In this picture we see the band seemingly going about a sort of fancy Kiwi-esque marching routine. The sun shines. Happily and blissfully ignorant of the concept known as “political correctness” the band regales the crowd resplendent in sealskin sporrans, their V8 Plymouth Belvederes – with 9 and a half miles to the gallon – idle in the car park. Without the aid of today’s fantastic synthetic bagpipe accoutrements their cane reeds, “elk” hide bags and unmatched pipe chanters help the air “tremble” with “…the sweet, sad breath of the pipes” (so says the advert).

This is Maxville and pipe bands before my time but I do know something of pipe band history – especially in these parts. I am pretty sure this band is the Worcester Kiltie Pipe Band – an American pipe band based in Massachusetts. An American pipe band in an ad for Canadian tourism! Perfect.

The Worcester Kiltie Pipe Band was no ordinary band. One of the oldest pipe bands anywhere, they were formed in 1916 and worked their way to becoming the pipe band of the early 60s in Maxville – and North America, for that matter. With a battery of ex-Shotts, ex-Scots players (Pipe Major Jim Kerr, leading drummer, Davie Armitt, et al) they won the North American championship in the years 1960-1963 [my facts need vetting - friendly suggestion to the current version of Worcester to flesh out the history section of their website].

Anyway, an interesting bit of ephemera. Feel free to pass along facts connected with the photo in the ad. I may have it all wrong.

M.

And here’s one of the oddest postcards I’ve ever seen; someone actually posted this – in 1912!

What’s with the broom!

Anyway, avoid snowbanks and keep your shoes on!

M.

M.

With that, a Gaelic proverb for your consideration:

Is fheàrr teine beag a gharas na teine mòr a loisgeas.
(The little fire that warms is better than the big fire that burns.)

Happy New Year!

M.  

Scott was an intelligent, sharp-witted guy; he embodied the whole idea of joie de vivre; he was the very best company.  He had a natural gift for disarming and engaging people -particularly the cold and austere personalities; for Scott, the colder the better; for him, always a welcome challenge to break through the crust.  Of course, this is a handy talent in the piping world, especially.  It stood him in good stead and he made countless friends the world over.  He attracted people.  Where there was good company to be found, Scott would invariably be at the centre of the proceedings.

So, so many stories that might be told but one in particular springs to mind.  I think of it quite often and smile to myself: 

One year at Oban, well after last orders at The Tartan Tavern, Scott and a bunch of us including, Bruce Gandy, Andrew Berthoff, Colin MacLellan and a couple of others, poured out of the pub still keen for the party to keep going.  We were all staying in cheapie B&Bs and the only places still serving booze at that hour were the larger hotels – and only serving to residents.  Scott had the fine idea of marching us down to the poncie (to us then) Caledonian Hotel - and their lovely still-open bar.  “Only for residents, Scott!”, we tell him.  Undetered, he has us boozily trotting straight to the bar – much to the annoyance of the weary barman.  Always the man with the plan, Scott had made a quick scan of the room keys and numbering system as we passed front reception.  We brazenly park ourselves at the bar and order a drink.

“Ye’ve tae be residents, ” says the barman.  

Not missing a beat, Scott says, “I am.  MacFarquharson.  Room 10.”

Looking none-too-pleased the barman takes our orders.  His suspicions still high (we really didn’t fit the mold of the hotel’s blue-rinse, bus tour clientele).  Full of drink and ourselves we continue to have a grand old time until Sherlock, the barman, finally checks the reception book to vet “MacFarquharson’s” identity.  

When the barman disappears we all figure we’ve got the proverbial red light.  He returns angry as hell, “Yer no’ residents! GTF! Ahm callin’ the polis!”  We scatter and not long after Bruce built a tune, “The Caledonian B-line”.      

Anyway, a good Scott story.  I think I have a 100 like it.  We’re here for a good time, not a long time, he’d say.  I can hear him yet, when there was fun to be had, “pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er”.

All the fun, patter and hijinx aside, Scott was a canny, astute and successful businessman.  From the ground up he built a multi-million dollar institution, his legacy, in his College of Piping, Summerside, Prince Edward Island.  Through the force of his personality and his intelligence he built a school and created an environment where he could indulge his great passion, the Great Highland Bagpipe – and all that went along with it: good music, good people and always, not far from it all, the Gaelic culture of his parentage.

