On this page are a variety of pieces by  that have appeared in our past newsletters.  We thought the information in these might be of a more continuing interest.  They may especially be of interest to new members who did not see the earlier newsletters.

What is a "Celt?"

Neeps 'N Tatties

A COCKNEY JOCK: What's in a Name?

SAMHAIN

A Related Tale

Beltane

JACOBITES:  WHO, WHAT, WHY, WHERE AND WHEN!

Bothy Ballads

Boxing Day

Hogmanay

The Glorious 12th

ORANGEMEN AND JACOBITES

LONACH GU BRACH

WHAT IS A "CELT?"

 Today the term "Celt" generally applies to the many peoples with traditions as diverse as those to be found in Cornwall, Isle of Man, Wales, Ireland, Scotland and Brittany. Their origins belong to the prehistoric past; they may have descended from the Cimmerians, a little-known people from the north of the Caucasus who swept across Europe. By 500 B.C., Celts were a recognizable people in Central Europe. They flourished during the European Iron Age only to be eclipsed by Roman civilization. After the fall of the Roman Empire, they enjoyed a cultural renaissance that has left a rich legacy to the modern world. From their lavish and intricate art; music; and lyrical, mystical literature; to their cruel pagan religious customs, the Celts were and always have been a paradox.

 The term "Celt" is an umbrella term, under which the Gaelic people also reside. As a lad growing up in England, we were taught that the "true Celts" were the Welsh, Cornish, Manx (Isle of Man dwellers) and Bretons. These were the ancient Britons who (apart from the Bretons) fled westward from the invading Romans and settled in Cornwall and Wales, and were never subdued by Rome. They kept their Celtic language, art and culture alive, at least until the English influence eventually overpowered it. The Gaels were Irish Celts who were never greatly influenced by the classical civilization of Rome, and kept a dynamic Celtic culture. It's said the truest form of the Celtic language is Irish Gaelic or Erse. Ireland and the Irish culture are enjoying a renaissance of their own with Erse still being spoken in Western Ireland, and Irish music and dancing becoming popular world wide with wonderful entertainment such as "Riverdance," old guard bands such as "The Chieftains," and Ueillin pipers like Finbar Furey. The Irish are also the brewers of Guinness which is reputed to be Gaelic for Genius (looks similar, doesn't it!!).

 The last group of Gaelic Celts are the Scots (of whom I'm one), and are descendants of a band of 150 Irish Celts led by a chappie called Fergus, who settled in what is now Argyleshire. They called their kingdom Dalriada, and in order to establish themselves went to war with the local inhabitants, the Picts (one of history's mystery peoples). It was no mistake that they were called Scots; the word means "bandit," and after a long but fruitful war they were eventually victorious against the Picts. By the ninth century, under the leadership of King Kenneth MacAlpin, Scot and Pict had united through intermarriage and had developed their own version of Gaelic, Scots Gaelic, which was eventually spoken all across Scotland, except in the Outer Hebrides and Northern Isles. The Scots also improved and refined a form of Irish bagpipe to what is known today as the Great Highland Pipe, and developed the true pipe music, Piobrochaid. (It's said they developed the pipes and the game of golf to confound the English, and then invented whiskey to placate them!) However, following the 1745 Rebellion, which was crushed by the English under the Duke of Cumberland, any and all things Scottish were proscribed. This included speaking Gaelic, wearing the traditional highland garb, and playing the great highland pipe as an instrument of war. (Some still think it should be outlawed, but they're just Sassenachs.) Thanks to Good Queen Victoria who loved Scotland and all things Scottish, there has been a renaissance of the Scottish culture, especially of its music and literature.

 So as you can see, the founders of the Shasta Celtic Society, Marcia Greene and Donne Strong, got the name right, because the term "Celt" covers a diverse, dynamic and always interesting culture. Hopefully the society can promote a greater interest in things Celtic here in Northern California.

 Slainte Mhor – 

NEEPS 'N TATTIES

 This article stems from the last Society meeting, when the topic of "leeks" came up. Actually it came up at the Celtic Scandal concert first, and was the cause of much mirth amongst those of us with more than a little of Benny Hills sense of humor. I was of course referring to the Welsh leek, the veggie of Wales. I can't really recall how the subject was started but suffice it to say that the conversation was about how the shamrock has always been the emblem of Ireland, and the thistle the emblem Scotland, but what was the emblem of Wales???

