Lonach Gathering

August 28, 2010

Imagine waking up to the sound of a lone bagpipe. It's 6 o'clock in the morning, and you've spent the night camping in the midst of the Cairngorm Mountains, the Scottish Highlands. As you open your eyes, you hear its mournful call. The music grows quieter as the piper walks on his way, but you can still hear his piercing and haunting tune. You fall back asleep, listening to the sweet patter of rain on the fly of your tent. Today is the Lonach Gathering, but the Clansmen don't begin to march until 8 o'clock. As the sun flirts with storm clouds, you catch another hour of sleep.

It would be a mistake to come to Scotland for its weather. It's mostly unpredictable, but the one thing you can predict is that it will rain. Hard. Last night, our tent notified us that it has grown old and its ready to retire. It did so by springing leaks along all its seams. As squalls passed through the valley, we braced ourselves for the next deluge, hoping that our sleeping bags wouldn't be completely drenched by morning. Each time the rain let up, we could hear the stream outside. It runs past boulders and pebbles, creating a rushing, busy sound. I imagined that it grew louder as the night wore on. Perhaps it wasn't only my imagination.

At a quarter to 8, Joshua and I got out of the tent and ate our yoghurt and granola mixer on the way to the center of the village. Since we were already wearing every item of clothing that we own, we did not have to stop and change. Near the Spar, all the Clansmen and village people were gathered around. The Clansmen wore their rigs: kilts, knee high stockings with felt flashers, vests, ties, woolen double breasted jackets, sporrans, and pins with ribbons and medals. On their heads, they wore jaunty berets or big feather ensembles, and in their arms, they carried bagpipes, drums, flags, and spears. Slowly, they began lining up in formation, and once they had lined themselves in perfect succession, they began to march and to play. They puffed out their chests, looked resolutely forward, and marched past all of us. It was poignant and proud, and somehow, it almost felt like an intrusion to be watching them. They do not do this for the spectacle or for tourists. Yes, they've shined their buttons, pressed their pleats, and tucked new feathers into their caps, but they do this because they have been doing this for nearly 200 years. It's just what they do. On the last Saturday of every August, they march for 8 miles playing their bagpipes and drums, and along the way, they stop for drams of whiskey. At the back of the march, a horse-drawn cart is manned by two medical professionals. This is serious business, and it's no time to make resolutions regarding sobriety.

Just before the Clansmen began marching, Joshua and I had found a position on the bridge in the sun. Before we had left the tent, I had tucked the arty calling card for our Tandem Friend in my pocket. Luckily, he saw us as he and his wife were crossing the bridge. When he said hello, I stopped him so I could give him my thanks and the arty calling card. We exchanged names, and we followed Pascal and Val to their favorite spot to watch the Clansmen march. Having seen the gathering many times, Pascal and Val confided that this was the best part. As we watched the men pass, Joshua took pictures, and we all regarded them with a measure of reverence. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be part of a cultural history like that? Later, Joshua told me that it made him a little bit sad to think that we didn't have a ready made community with its own food culture, traditions, and costume. It would be nice to be so connected to your history, to march with your community, and to be proud of where you come from and who you are. (Sure, I have pioneer roots, and I grew up in Mora with Nordic crafts, lefse, and the Vasaloppet... From Mandy, I got to partake in Sukkot, Shabbat, and many other facets of Judaism, but with both, I always sort of felt like an imposter. I'm not a Swede. I'm not a Jew. I'm an American mut of German, Irish, Danish, Norwegian, and whatever else blood. My mom's Catholic, and so was was my dad, but my mom's family is Missouri Synod, and Mandy, my brother, and my sister are Jewish. I can't claim one, and I'm not sure how to claim them all.)

Pascal and Val wandered back home or maybe to the Gathering, and Joshua and I followed the Clansmen. Just 200 meters up the road, they stopped for their first dram of Whiskey at the Strathdon Schoolhouse, and after they reassembled and left, we went back to the tent. Trying to avoid the rain, we huddled inside the tent and read for a couple hours until the Games got underway. Once again emerging in all of our clothing, we made our way into the grounds. Wandering through artisan stalls, we browsed through hand-crafted Sporrans, kilts, and almost anything you can imagine in plaid. Joshua splurged on a bottle of limited edition Lonach Highland Whiskey, but I didn't find anything I really wanted. The hair pieces with plaid roses and feathers were attractive, but 20 pounds? I'll make them myself.

Making our way to the covered bleachers, we passed men tossing cabers, hurling hammers, and heaving great big heavy balls. They were all dressed in kilts, and although it couldn't have been more than 50 degrees, they were all wearing Under Armor t-shirts on top. Those who were most successful at tossing great heavy objects were no lightweights themselves, and I wondered what genetic combination had produced such stocky, strong Scots. I'm guessing a process of natural selection by way of hard winters, big ass hills, and frequent battles, coupled with a Viking and Celtic bloodline.

