I'll Take The Low Road.

A few weeks ago, I quietly slipped up to Scotland for a week. This was not just a holiday, a trip to catch up with relatives, or a spur-of-the-moment getaway. The journey was conceived in the week after my dad passed away at the end of last year. I could not get back to Australia for the funeral, so I decided instead to visit Scotland, to honour his life and spend some time in reflection. And to explore my own legacy, my own history, my own origins.

While planning the trip, I chose not to visit Aberdeen, where Dad was born and raised. I have been there several times over the years and I love it, but I realised that he was more than his hometown. There was also my own connection to consider. I was born in the Highlands, where Dad was posted as a policeman.

I made a list of places I wanted to visit and explore, each chosen with care for its connection to him. Many were places I had not seen since the mid 80s and barely remembered, yet each carried some association with Dad, something meaningful to me.

The west coast, for example. I know he loved that side of the country, and I have a lasting memory of us there together in the 80s. Pitlochry, where Mum and Dad honeymooned. And, of course, Inverness, where I was born, and Nairn, where I lived.

There were also a few places I wanted to visit for my own interest, places where I might stop for an hour and have a look around, so I added them to the list.

 
I was stunned when I mapped the trip out and everything fell into an almost perfect loop. Nothing I had chosen needed to be cut for being too far out of the way. Everything seemed to fit. It all just fell into place.

Planning what to bring followed naturally, items to accompany the journey. A book, one of Dad’s favourites about Scotland. A playlist of Scottish music, from traditional through to modern. Photographs of Dad and me, Mum and me when I was a baby, and so on. A few other things to help me reflect. And a journal to record the entire trip.

Everything I set out to do was achieved. Every planned stop was visited. All I was looking for was found - in places, in things, and within myself. I learned a lot, and I came to a lot of realisations about my own identity - including things I have carried and struggled with since I was young.

 
Dad was with me, in… well, I suppose “in spirit” is the closest I can get. I could visualise him beside me as I drove, as I stood outside his now derelict police station, walked his old beat, and looked up at the window into the room where he once held me in his arms. Mum was there too, through messages and video calls, even walking with me around the streets where she had lived as a young wife and mother.

The trip exceeded all expectations. Just the right length, just the right stops and stays, and just the right balance of exploration. And then home, enfolded back into my regular life, now possessing a deeper sense of who I am.

Dad.

My Dad, Don Cameron, passed away on New Year’s Eve at the age of 88.

It seems to me there’s a huge dose of symbolism there. A day that is traditionally seen as ringing out the past and welcoming the future. A day for remembrance, but also for hope.

Growing up, I thought Dad could do anything. And even in the last few years, as he struggled with breathing issues, arthritis, mobility and dementia, I found it difficult to reconcile the reality with that image.

He taught me many things; values, resilience, admitting failures. But mostly he taught me about being honest, about doing what’s right, even when no one is watching.

Dad was generous, gentle and compassionate, and I think he became more so as he aged. Scots have a reputation, undeserved, for being tight with money. The truth is that Scots in the north were generally poor and had to be thrifty in order to survive. But even now I am hearing stories of Dad’s generosity which I never knew. That’s who he was: quietly giving, never seeking recognition.

I wish Dad’s last words were “Franco Cozzo”, (google him, if you don’t know Franco) which would have made for a great tale and wonderful epitaph for years to come. And although it was only a few days ago he did blurt that suddenly and for no apparent reason, he went on to say other things before he passed. But that moment, like so many others, reminds me of his humour.

I last saw Dad in June. I had planned to visit later in 2025, but as he was declining I gathered my remaining leave dates and went earlier. I was fortunate to sit with him for several hours daily, to tell him how I felt, and to listen to his stories. There were even days he had moments of knowing who I was.

Sleep well, Dad. I love you always.

All the way to Nort-a Melbourne, Brunsa-wick and Foot-a-scray

Camping for Boys.

I've always loved camping. As a kid I was a Cub, then a Scout, and finally a Venturer. My dad was a Scout Leader, and I was lucky to go on some of the Scout camps when I was only a cub. 

It's been a long time since I've done any real camping. In fact it was the turn of the millenium - a mate and I went bush for a week while the world wondered whether the Y2K bug would destroy civilisation. We had no electricity, did much of our cooking on campfires, and had a wonderful time.  There was no internet on phones, no real phone connection anyway, and hardly saw another person. We talked, listened to some music on the car radio, and just chilled.

It was a wonderful week.

I have recently been thinking about a weekend my Dad and I went camping when I was young. He'd promised to take me away, but when Friday rolled around he wasn't feeling well. I think I might have pushed him a bit, but we went and had a fabulous time. I remember being up bush with our tent. He let me wear his commando style hat, which thrilled me no end. The most vivid memory I have is waking up in the middle of the night. I got out of the tent, and dad was sitting by a huge, roaring fire. It was completely dark otherwise, and silent, and we sat on logs and watched the flames. We probably spoke, but so many years later I have no idea what we spoke about. I just know I felt safe, and comfortable, and at peace.

Why has this memory popped up now? I have no idea. But it pleases me to recall that weekend.