 I said (wrongly, of course) that it was the "leek," which prompted all the snickers! I was wrong because that's the veggie, not the emblem. The emblem associated with Wales is of course the daffodil, but the leek drew more laughs!! Then again maybe the lowly leek is the Welsh emblem. We definitely need some Welsh input on this because I'm certainly no expert on the subject. However, this led to the subject of what veggie was associated with which Celtic country and this is what I came up with. Ireland has the "Spud," Scotland the "Neep," and Wales the "Leek." So you have a potato for Eire, a turnip for Caledonia, and an onion (scallion) for Cambria. In researching this little article I found out a few interesting points.
 Ireland: The shamrock is more than just a "lucky charm" emblem. The plants most often designated as shamrocks are the white clover, small hop clover, and the wood sorrel. According to legend, St. Padruig used the shamrock's triple-leaf composition to help explain the Trinity. During the great potato famine the dried flowers and seed heads of the common white clover were used to make bread. The potato, of course, has always been associated as the veggie of Ireland. Introduced to Europe from the New World by Sir Walter Raleigh, it became the staple diet in Ireland with disastrous consequences when the potato blight hit. Many Irish starved to death and what made it worse was that grain, which was in plentiful supply, was only for export to the UK. On a lighter note however, several members of the Society, myself, the pipey and others do enjoy an Irish banquet at one of our better local hostelries. For the uninformed, this consists of a pint of Guinness and a plate of tatties in the form of french fries -- very tasty. We extend a warm welcome to any who wish to partake after Society meetings.

Scotland: The Scotch thistle, cultivated as an ornamental, is the national emblem of Scotland. What use it has other than providing nectar for bees is beyond me, but maybe they make thistle wine from it, (need input from Scots with vast knowledge of this spiny weed for the next newsletter!). Neeps are what the Scots call turnips and they're used a lot in meals. My mother used to boil them and then mash them and serve them along "wi mince ‘n tatties," and very tasty it was too. Mince is what Americans call hamburger. It's minced beef, of course, and you brown it in a frying pan, drain the grease, add onions and spices and boil it. Tatties are also boiled, (the Scots boil most of their food) and so are the neeps. After they're cooked, the neeps are mashed, and sometimes so are the spuds and there you have mince, neeps 'n tatties. Another meal I used to enjoy that my mother cooked was "stovies," and basically this is leftover meat (either beef, mutton, lamb, pork or road-kill) with potatoes and any leftover veggies, thrown in the frying pan along with the rich brown jelly from the drippings and, yes, you've guessed it, fried! Add the neeps and you've basically got a Scottish hash. Simple, yet delicious.

 The most famous or infamous meal (depending on your point of view) that's usually complimented with "neeps and tatties" is Scotland's national dish, (no not McDonalds): haggis. After the "glorious twelfth" when the haggii ( that's plural of haggis) are slaughtered in the thousands by the peasantry, their appendages are removed and the little buggers are boiled (stir-fry is not known in Scotland!) along with the neeps ‘n tatties and eventually piped in with great ceremony by a well-oiled pipey, to the dining hall where poems by Robert Burns are recited with great solemnity. Then, after ample quantities of Scotland's most famous export, whiskey, are drained, the wee beastie is consumed with great relish.

Wales: Wales is a beautiful country in which I have spent many fun-filled weeks rock climbing in Snowdonia, but my knowledge of Welsh cuisine is sadly lacking. So I was given the phone number of a Welsh lady here in Shasta County by Don Cannon. Although she was brought up and schooled in Wales she too couldn't think of anything truly Welsh in origin. I suggested Welsh Rarebit, which is basically grilled cheese on toast, but I think that's really an English dish. However, she did call back and tell me about a bread that's called Bara Breath, which is a dark malted bread with raisins and currants, which sounds tasty to me, and Welsh Lamb, but didn't give a recipe, so I can't tell you anything about it. No one came up with anything that included leeks though, and the only thing I could think of was "Cock-A-Leekie Soup;" that, however, is a Scots meal. So I pass on the challenge to other members of the Celtic Society to let us know what a true Welsh meal is. The Welsh, of course, have as their flower emblem a real flower; the daffodil (as do the English with the rose), and it has significant meaning as the first flower of spring and plays a significant role at Easter time.

 Well, that's about all I have, folks. For those who were able to get to Pleasanton this year, there was a good choice of Brit grub, and plenty of "Genius" to wash it down. I stuck to good old fish and chips -- must be the Cockney in this Jock!!

A COCKNEY JOCK: What's in a Name?

 I was buggering about on e-mail at work the other day, and after replying to one, I absent-mindedly signed it with my nom de plume, "Cockney Jock." I've been using it too loosely lately. Pretty soon I received a reply to my reply which asked, "What the hell is a cockney jock, matey?" So I got to thinking (something I dinna dae very often, ye ken), "Good question; this needs to be remedied." So mayhap I should enlighten those of us who are ignorant of this strange term. So here goes nuffink (that's cockney for nothing).

