Great Scot

Originally a Celtic, Gaelic-speaking people from Northern Ireland, the Scots raided the west coast of Roman Britain from the third century, and in the fifth century established the kingdom of Dalriada in Pictish territory. Scotland has had a bit of a rotten trot over the years since, but it developed into the planet’s greatest exporter of talented individuals, punching well above its weight. Its people have always been phenomenal inventors and adapters.

Take the bagpipe, which originated among the Hittites around 1300 BC. It is the Neanderthal of musical evolution – vaguely familiar, but hairier, with a heavy-browed lour and a tendency to drag its knuckles. It avoided extinction by migrating to Scotland in the late fifteenth century, where it found sanctuary.

On a cool February evening at Monk’s Cowl Country Club, the drone of a lone piper skirled gently down the first fairway. It then negotiated a sharp left at the flag pin, swooped back, and shot down my spine; my primitive soul (the Scots bit) tingled with anticipation. It was Rabbie Burns’ 250th birthday; a small band of Scots, and a larger number proudly claiming Scots ancestry, arrived in their kilts and tartan scarves/ties/underwear, and as I focused on the distant backdrop of cloud-draped mountains, I could smell Scotland in the damp air.

The agenda was a delight, starting with a splendid tribute to Burns by Bill Crichton, in his poetic lilt. Neil Crawford then treated us to a wonderfully surprising speech, followed by a superb poem composed and read by Denise Preiss. My favourite part, though, was the entry of the haggis. The piper led the procession, followed by Stuart Longmore – dressed unusually in long pants for the occasion: combed hair, even – reverently bearing aloft the ‘great chieftain of the pudding race’, and Robin Atkinson.

Frankly, the next bit was terrifying. In an Aztec-like scene, huge carving knife in hand, Robin addressed the haggis in authentic Burns dialect. ‘Fair fu’ your honest, sonsie face,’ he began. The tone and pace of the homage gathered urgency until, with glee on his own sonsie face, he plunged in the sacrificial weapon with the words, ‘trenching your gushing entrails bright, like ony ditch.’

(Note to diary: when you invite the Atkinsons for dinner, hide all sharp implements – and make no sudden movement.)

The haggis was delicious, especially with Scotch on it. (I had to explain to Bill Carter the difference between a ‘dribble’ and a ‘drool’.) This no doubt made the traditional Scottish dancing afterwards more confusing than normal, but I think we were all, by this point, having too much fun to notice.

The day was closer to Charles Darwin’s 200th birthday than to Burns’ 250th. I thought, as I reeled with Martin Goulding in a bizarre dance-floor contretemps, survival of the fittest was all well and good, but I was grateful that some things – pipes, haggis, whisky, (Scots?) – had hardly evolved at all.