Under cover, we showed our swanky orange passes and made our way to H28 and H29. Girls of all ages sat on the field in front of us, dressed in their plaid and velvet costumes with long, argyle socks and delicate, lace up dancing shoes. One by one, they hunched over and ran through the rain to a covered stage where they leapt up on their toes and bounced until I was tired just looking at them. In particular, I admired their gracefully raised arms, elegantly flexed fingers, and pointed toes. To their left, a group of fit young men pranced and high-kicked their way up and down the field. Their nylon sweatsuits swished as they moved their arms like windmills and each of them stretched, preening in front of their audience.

I felt inspired. Some of the Games are open: namely, the Hill Race. I haven't run a race since I was 18, but I decided that I needed to seize the moment and join Scots as they forged their way up a mountain. The registration was free, and the woman at the desk told me to return to the information tent just before 3. I wrote down my name, and the woman handed me an adhesive backed number, 103.

Back under the tent, I felt the familiar jitters of pre-race anxiety. In high school, I had always had a love-hate relationship with racing. Before the race, I hated it. I always got so nervous, and I would sit in class before our team left, just shuddering and quaking with nervousness. As we warmed up, I'd feel nauseous, and just before the gun would go off, I'd be a wreck.

But as soon as we crossed the start line, I knew my job. The nervousness disappeared, and I got my game face on. I was never the fastest, but I worked really, really hard, and by my senior year, I was pretty good. Running for Varsity on a State-ranked team, I finally broke the major goal I had set for myself 6 years prior: 4 kilometers in under 16 minutes. It's still one of my proudest accomplishments, and I was lucky enough to have done it twice: at Conferences and then at Sections. I was a good runner, and I loved it, but I never had the speed to be a real contender. Now, when I run, I like a slow, steady 10 minute pace that I can do forever. I don't race. I hate feeling pressured to be good at what I love and what I do for myself.

That said, there is a certain something that you can only get from being good. From being better than the rest :)

For the next couple of hours, we watched the strapping highlanders toss enormous things that chewed up the beautifully manicured lawn. Bagpipes played, and dancers danced. Behind us, an extremely famous man received visitors and gifts, and we tried to figure out who he was. No one we recognized. All around us, posh Scots dressed in tweed, woollen jackets, kilts, and plaid broke out their extensive picnic baskets, bags and briefcases (I shit you not), and got down to the serious business of eating sarnies, drinking whisky, and munching on pot pies and haggis. We were way out of our league.

For lunch, we walked over to the village shop and bought cheese and pickle sandwiches with spicy crisps. Back at the tent, I changed into my running shorts and my new flashy windbreaker. I donned my soaked running shoes, and then we made our way back to our seats.

At a quarter to 3, I couldn't stand the anticipation any longer. I stripped out of my extra layers right in front of the fancy man and slapped my adhesive number on the front of my windbreaker. Scooping my hair into a ponytail, I kissed Joshua goodbye and headed for the Information tent. I looked around at the competition. Spying some really old and really young Scots, I felt somewhat assured that I wouldn't be the very last to cross the finish line. Gillian, a school teacher from a village 20 miles South came up and introduced herself, wanting to know how long the race was. I told her that, as far as I knew, the race was 5 miles. It started in the Games ring, it went uphill, it went downhill, and then it ended back in the Games ring. We chatted for a little bit, and she explained that she had decided to begin running hill races this year. It was her intention to 'not age gracefully.' A cyclist, she was excited to find that Joshua and I are going from end to end, and she warned us that tomorrow would not be easy. Lecht Pass, she says, is a killer.

At 3, the Clansmen preceded us into the Games ring, and they marched around the circle, heralding the start of the Hill Race. The runners - about 70 in all - entered the arena behind them, and gathering behind the start line, we stilled for our cue.

I never start fast. I think I probably even start too slow on principle. I'm not a rookie, and I'm not about to sprint out of the box just to show off. As a result, I think I exited the arena perilously close to last.

That all changed as we turned the corner and met a wall. Apparently, this was the vertical face that they expected us to run up. Well. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I think I may have missed my calling. I plowed up that hill, passing more than half of the runners on my way, most of them had slowed to a belaboured walk. At the top, I kept passing, and when we hit our next uppy bit, I kept running.

The term Hill Race indicates that there will be a hill. And there was. I ran up a very big hill for 2.5 miles, and when I got to the top, I ran back down 2.5 miles over long grass, large tree roots, wet moss, and scrabbly gravel. At the top, I had passed all but one woman that I could see, and on the way down, four or five of them passed me. It was exhilarating discovering that I'm a bad-ass uphills, and even when a few people passed me going back down, I still gave it my all. At the bottom, I passed by Joshua who was cheering me on, and in the Games ring, I kicked it into the finish line.