 First of all, what's a "cockney?" I was taught that to be a true cockney, one had to be born within the sound of the church bells of Bow, the famous Bow Bells in the East End of London. (Well they're famous in London, anyway!) The dictionary defines cockney as: a) a native of the East End of London; or b) pertaining to the pronunciation or dialect of cockneys. The word is of Middle English origin meaning "foolish person," literally, "cock's egg" (i.e., malformed egg). Nowadays the term cockney seems to apply to anyone from old Smokey (that's what London was known by years ago when coal fires where the only form of heating) and is a generic term for a Londoner. The cockneys were considered a lower class novelty by the rest of London; working class people with the worst English grammar in the English speaking world. (The most grammatically correct is that beautifully lilting Gaelic English spoken in the Western Highlands and Islands of Scotland, or so I am told.)

The cockneys invented "Rhyming Cockney Slang." That's another article all together, but just to give you a little taste, they would take words like "sun" and turn it in to the rhyming slang "currant bun," and then drop the word "bun" and just leave the word "currant." The sentence, "The sun is hot today, ain't it mate?" would be, "The old currant's really bleedin' ot t'day init squire?" Another characteristic of cockney English is to drop the "h" off words, so "have" becomes "ave," "home" becomes "ome," and so on. Yet another characteristic is to change "th" to "f" and the "g" to "k" so that words like "nothing" becomes "nuffink," and "something" becomes "sumfink." So a sentence like, "Hey mate, you cant get something for nothing," in cockney becomes, "Ere mate, ya can't git sumfink fer nuffink, yer stupid git." Anyway, I'm digressing (runnin' off at the bleedin' mouf, in-I?).

 Now to the second word, "Jock." A Jock has several meanings and it depends on which side of the "pond" you're from. On this side of the Atlantic, jock is usually associated with sportsmen. Oops, sorry ladies, that's not politically correct, is it? Sportsperson - primarily football players. On the other side of the pond, it usually means a Scot. There is a slang word defining each of the Celtic peoples: the Irish are "Paddies," which is slang for Patrick; the Welsh are "Taffies" (don't know where that comes from but I don't think it has anything to do with candy), and the Scots are "Jocks." Again, if we go to the dictionary the word is defined as: {jok} n. Scot, and Irish Eng. meaning "an innocent lad, a country boy." However, I've been told by Del O'Dumfries that it may be another form of slang for John (i.e., John McTavish would be Jock McTavish). Again, whatever its origin, it is now the popular slang word for Scots, all Scots. Most English or Sasanachs (Gaelic for Saxon. Note the "chs" is pronounced as though you were clearing phlegm from the back of your throat, not as in "packs" but like "aaaccchhhss," or as in the case of "loch," "occchhh," not "lock.") address Scots as Jock: "So what part of Scotland are you from, Jock?"

 The term "Cockney Jock" refers these days to a London-born Scot. In my own case I was born in London to Scots parents. My father was from Strathdon, a small farming and fishing community in the wide valley (strath) of the river Don in Aberdeenshire (hence the name, Strathdon), home to the Lonach Games, and Forbes and Gordon clan country. It lies fifty miles west of Aberdeen and is considered well within the Highland Line. Like the cockneys, Aberdonians are famous for their thick brogue and unique Scots-English dialect, replacing perfectly good English words with perfectly good Scots words such as "puckle" for "few" and "muckle" for "many," or "quine" for "girl" and "loon" for "boy" or "chiel" for "man." So the perfectly good English sentence, "There are many good boys and girls in that man's class, but only a few gifted ones," is translated into the perfectly good Aberdonian sentence as, "There's o'er muckle guid loons an quines in yon chiel's class, but jist a puckle gifted anes." But that's another article!

 My mother was from Paisley, Renfrewshire, which is on Clydeside on the west of Scotland. She met my old man when she worked in Strathdon, married and then moved to London where I was born after the Second World War. She still lives in Southeast London. I come from North London, so the term cockney in its true definition wouldn't apply, but as stated earlier, it's become a generic term for Londoner.

 The term was first used for the London Scottish Society and the pipe tune Cockney Jocks was written for the London Scottish Pipe Band. It is part of the Shasta Scots Pipe Band 4/4 set marches and is my adopted signature tune when I play my pipes. Well folks, I guess you now know more than you ever wanted to about Cockney Jocks or as "Pipey" Skinner calls me, the "Cock-eyed Jock," so I'll wrap this snippet up before ye a fa asleep frae boredom.

SAMHAIN

Well folks, it's the time of year again that every good Celt looks forward to with bated breath. Yes, it's Samhain, and as good Celts we all know what that entails, don't we? Well, maybe it's the Cockney in this Jock, but I really didn't have a clue as to what it meant except that it was the New Year of the old Celtic calendar. So, in order to write something of a semi-intelligent nature for our editor-in-chief of this little tabloid, I did what any red-blooded Celt with a computer would do: access the Web!!!! There is, of course, a wealth of information on this and any subject in the Celtic World, and I was lucky enough to stumble on just the right stuff.

