Scottish ale

Delicious. ^_^




If that wasn't enough to say it, I had a wonderful time at the Utah Scottish festival last night. We try to go every year, but because of vacations, we've had to miss it the past two times. Needless to say, it felt good to be back; there's nothing quite like a Scottish festival. Celeste, Tyler, and the kids joined us, and it was a night to remember.

Even twenty minutes before the tattoo, I underestimated the time I had to get some food--a staple for any Celtic gathering. But apparently everyone else had the same idea, because all the lines were huge, and I ended up being late for the start of the program. It was worth it, though; few things are better than a fresh scone with strawberries and cream. ^_^ I made it back to the field during the official songs of each military branch, played movingly by a great pipe band (a combination of the many that were there, I think).


The best part of every Scottish festival is hearing the music and seeing the spontaneous dance. Molly's Revenge played first, and they were quite good; their fiddler alone is enough for me to buy their music. And I wasn't the only one who thought so; gradually the tattoo field would fill with dancers, many of whom wearing traditional attire. First were the young girls prancing around the grass, and then the young boys whose sword fighting would become a dance in and of itself. They were followed by their parents, siblings, friends, and grandparents, and before long the entire field was alive. Tavin and Jamy even busted some moves--so cute. ^_^

But the show had only just started, and the cheering was the loudest for the final act of the night: my favorite Celtic band (and apparently everyone else's), the Wicked Tinkers. They'd been coming to the festival in Utah for the past ten years, and every time, they've gotten a great audience and thus have wanted to come back again. "Some places we play, it's like being on TV," they said in a recent interview with Deseret News. "But in Utah we get the energy back from the audience. It's more like we're having a party than putting on a show. We love that involvement; it works well here." Indeed, we didn't let them down. The dancing continued on the tattoo field, and everyone was having a great time. I got video of the first three songs; give these guys a try!







Okay, so it's not exactly the best footage. I didn't think to get closer till after my camera ran out of video memory (but more on that later), but hopefully this still sparks your interest at least a little. I highly recommend the Tinkers; run a search for them on YouTube if you want better representation, or better yet, feel free to borrow a CD from me. You'll find yourself moving to it before you can even tell yourself not to.

But returning to the subject of video memory, I actually ran out right at the end of one of my favorite songs of theirs, Cabar Feidh (and perhaps if you listen closely enough you can hear me singing along in some places :-P). It was perfect timing: they hit their last note at my very last second of memory. Talk about an intense ending! 8-D



And this is where I finally thought to move in closer. Yeah, I know. X-D But with enough room on my card for just one more shot, I knew exactly what to use it on: the band. Heck yes!


From left to right, that's Jay on the didgeridoo, Keith on the snare, Warren on the tapan, and Aaron on the bagpipe.

I thought to join one of the massive dancing circles that had formed after that, but the last song ended just as I was going to. The Wicked Tinkers left us cheering excitedly, and the pipe band returned to accompany the fireworks. It was a really wimpy display--only lasting about a minute, with no grand finale--but my disappointment was nothing compared to all the fun I'd had all night. Nothing could get me down, and I was high on Scotland (or root beer and funnel cakes. Either way. . . .).

I was surprised to have a good bonding moment with Tyler on the way back to our cars, which only made the night better. We'd always gotten along pretty well, but never actually talked. Yet somehow last night we got onto the subject of camping, and because it was something we both loved (a rare commonality for us), we could have gone on about it for quite a while. He told me about "the best" camping spot past Cedar Fork, and I told him about the beach on Kidney Lake. We got so involved in it that we ended up a ways ahead of the rest of the family, and by the end, I knew I had a friend in my soon-to-be brother-in-law.

So it was a great night. I got to spend some time with my family and my cultural heritage, and life was good. And it benefited me in a much deeper sense, too. The past couple of years, I've kinda drifted as far as being a Scot is concerned. It's likely had something to do with my absence from the festivals, or the speed my life has taken, or what-have-you, but in any case I needed to be at that festival last night. Granted, I don't want to be the Scotland-obsessed weirdo some of you knew sophomore year . . . just an American boy who's proud of where he came from.

I think that's what one of my biggest problems has been lately: I've forgotten my roots. Sure, I've had fun studying family history, and speculating on my mission call in relation to ancestral nationalities, and whatnot, but I haven't taken it in as part of me. I can say I'm Scottish. I can say I'm English, Dutch, and Norwegian, too. But if I don't make those a part of my identity, what use is my heritage to me? As much as I hate the sophomore me, he had something great going for him: he had pride in his ancestry, and he wasn't afraid to show it off. The festival last night sparked this in me once more, and even as I write this I still feel that Scottish zeal as fresh now as it was yesterday. It's a lot more channeled than it was when I was a youngster, but it's there, and I feel younger and stronger because of it.

And that's another thing: this stuff just makes me feel good. Nothing quite relaxes me like a strong pipe band. It gets my blood boiling and I'm ready for action, but even still in a strange way it relaxes me. And I need that, too; life has been moving so fast lately that you can actually see my stress just by looking at me. It hasn't been good; I needed to be at the Scottish festival last night.

Last night I caught myself walking to the beat of the drummers as I searched for the scone stand, and the marching ranks of pipers inspired fantasies I used to have when I was younger--the fantasies that helped the most in my becoming a writer. Ah! Now there's where I can absorb my heritage: the pen! I used to sneak Gaelic words into my writing in junior high, and many of my characters had Scottish surnames (anyone remember Dr. McFarlane?). Certainly I don't plan on doing this again any time soon, but the fact that these things inspire me to write period is a definite help. Life picks up and people age, and things happen so quickly that there's never any time to think twice. But like the Scottish festival, creative writing makes me feel young because it never changes. My way of seeing things may change, but in reality, sitting at a notebook with pen in hand now is no different from when I'd do it in eighth grade.

And thus I have the powerful urge to write. I want to create a colorful fantasy world where the child inside me is king, and I want to do it now. Hmm. . . . There's something I could do on my vacation. It's calling my name louder and louder; I was born to write, because I was born a Scot.