One of the best competitive march, strathspey and reel performances I’ve yet heard is Scott’s performance in Ottawa over 20 years ago:  “Verna Leith’s Wedding March, Athole Cummers, Mrs MacPherson of Inveran”.  He was a gifted piper, there is no doubt.     

Scott’s passing is a sad one for me.  My sincerest condolences to his family and his many friends. 

M.

In the many years I’ve journeyed to Scotland I’ve never managed to make the trek to grammy’s home town, or, more accurately, ”home place” - there are really no “towns” in this part of the Outer Hebrides, at least not as I know them. 

The trip from Glasgow to the Outer Hebrides is not easy and certainly not cheap.  Ask Boswell and Johnson (a journal I recommend reading).  The surface route is all road or rail and ferry – and long.  By air its a toddle, a 45 minute flight.  The path of least resistance can often deceive and the breezy flight doesn’t disappoint:  no stand-by cheap tickets here - you can expect to pay $700 (CDN) for the pleasure of a bumpy air-borne jaunt.  I did.  And context?  The return flight from Toronto to Glasgow was ’round about $1200 (I was lucky to arrive home on Zoom Airlines four days before they went bust).  Anyway, I didn’t have the time for the more adventurous and economical surface journey and made up my mind to go, and to fly, all the while thinking of that great Yiddish proverb, “if not now, when?”.  Merry Christmas to me. 

I knew of Benbecula and the Uists from what I’d heard from grammy (cold, barren, impoverished [I can remember my grandmother telling me they'd gather bluebells to eat to stave off hunger], peaty, hard, Gaelic – and beautiful) and what I’d read and heard from others who had been.  And, from a few, who hail from the place, or who have folks that do, as in the case, for instance, of Roddy MacLeod [his mum].  I had a picture in my mind’s eye.  On this trip I was determined to soak up a little of the atmosphere, and, if I was lucky, get a closer look-in to my own roots.

I flew out of Glasgow on yet another one of the rainy, overcast days that plagued the excellent PipingLive festival, and “worlds week”.  After 10 minutes in the air, the clouds broke and I, along with the ten or so others rattling around the cabin of the SAAB 340 turbo-prop, enjoyed an unfettered view of the west coast of Scotland – all the way to Benbecula.  The decision to fly looked to be a fair one, after all.  The scenery from 12,000 feet was unforgetably magnificent.

The airport in Balivanich, Benbecula is small, maybe the smallest I’ve yet flown to; Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador, is Heathrowesque in comparison.  Here’s a view from the front doors of the airport; a bucolic sight that lived up to my island preconceptions:

The woman from the car hire place was waiting for me in the arrivals area and handed me the keys to the car after a signature, a glance at my credit card and her instructions to, “leave it in the car park unlocked when you’re done – with keys in the sun visor”.  I was off and running.

One of my first stops was the Creagorry Inn (now the Isle of Benbecula Hotel) where I’d  be staying.  My grandmother worked here in 1912.  I was looking forward to having a look around and picking up, maybe, a vibe of a working place, a place once an employer of kin.  I found a bit of a Fawlty Towers feel.  A hotel proudly representing  the diversity of an EEC country that is the UK, including a helpful, Bayram, the Turkish bartender.  I had imagined diversity in this part of the Outer Hebrides to centre mainly around religious lines of the Christian kind, with Gaelic dialects and, perhaps, right or left-handed pipers making up the difference.  The diversity of people that now make up the Western Isles would be a theme of my visit, from the older London couple that staffed the Creagorry Post Office, the hotel’s South Asian cleaning staff, to the non-Scots check-out person at the Co-op.  I found next to no opportunity to practice my now not-so-handy, “Ciamar a tha sibh?” or “An toir thu dhomh pòg?”.  I have to say now, my disappointment was not in the diversity of the Western Isles that I experienced - this was all good; ”cool”, in fact; rather, it was the scarcity of Gaelic, and the potential for contact with possible ”rellies”.        

