The call of the pipes and drums truly calls to my soul. To some, it’s just noise. To me, it’s the sound of Scotland.
What is this fascination I have with a country over thousands of miles away? This land of magic and mystery. This land of possibilities. A land that has seen too much blood shed for a people who only wanted a land to call their own to raise their families on.
It’s everything. I can listen to the music and be swept away onto a grassy moor, among the swaying green grass, watching the waves beat against the rocky shore. I can walk into a house and be touched by a ghost. I can enjoy the best french fries in the world in practically every pub. Scotland is my warm blanket, my chicken soup, my smile on a rainy day.
Of course, I’m not completely naive. Scotland has it’s troubles just like every country. Joblessness, mortgage problems, health care reform. But under all of that, there is a spirit that calls to everyone. This spirit makes one whip out their tartan and proudly claim their clan name at the highland games.
Last weekend was the Pacific Northwest Highland Games and Clan Gathering. It is my Christmas. The one time of year that I don’t hesitate to plunk down $20 in lemonade and purchase clothing that I will only wear at the next year’s games, or a renaissance festival. It’s a time and place where everyone is Scottish and goodwill flows like a beer from a tap.
Last year I had the chance to travel to Scotland and explore
the belt. The games are my chance to regain some of that feeling of excitement and wonder that I felt when I was there. It is not even remotely the same, however, it is the closest I will get in my little corner of the world. I take my pleasure where I can find it, and until I can get back to the real thing, the games will do.
So until next year, I will grab a pint of Magner’s, plug in my Wicked Tinker’s CD and count the days until I can travel again.