Hogmanay

A few folk have asked me about the precise location of the Hogmanay ceilidh mentioned in my first Scotsman column of 2009 where I waxed lyrical thus;

"I spent New Year amongst the mountains of North-west Scotland and didn't want to leave this Hogmanay land of calm and clarity – where the virus of worry was temporarily frozen in minus five degrees, crisp clear quiet skies, icicles on waterfalls, and sharp conical peaks silhouetted against iridescent skies. I didn't want to return to the land of thaw, yellowed grass, blunted mountains, urban orange glow, out-of-town clutter and credit crunch that is home.

I wasn't depressed to be re-entering civilisation. Quite the opposite. I was depressed to be leaving it. Depressed to be leaving a time of year and a part of Scotland that still values the human touch above the pre-packaged product. Upset to be repatriating myself to a world where too often stories are cut short, people are dismissed, and communities struggle to survive as governments put competitiveness first and connectedness second.

Culture, companionship and confidence are the qualities in life that sustain us – even more so now. The ceilidh isn't a party, drinking session or even a musical session – it's a gathering. And a gathering demands that each person knows how to amuse, sustain or surprise the others. Who wouldn't prefer possession of Delia-like cooking capabilities to the latest Finest meal from Tesco? Or green fingers, dulcet tones, or musical skills to a complete boxed set of The Wire (with its 43 pence VAT discount?)"

Well, twas Ullapool and the Ceilidh Place Hotel where my old pal Jean Urquhart was bouncing round like the veritable teenager she is to the 14-piece Treacherous Orchestra – the biggest folk-funk ensemble ever to grace the hotel stage-ette. Next day was a walk on Achmelvich and First Coast beaches. Lovely.

Comments

[bru]

I read the above piece in the Scotsman, and it reminded me of a lovely piece of poetry :)
Somewhere in Tam O'Shanter a strange peice of prose appears .. it might be the only time Rab wrote a verse in plain, perfect English ..
" But pleasures are like poppies spread, (etc) "
Right in the middle of a drunken Pouges-like rabble.
Likewise, in between your story of fire in the minds of men came that beautiful thought - out of place - but bursting through with energy like a brightening sunbeam.
I noticed it, and thought it was lovely ;)