My Heart's in the Highlands
Tuesday January 25, 1881
Baker Street
London winter brought cold London rain, and the light filtering in through the windows of the upper flat at 221 Baker Street was prematurely reduced by the darkened grey skies. Sherlock Holmes stood by the largest window, reading aloud from a small collection of poetry, employing a wide range of intonations.
Doctor John Watson, who minded the cold, sat in an armchair near the glowing fireplace, trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on his own reading. The doctor, who was reluctant to cause a row with his new flatmate over anything so trivial, winced, and finally looked up from his book.
'Holmes, whatever are you doing?' he enquired.
'Surely, as a Scot, you recognise Burns' 'Tam o' Shanter',' Holmes exclaimed.
'Of course I do. But why the repetition with the different voices?'
'I'm meeting someone at the St. Andrews Club tonight, and since the information they are selling requires discretion, I would like to remain inconspicuous,' replied the detective, resuming his recitation.
'By affecting a false Scots accent?' Watson asked with incredulity. 'In that club, you'll stand out like a sore thumb.'
'My good fellow, I'll have you know that I have used this accent quite successfully in the past!'
'Not in a room full of Scotsmen, I'll wager!' murmured the doctor to himself, returning to his book.
Holmes paused to think. Although most unlikely, this recently acquired flatmate of his might be on to something. In the mere twenty-six days they had been sharing lodgings, the young veteran had shown rare insight into matters where Holmes had not expected him to have any knowledge. That was, when Watson wasn't being morose and withdrawn. Winter's isolating force seemed to have a strong effect on the man. That the doctor would engage in conversation such as this should be encouraged.
'All right, Doctor, why do you take issue with this?' Holmes asked, seating himself in the opposite armchair.
'You are butchering the words of The Bard on his own birthday,' Watson accused with mock indignation.
'Well then, since you think you're the expert, tell me what I am doing wrong,' he said, reciting a few more lines.
Watson paused as if trying to find a polite way to express what he was about to say, then he admitted defeat with a chuckle, and spoke.
'Where shall I begin? Your 'L's' sound of Glasgow, and your 'W's' might pass for Edinburgh. Your vowels are a strange collection with lowland tendencies. Similarly, your 'R's' are inconsistent. When you use them to start a word, they are Outer Hebrides, but when you use them in the middle of a word, they originate somewhere within a twenty mile radius of Aberystwyth,' Watson summarised.
'Ha! Aberystwyth is in Wales,' snorted Holmes.
'My point, exactly.'
'Those are strong accusations. How do you come by this rather astonishing expertise?'
'The men I served with were drawn from all parts of the Empire. To understand them at all, one had to learn to discern dialects.'
'Well then, I challenge you to recite it correctly. Demonstrate a true 'Scottish' rendition, if you will!'
The doctor stood, and leaning on the armchair for support, shuffled around it to rest his good shoulder against the end of the fireplace mantle. Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow when the doctor declined the offer of the little book with a dismissive wave.
'You know 'Tam o' Shanter' by rote?' he asked in disbelief.
'Er, yes, I know quite a few of Robbie Burns works, actually. In fact, I have a different poem in mind, if you would care to hear it,' the doctor blushed in irony, remembering his childhood struggle to rid himself of his accent. 'Delving into Burns was one of few small acts of resistance a wee Scot could take against the assimilation practiced by my English school.
'Then, in the army, there were times when the lads would get together. Those with musical talent would play, others would sing. I could do neither, but I would recite Burns. There were many Scots in both of my regiments. Hearing The Bard reminded us of home,' Watson said quietly as recollections of those times reflected in his eyes.
'This should be done with whisky, not brandy, but no matter,' Watson said, addressing the glass in his hand, and changing the subject. He paused for effect and then began in a strong, clear voice; his natural lilt flowing forth as it only did in unguarded moments:
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer -
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;
Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.†
Holmes was stunned. He could only imagine the effect that such a heartfelt recitation would have on an impromptu gathering of young Scots soldiers so far from home.
'Watson, that was… brilliant,' Holmes said in awe, 'You, sir, are a naturally gifted orator. I had not considered how you must miss your native land. Well done, indeed!'
Watson smiled wistfully. But the truth to be told, this time, the highlands he missed most were not those of his homeland. They were the ones in a foreign land, nearly half-way around the world, and his reminiscences were of those rare, perfect moments of camaraderie, and of those men, some little more than boys, who yearned for a homeland they would never see again.
.oOOo.
Happy Robbie Burns Day!
January 25
Author's Note:
†Burns, Robert (1789). My Heart's in the Highlands.
("The Complete Works of Robbie Burns" is available, free of charge, at Project Gutenberg.)