My Son Made A Friend An Ocean Away - The Magic of Milngavie, Scotland and Friendship
- marisacooksey
- Oct 6
- 9 min read
By Marisa Cooksey
On a trip to the United Kingdom, my family of 6 ventured to a small village outside of Glasgow, Scotland to spend time with relatives. Milngavie, located in the valley of the River Allander, is a true slice of heaven. With a population of 14,000, its rolling hills, lush scenery, tight knit community, and long history make it the perfect Scottish getaway. It is also is widely known for being the starting point of the West Highland Way, and in the summer, you cannot go a day without seeing a group of backpackers suited up heading out for their hiking adventures.
Living in the United States and having family abroad, for many years, letters and phone calls from my relatives describing Milngavie illustrated what Scotland means to me. Being half Scottish and a second generation American on my mother’s side, she found the most beautiful ways over the years to remind me of my Scottish roots. As I grew up, the idea of this little town surrounded by thistle and sheep, seemed like a romantic dream. The first time I visited, this place was just as lovely and quaint and wonderful as I imagined - better even. My maternal grandfather who left Milngavie for the US in the 1930s, passed away before I was born. I remember my cousin taking me to the apartment building where he grew up. She pointed to a window on the second floor of this old stone building, showing me his childhood home. I remember turning around and trying to envision the sights my grandfather must have seen looking out that very window, decades before. One of the things I love about Scotland is that so much remains from prior generations. Knowing that my eyes set on sights that my grandfather’s did brought so much solace to that corner, and every time I go back, I look up to those windows, wondering more about the secrets held inside those walls.
Coming back to Milngavie with my children was a truly surreal experience. Showing them where my grandfather got on the boat to leave his home, not knowing what his future held once he made it to America with no money and no connections, echoes the sadness and joy of this place, of life, of the human experience.
We arrived in Scotland by train via the Caledonian Sleeper Train from London. Once we disembarked, we left the station and met the person we had arranged for a Turo rental. I swear, we ordered the largest vehicle available in all of Scotland, but this hatchback which barely fit us made us appear as a squad of clowns in one of those tiny cars. Once our luggage and our party was secured, we made the half hour drive from the Glasgow Central Station to Milngavie.
Though we weren’t staying with my elderly cousin (as she has not had a house full of rambunctious children in over 50 years, and that lovely house that is stuffed to the brim with delicate, breakable bits and bobs could be destroyed by my kids in under 5 minutes), we decided to make sleeping arrangements elsewhere. Our cousin was dismayed, as she, and honestly almost every Scot I’ve had the pleasure of coming into contact with, wanted us to feel welcomed, at home and accommodated. We instead found a nearby AirBnB which was not too far away so we’d have a space where everyone could gather without the potential of overwhelm.
Searching for AirBnbs can always be a hit and miss, but when my husband found ours for this trip, he knocked it out of the park. The Jaw Barn is one of the most magical AirBnbs I have ever stayed at, and the experience from start to finish was epic in short, and life changing as well (more on that later).
We drove down the small, winding road, surrounded by pasture and wildflowers to our rental. Sheep munched and cows grazed. Tree limbs bowed in the soft breeze. We pulled up to the house, and were immediately smitten. When the owner of the establishment came to greet us, as if with a knee jerk reaction I kind of sighed like, “we arranged for the whole place, what gives?” Well, I later realized that I’d be served a big helping of crow about this, and I’ve now consciously worked to change my view of engaging more purposely with strangers while traveling close to home and abroad.
Regardless, the owner greeted us, helping us with our bags and offering to give us a tour of the place. We soon realized that this property has a few different buildings in which the owner lives in some, and a separate house is available for AirBnb guests. We also learned that the owner owns and distills gin. He gave us a complimentary bottle, to my husband’s delight. He also told us that his grown son and his family lived on the property and that we might see them around sometimes. By the end of the tour, we felt like this was less of a rental experience and more like we were staying the week with old friends.
We unpacked and settled in. After doing so, my sons were ready to stretch their legs. We looked out at the back garden and all ventured there. There was an inground trampoline which as many know, is an instant magnet for most humans under the age of 10. The boys instantly sprinted over and started bouncing.
A few moments later, a little boy appeared. My kids’ bouncing slowed to a stop. They stared at the little boy. The little boy stared at them. Then, they smiled at each other. My oldest then said, “is this your trampoline?” The boy nodded. “Is it okay that we’re jumping on it?” Another nod. Then my middle son said, “Do you like Pokemon?” And with that, the little boy smiled with teeth. “Yes!” he exclaimed, and then he stepped onto the trampoline. Bouncing resumed, as did squeals of laughter, chatter about grass types and electric types, and unabashed fun. When it was time for us to head inside to get ready for dinner, my middle son ran back to me exclaiming, “that boy we just met? He’s going to be my best friend, I know it.”
I smiled at my son and replied, “That's wonderful. What’s his name?” He turned back to the trampoline, realizing the boy was no longer there. “His name? I forgot to ask. So I don’t know. How can I find him again to ask? He’s going to be my best friend!” Not wanting to disturb his family and needing to get my kids bathed for the next event of our day, I pulled him inside, encouraging him to keep his eye out for the little boy over the next few days.