Still, Benbecula and the Uists did not really, truly disappoint.  I came to the place with a couple of pages of hand-written information courtesy of my Auntie Eileen.  I knew where to go for some serious looks at the life that was my grandmother’s a long time ago.  My grandmother was born in 1888 (or 1889, Parish records notwithstanding) and died in 1987, not far from the final resting place of the famous Lewisman, Donald Morrison, the Megantic Outlaw, a fellow immigrant to Canada.  I stood in the ruins of her black house across from the old school house in Torlum.  Like so many Gaels I know, still well preserved – resilient, in fact.  I managed to walk the same ground and saw the same sea.

All in all, I was glad to tromp around bonnie Benbecula and can happily suggest you do the same.  I know I’ll be back.  A few photos here for those especially interested.

M.    

PS.  To put it all in the realm of the here, the now:  Blackberry users note: service is fine from Lochmaddy to Lochboisdale. 

Left to right: my mum, Joan, sister Patty (sitting on the case of Molson Canadian), father Bill, me, sister Jane, bro’ Robert.

I hope your summer plans are going well with lots of makeshift seats around like Patty’s!

M.

I’m not entirely sure why this is the case – that we don’t have lots of bands focused on teaching young people – but we’re feeling the effect today, there’s no doubt.

I started out in the Downview Junior Pipe Band, a west Toronto-based band taught by Terry Cleland, the long-time Pipe Major of the 400 Squadron Pipe Band.   The band would meet Sunday mornings at 10:00 am at the Falstaff Community Centre in Downsview (today still a slightly unsavoury part of Toronto).  With practice chanter and “green tutor book” in tow, Terry or one of his pals from the 400 Squadron, would teach kids – for free.  The Downsview band was around a long time and started off countless pipers – many still playing today, some in first grade bands.  Terry – and people like him - are the real heroes of the tradition-bearing set.  I wish we had more of them in action today.  

Here’s a couple of photos for your entertainment.  I thought they both had a brilliant rag-taggle look.  The nervous enthusiasm (and squeals and skirls) jumps out.

This is from the Alma Highland Games, Michigan, USA, May, 27, 1977:  My first outdoor pipe band contest (I had a run at the Toronto Indoor Games one month prior so I was full of experience and confidence).  I remember this well.  

Here’s the march to the field.  I’m behind the PM, a bespectacled Hector MacDonald takes up the Pipe Sergeant’s position.

And here in full competitive flight (or fright) – I’m on PM Ron Morandin’s left.

Happy days.

M.  

Even as a kid I knew this.  It freaked me out then and, on reflection, does even now.

Imagine, sitting before a teacher who knew G S McLennan, had heard him perform; he’d heard the great man play his masterwork ,”The Little Cascade” – live!  The real thing!  Wilson knew, Peter MacLeod, Senior, the composer of “John Morrison of Assynt House”.  In fact, he published this fantastic ever-green gem in his first book of music.  I have Wilson’s hand-made annotations of the “right” way to play this tune (that’s a story for another time). 

John Wilson (he was always, “Mr Wilson”, to me) was the poster boy for great and memorable – and complex -characters:   passionate, irascible, charming – and a one-track piping machine – he did nothing by half.  One of his great strengths was his resiliency.

It seems to me that from time to time we all face challenges making bagpipe music happen.  It could be anything: not enough time to play, no place to practice, a physical ailment like repetititve strain (or worse) or just a big skirling case of BFS (Bagpipe Fatigue Syndrome).  Regardless of the “challenge”, (the word of choice in the argot of political correctness) we all must fight to overcome what ails us.

I thought of Mr Wilson today.  An example of a man who overcame the childhood loss of a thumb and parts of fingers of his left (or top) hand to become great.  Truly great.

His is an original story with common themes we can all relate to.  Check out his autobiography.  

For now, the next time you suffer a set-back or some other “challenge” consider Mr Wilson and the handicap he overcame – and what he achieved.  His perseverance might stand as one of his greatest lessons.

I include a scan from his book.  Below you’ll see a photo of his left hand.  As he was writing his book I recall him talking about including a photo like this (”too ghoulish?”, he wondered).  He thought it important.  Looking at it today I’m thankful he did; not the prettiest sight, perhaps, but, boy, what an inspiration.

M.

The Gathering, staged by the the Bagpipe Italian Group, in connection with the Associazione Piper Italiani in the Tuscan village of Tavarnelle Val di Pesa, is an annual event that includes workshops, a concert and a competition.  All are welcome.      

M.