It was all pretty informal, but here's the rough data: it was about 5 miles, there were about 70 people, there were less than 10 women in front of me, and I finished the race at around 33 minutes. (I seriously didn't even know I still had that kind of speed in me!) I finished with my legs shaking and red, and my lungs burning that particular I-just-ran-a-race burn. It was great. Joshua was proud of me.

Back at our seats, the famous man had left, and I told Joshua that Gillan had informed me that he was Billy Connelly (or something) he's an important Scottish comedian and actor, and he lives just to the West of Strathdon. Apparently, he's a big deal. We settled in, and I redressed to ward off the chill. In the arena, men were still tossing things and fussing with their kilts, and little girls were still bouncing on their toes, hopping over swords, and arching their arms like ballerinas. While we sat, I made Joshua debrief the race with me. He laughed at my excited, competitive streak.

The rain came and went, and we watched as little children strained at tug-of-war and pillow fights atop of logs. I went to buy us a tray of salt and vinegar chips, and when I got back, the Clansmen circumnavigated the arena one last time. Although they were wet and probably a little bit drunk from all of the whisky, they marched in file, puffing out their chests, and beating on their bagpipes and drums. We stayed until the end to watch them take down the Scottish flag, and we listened as the last bagpipe blew. The sun came out at last, and their long shadows stretched across the field while their spears glinted in the light.

On our way back to the tent, we stopped to pick up some curry sauce for dinner. While I hopped in the tent to avoid the incoming rain, my valiant husband braved the drizzle to cook up some rice and serve it with the curry sauce. It was pretty good, and we wolfed it down just in time to avoid the real down pour. Now we're inside, hoping - like last night - we won't drown under the the leaks of our little old tent. Outside, bagpipes are still playing. Drummers are still drumming. It's raining, and the whole caravan park is busy getting drunk.

August 27, 2010

There's something to be said for dry clothing, a shower, and a closely mown field to pitch your tent in, and although the Braemar Caravaning Club has a bit of duck problem - specifically, there are dozens of ducks and they all walk around, honking loudly at all hours - I still slept blissfully. Clean. Warm. Comfortable.

In the morning, we were in no rush to get moving. For once, we were unafraid that someone would come up to the tent and tell us to get the hell off their property. Not that they would; the Scots are probably the nicest people on Earth. Anyway, we relished our comfort, and we read until 10.

When we finally started to break down camp, our caravan neighbor jumped out as soon as he saw signs of stirring life. Marching purposefully towards us, he offered us a cup of tea, a mug of hot chocolate... Coffee? Biscuits? Overwhelmed, we thanked him and told him we were fine, but as he persisted, we felt kind of bad NOT taking something. What's the protocol here? How can we receive such generosity and hospitality gracefully, expressing our full thanks? It's a bit overwhelming, and we come away amazed every time, saying the same line over and over again: 'the Scots are probably the nicest people on Earth.

Before we left Braemar, we stopped at the local shop to stock up on farm cheese, crisps, and oat cakes. Cycling through the valley, we admired the coniferous forests lining the road, the old stone castles, and a beautiful river that rushed like root beer alongside us. Minus the hills, the scenery is actually quite similar to the woods of Minnesota or Wisconsin, but just when we start to think things look familiar, we see a huge purple Moor rising in the distance.

After about 10 miles of easy cycling on the A93, we took a left onto a smaller B road. We immediately began climbing up. In our cycling guide, they print elevation charts for particularly demanding routes. Today's route was supposed to run from Braemar to Grantown-on-Spey, but we're cutting it short to go to Strathdon, the site of the Lonach Gathering. The full route would have been nearly 50 miles, and the elevation chart looks like one hilly spike after another. Fortunately, today we're only doing 3 of the 7 spikes.

Climbing through woods and brambles with raspberries and blackberries growing, we headed up into the Highlands once again. At one point, a man slowed his car to a crawl, rolled down his window, and asked us if we knew the name of the hill we were climbing. We said no, and he told us, in thick Scottish accent, that it was called something '-yaddick' and that the next hill we were going to climb on this stretch of road was something else '-yaddick.' Wishing us good luck, he sped on, and we continued up.

Once we passed the treeline, we the road leveled out for a bit, and spying thunderclouds in the distance, we decided to take advantage of sunshine and eat our lunch. Soaking up a spectacular view of stripy, purple heathered Moor (they burn stripes into the heather to encourage grouse), we ate our lunch in awe. About midway through, our friend, the Scottish informant, stopped on his way back and told us that we weren't aloud to stop here. The summit was for a while yet, and he didn't want us to get disheartened and give up. We explained that we were opting for a fair weather lunch, and that - when it comes to hills - we're made of sterner stuff. He asked us where we had come from and where we were going, and he recommended a couple of shops to stop at along our way.

