Lord Wathen

Well, I did it -- in my dream, that is. I made the journey across the Atlantic to visit my ancestral lands—also known as “Plot #47203-2340-C” in a windswept corner of nowhere in Scotland. After two connecting flights, one questionable meat pie, and a rental car that smelled like wet dog and defeat, I arrived. There it was: The Wathen Kingdom. All two square feet of it! Slightly sloped, moderately muddy. Smelled faintly of peat and sheep regret. The tree—my one living subject—looked about as enthusiastic as I felt. It was barely two feet tall with a slight lean that suggests it’s either growing or giving up. Hard to tell in that cold, foggy climate. I stood there for a solid 139 seconds, pondering the legacy of Lord Wathen, before my shoes started to sink into the moss and a local sheep farmer drove by, gave me a somewhat suspicious look, and just kept on going. Probably assumed I was lost. Well -- he wasn’t wrong. In total: Time spent traveling: 16 hours Time spent at my estate: 7...

  Post: I’ve decided that one day I'll go to visit the homeland. Not my homeland, mind you. My ancestors were likely kicked out of half of Europe for reasons involving mead, debt, or inappropriate livestock weights and measures. But no—this is a spiritual journey to my estate -- The Wathen Estate . A two-square-foot rectangle of mossy conservation beauty somewhere in Scotland. I imagine the experience will be deeply moving and spiritual. I’ll stand there, staring at my plot, surrounded by other confused Americans holding laminated certificates and trying to figure out where the gift shop is. Maybe we’ll all chant or raise our reusable red Solo cup to the gods of gimmickry. The travel sites call it “eco-conscious heritage tourism.” I call it paying $3,200 to walk on wet grass and pretend I’m related to someone who once sharpened a stick there. There’s no castle, no bagpiper, no kindly old groundskeeper who greets me like “Ah, Lord Wathen, we’ve been expecting you!” No, I ...

Let’s talk about titles. In theory, I’m a Lord. On paper, I own land in Scotland—approximately the size of a pizza box—with a tree on it, probably planted by a guy named Angus who was paid in beer and passive aggression. It’s all very official. I have the certificate, the embossed seal, and the overwhelming sense that I’ve been part of a marketing campaign disguised as environmentalism. But let’s be clear: this title means absolutely nothing.  I'm not delusional. I can't use it to get a loan. I can’t park closer at my local Walmart. No one’s offering me diplomatic immunity or asking me to judge the Highland Games -- but that would be really cool. The closest I’ve come to royal treatment is getting spam emails that now start with “Dear Esteemed Lord Wathen.” I tried flashing my title at a restaurant once. The hostess blinked twice, called me “sir,” and continued to seat a family of four who came in after me -- after me! Apparently, Wathen nobility doesn’t override the Oli...

 I’ve come to the realization that being a landowner—even of two square feet—apparently comes with geopolitical responsibilities. The other day, while drinking coffee and contemplating my dominion ( read: scrolling on my phone while sitting on the patio ), I noticed the neighbor’s lawn gnome staring at me. Not in a friendly way, either. More like a silent accusation. That’s when it hit me: I may have a border situation overseas. I don’t remember signing a treaty. No one sent even a short memo. But somewhere between my ceremonial tree in Scotland and this guy’s smug little ceramic face, lines have been crossed. Or imagined. Same difference. So, in the interest of avoiding a full-blown turf war over ornamental sovereignty, I did what any responsible Lord would do: I hosted a summit. The guest list was short. Just me, the gnome, and a lukewarm bottle of off-brand sparkling water. I laid out terms: mutual non-aggression, shared oversight of dandelion growth, and a moratorium on pas...

Let's be honest: when I first became a Lord, I didn’t expect the sheer burden of it all. I thought it would be mostly ceremonial—wave at the peasants, eat something roasted from a leather chair, occasionally sign decrees like “More bacon for breakfast” or “Let the dog decide foreign policy.” You know, the usual. But no. The responsibilities are endless for Lord Wathen I mean, has anyone checked on my tree lately? Is it still upright? Has it made friends? Is it being bullied by taller shrubbery? These are the kinds of questions that keep a Lord up at night. And don’t get me started on land disputes. Just last week, a falcon from the neighboring territory was seen violating my kingdom's airspace . No formal complaint has been filed with the United Nation yet, but let’s just say diplomacy is hanging by a twig. Then there’s the estate planning. Do I build a second tree? Install a miniature Stonehenge? Raise a tiny goat? The options are endless and the budget is, well… let’s j...

 So, apparently, there's a tree in Scotland with my name on it -- Wathen. Not in a sweet, metaphorical “legacy” kind of way. I mean literally—I paid (well, my friend paid) for a tiny patch of dirt in the Highlands, and with that came a tiny tree that is allegedly growing on it. Somewhere. Probably being gnawed on by a rogue sheep or used as a scratching post by a disgruntled red deer.  Speaking of The Highlands , my son wrote a book of the same name, so go check it out on Amazon here . I like to imagine it's thriving and distinguished -- maybe it's the only oak in a crowd of pines. Maybe it's already taller than some members of Congress. And maybe it's dead. Who knows! All I have is a certificate and a strong sense of landowner pride, based on nothing but marketing. Still, that hasn’t stopped me from updating my email signature to include Lord Wathen, Tree Owner and Land in Scotland . Nor has it prevented me from planning an entirely imaginary trip to visit my ...