass flattened by the cold wind.

Dogs barked as I took photographs of the cottages which stood isolated in a flat field and appeared to be holiday lets. Tears coursed down my face as 60 years of not knowing who I was began to dissipate. I picked up a handful of soil and let it slowly run through my fingers. Unfortunately foreboding heavy grey clouds and the wind whipping at my hair and coat meant we could not stay long.

Knowing I could see or do little more other than absorb my joy at my homecoming I reluctantly returned to the taxi and travelled back to Stirling. I revisited the local museum and was welcomed back by staff who were still enthralled by my search. They were very happy I had managed to find what remained of the two villages. I spent the rest of the day learning the history of the area, particularly it’s early economic reliance on textiles and weaving. Looking at photographs of Stirling as it had been when my great-great grandparents lived there was bittersweet. I wondered how they would have felt knowing I had returned to their home on a jet in just 24 hours from the country they had sailed for months to reach.

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With much sadness I left Stirling knowing I may never return. I know my origins, what clan I belong to, 60 years of restlessness and no identity absolved. I had bought special souvenirs; pictures depicting the country areas surrounding Stirling to frame, photographs, and many precious memories of a town which had welcomed me home.