I think sometimes environmentalist and local policies get stigmatised as leftist, liberal agendas (which isn't a bad thing as far as I'm concerned), but in Scotland, it's not about who's going to get elected or 'those damned tree-huggers.' It seems like whether you're young or old, conservative or liberal, you love the land you grew up on. You don't tolerate pollution. You can't stand those damned chain shops, and you support your neighbor because that's the good and honest thing to do. For our lunch, we didn't have to hunt for non-GMO, locally grown, locally made food. It's what's available. (On a side note, you should really look into oatcakes. They're phenomenal.)

Back on the road again, we passed through one of the prettiest stretches of road so far. Sure, it was very, very hilly, but it was breathtaking. Around every corner and up every crest, the land swept out before us in a treeless, purple hilly horizon. Sheep munched on grass in the glen, and little stone buildings perched next to the river, shielded by conifers. Up in the hills, there was nothing. No one. It was wild and still, and even though it began to rain, it was perfect.

Down our last hill, we met up with the A road again, and we found our turn off for Strathdon. Cycling through the valley, we passed a couple of small villages, and then, at 26 miles, we arrived. Spying a field with caravans and tents, we tried to find an entry. In a parking lot just off to the side, I approached a man emptying his recycling into the proper bins (SEE?!!), and asked him if he knew where we might find the people in charge of camping. Although he wasn't sure, he did tell us a little bit about the layout of the town and what to expect with the Lonach Gathering. In the morning, the Clansmen march for miles, and the best bit, he said, is seeing them off. For the games, General Admission pays for entry into the field, but you have to pay extra to get a seat. He warned us that the seats might all be sold out, but he told us to try and get ahold of the Secretary. She might have some left.

Moving to the topic of our cycles, our new friend asked us a bit about our journey, and then told us that he and his wife enjoy cycling on a tandem. Before they moved here, they would take cycling holidays in and around the area, and they loved it so much, they decided to relocate. Parting ways, Joshua and I again remarked on how incredibly friendly everyone we encountered was, and when we entered the camping field, another kind soul told us where we could find the man in charge of camping down the road.

A short distance past the village, we found a huge field with tons of caravans. The man in charge was towing a caravan with his big jeep, and we stopped to ask him for details. Again, the man was very friendly, and he directed us to a smaller sectioned off area next to the river. While Joshua paid, I started setting up the tent, and when we had finished, the two of us went off in search of food.

At the Spar, we loaded up on oatcakes, flapjacks, and apples, and just as I was perusing through the isles, I ran into our Tandem Friend again. We said hello, and then he told me that he had talked to the Secretary. Apparently, there weren't many seats left, but he had managed to buy to tickets for the covered bandstands. He'd left them and a program just inside the door of our tent.

What?! I was so flabbergasted, I was barely able to stutter my thanks properly. How did he know where our tent was? Oh. The nice camping man had told him. Guess we're not hard to spot :) I thanked him again profusely, and he just smiled and said goodbye. When I told Joshua, he was also shocked, and as we walked back to the tent, we were speechless. Every few steps or so, we looked at each other and said something like, 'can you...?' 'How did...?' But the rest of the sentence was just too complex, and in the end, we said, 'these people are probably the nicest people on Earth.'

Back at the tent, we zipped open the fly, and there in an envelope, signed 'From your Tandem Friend,' were two tickets for the covered bandstands and a program. Isn't that one of the kindest and generous gifts you've ever heard of? Crawling into the tent, I immediately pulled out an arty calling card and wrote a note thanking him. I hoped that we might run into him tomorrow.

For the rest of the evening, we munched on oatcakes and flapjacks while we read the program and then our books. Inside the program, they detailed the order events, and as we contemplated caber tossing, highland dancing, and bagpipe playing, we decided that this was probably one of the coolest adventures we've ever encountered.

A note on generosity and friendliness:

In the past few weeks, Joshua and I have encountered a number of really, really wonderful people. Some of these people are our family and friends, and some of them are complete strangers. They've been impossibly kind, and many of them have shown us incredible generosity. Not only am I thankful for each individual act of kindness, but I am also deeply impressed. These traditions are all about connecting with humans and treating people with care, and I really, really admire these attitudes. I hope that I have shown a proper amount of gratitude, but I also feel like I have a responsibility to pay it forward. Responsibility isn't quite the right word. Maybe a resolve? A commitment? I would like to learn from those who have been so kind and generous to us, and I would like to handle the people I meet in the future with the same care and generosity.