First thing the next morning, my middle son woke me up. “Can I go find my friend?” he eagerly asked, still in his pajamas. I tried to delay the mission, asking him to get dressed and to eat some breakfast. I’ve never seen the child move so fast to get ready in my life. He peeked outside whilst chomping on his toast, disappointed to find an empty garden and an empty trampoline. I tried to distract him and his sinking spirits with an offer for a walk. We donned our raincoats and set out down the gravel path, stopping to look at the wildflowers, listen to the trees, and to count the cows.
We came back, and there was the little boy, happily waving in the back garden when we returned. My son looked at me, beaming. I nodded to him, and off he ran to greet his new friend. “Don’t forget to ask him his name, and to tell him yours this time!” I called as he trotted off. “I will, Mom!” he shouted back. When he reached the little boy, they both opened their arms and embraced in a hug. And off they went to play. “We’re going to find Fionn’s favorite place!” my son called. “Okay, stay safe!” I replied, watching them take off down the hill as I sat sipping my morning coffee at the small wooden table outside, holding my youngest in my arms.
The next few days were much like this. Early mornings sipping coffee, embracing the chill in the air while my kids played with the little boy named Fionn. We’d have to drag the boys away from the AirBnb to do the activities that we’d previously planned with our own family. Yet, we visited Mugdock Country Park, passed by the Bearsden and Milngavie Highland Games, and spent time in the Milngavie Precinct, all truly delightful activities that every member of the family enjoyed. However, the boys’ highlight was always our return to the AirBnb, where Fionn would be waiting for them to play on the trampoline. Watching them immediately form such a strong kinship was bittersweet. My middle son, who is the same age as Fionn, was the closest to him of the bunch. And though they live in two vastly different places, have incredibly different lifestyles, and generally don’t have a lot in common except for the love of Pokemon, their differences meant nothing to them. If only adults could do a better job of remembering that.
On our last morning at The Jaw Barn, my middle son asked Fionn to come inside to spend their last moments together. As we packed up, the boys sat knee to knee on the couch, sharing their Pokemon card collections with each other. When everything was packed up and it was time to go, Fionn’s parents came over to fetch him. “I can’t leave my best friend,” my son said with a shaky exhale. “How about this, we can write Fionn a letter as soon as we make it home,” I told him. The boys nodded in unison. We then said goodbye to our beautiful home away from home, and headed to the front of the property.
When we made it to the car, the boys all embraced in a big group hug. We then piled in, waving goodbye, watching Fionn and his family shrink from view as we drove back down the winding road.
From Milngavie, we ventured onto Edinburgh, back to London, and then home. As soon as we arrived, feeling bone tired from our journey, my middle son ran into the house and straight to his desk. “I have to write Fionn a letter now, or he’ll forget me!” he cried. After promising him that he wouldn’t and assuring him that the mailman wouldn’t be able to pick up his letter right now anyways as it was 10:00PM, we all got in our pajamas and went to bed.
The next morning, my son came into my room with my iPad in hand, pushing it into my face. “Let’s write the letter to Fionn now!” he squealed. After a cup of coffee, he orated his letter to Fionn. I typed it up. He then made two friendship bracelets, putting one on, and putting the other into Fionn’s letter. We then dropped it in the mail, and the waiting game began.
Having sent many a package to the UK in my lifetime, I know that the journey from A to B can be long and fraught. Weeks went by. Every day, my son would ask if a letter arrived. It hadn’t. I began to think that maybe it got lost in the mail. I also thought that maybe his parents didn’t remember us, as many guests come through The Jaw Barn on holiday. After a few months of my son asking if he’d gotten mail from Fionn, I told him that instead of feeling sad that nothing arrived, to instead focus on the joy of the time he had together with his friend in Milngavie. My heart hurt for him a little. I could tell his heart hurt, too.
Then one evening, as the witching hour that collides with dinner time often does, I was busy preparing supper while managing my three youngest kids at home, helping with homework questions, and bribing an episode of Wild Krats in an effort to calm the hangriness. My husband and oldest son then walked into the chaos, and while my oldest talked to me about how he doesn’t like the butterfly stroke (he just came from swim practice) but instead thinks it should be replaced with the dolphin stroke and then proceeded to demonstrate what that would look like on the kitchen floor, my husband sorted through the mail on the counter. He pulled out an envelope, stamped Royal Mail, with my middle son’s name on it.
“Son, come here. Looks like you’ve got a letter from Scotland,” he said. I glanced at it, expecting to see the familiar stationery that my cousin uses when she sends us letters. However, this was different. As my son walked over, I realized that I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope, either. “Dude, I think this might be from Fionn!” I shrieked. As soon as I said Fionn’s name, my son’s face lit up. He grabbed the letter and opened it and began to read.
“It’s from Fionn!” he cried. Tears filled his eyes as joy overflowed. He touched the friendship bracelet on his wrist that he never took off, reading the words in the letter over and over. The letter started with an apology for the delayed response. Fionn told him that he thought of our visit often. And then the letter opened up to all the things that 6 year olds talk about - their pets, favorite foods, Pokemon, what’s on their birthday wishlist, you get the gist.
The letter concluded with Fionn’s hope that my son would reply, promising him to write back as soon as he received the next letter. After a rushed dinner, my kiddo ran upstairs, immediately drafting his reply to Fionn.
The boys have now written to each other several times. The sweetness of their friendship remains as they learn more about each other’s lives. They are so different - where they live, their afterschool activities, their family size and dynamic - but none of it matters. Their friendship is such a beautiful daily reminder of how powerful accepting others can be. There is so much more that unites us than divides us and these two boys and their bond are a reminder of just that.
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