Planning My Pilgrimage to the Motherland -- The Wathen Estate

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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  need to be more realistic and fully expect to arrive, get rained on, and realize my tiny sod patch is probably located between a drainage ditch and a sheep herd that doesn’t care about my lineage.

But that’s the thing about identity nowadays—we buy it. My friend likely bought mine with a debit or credit card and got my title, a tree, and the vague right to feel important. It’s basically ancestry cosplay with a certificate of authenticity.

Will I still go? Of course I will.
Will I document every absurd second of it? Absolutely.
Will I try to convince locals to kneel? Debatable. Depends on how many pints in they are, I'm sure.

Until then, I remain stateside, managing my foreign holdings via Google Earth -- and unchecked delusion.

Cheers,
Lord Wathen
Global Land Baron, Rain Tourist, Defender of Global Faux Heritage

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