Firstly, the word itself. "Samhain," pronounced SOW-IN (sow-een) or SOW-EN (sow-en), is the compound word derived from the Scots Gaelic words "sam," meaning "summer" and "fuin," meaning "end." So Samhain, or Samain, means literally "end of summer." The Irish-English dictionary defines Samhain as: "All Hallowtide, the feast of the dead in Pagan and Christian times, signaling the close of harvest and start of winter." The Scottish Gaelis Dictionary defines it as "Hallowtide. The feast of All Souls." So as you can see, Halloween is tied to the Samhain, although today it's only a pale shadow of the original Celtic festival.

Samhain was the end of summer, and this had a great deal of significance for the Celts. It was celebrated on the first day of November, the month "that heralds the rule of darkness." Like all Celtic festivals, Samhain was celebrated on three levels: the material, spiritual, and cosmic levels.

On the material level it was of great importance. The Celts were a pastoral society as opposed to an agrarian society and the end of summer meant a radical change in their life style. Samhain was the time of the great gathering of the clans/tribes, and also a time of stock-taking and preparation for the coming winter. It brought all the people and livestock down from the summer pastures in the hills and glens to their winter quarters. It was a time of re-acquaintance; kith and kin gathered indoors for long winter nights of story telling and craft making. People would travel long distances to attend their tribal feasts and the festival would last over a period of nine days. It was also a period of culling the herds; all stock that wasn't required for breeding in the spring was slaughtered to prepare for the coming winter.

It was also a festival of fire with a new fire being set on the household hearth which would burn until the first day of the following Spring. Huge bonfires were lit on the hilltops at sunset in honor of the old Gods and Goddesses, and to guide the souls of the dead home to their kin. There is still a present day celebration of one of these ancient fire festivals which takes place every year at Burghead, in Moray, Scotland. It's known as "the Burning of the Clavie" which, although celebrated on the 11th of January, has many simi-larities with Samhain. The clavie is a herring barrel filled with tar and packed with staves (today they use old whiskey barrels). After being lit from a peat fire from the hearth of the Burghead Provost (Mayor), it is carried clockwise around the town, stopping at prominent citizens' homes to bring them good luck. From there it's taken to a stone altar at an old fort on Doorie Hill and set down. More fuel is added and the hill is ablaze with a beacon of fire. I don't think the C.D.F. would go for that little ritual here in good old California, eh!!

On the spiritual level Samhain was a time of inner contemplation because, for a warrior race, death was always present though not the tragedy it is in modern times. The important thing was to die with honor, live in the memory of the clan, and be honored at the great feast, Fleadh nan Mairbh (Feast of the Dead), which was held on Samhain Eve. This, for the Celts, was the most magical time of the year. They believed that when people died they went to the land of eternal youth and happiness called Tir nan Og, and they also believed that the turning points of time, such as day to night and summer to winter, were magical times. The Eve of Samhain, which was the turning point of the year, was even more so; it was believed that the veil between the two worlds was at its thinnest and that the living could communicate with their beloved dead in Tir nan Og. It was also believed that ghosts of people destined to die in the coming year could be seen walking through graveyards at midnight on Samhain, and because these ghosts were thought to be malevolent, people would carve jack-o-lanterns out of pumpkins and carry them as lanterns to scare away the ghosties.

Samhain on the cosmic level came to herald the supremacy of night over day, winter over summer and the ageless battle between light and dark, growth and decay, and life and death, but never of good and evil.

There were other customs that took place at Samhain such as apple-ducking, which was a marriage divination (the first to bite an apple was supposed to be the first to get married) and apple-peeling, a divination of long life (the longer the peel, the longer the life) The foods of Samhain were as follows: apples, pumpkin pie, hazelnuts, corn, cakes for the dead, cranberry muffins and breads, ale and beer, cider and herbal teas.

So there you have it folks, a diatribe on Samhain. And now you know what to bring to the Shasta Celtic Society Samhain Celebration on November 1st at Bridge Bay Resort. This is really just an excuse for a Halloween party and a chance for us all to kick our heels up and have a blast. So bring any Celtic music you may wish to hear, and if you are so inclined, come in costume (yeah, kilties are fine). There is also the possibility of piping, but nothing definite. So come and have a happy Samhain.

A Related Tale

In a related tale, our own Cockney Jock discovered the importance of remembering the First Footer tradition when he was not admitted "ben the hoose" because he forgot the "bloody piece o' coal." In the words of Dave Barry, "This is true, this really happened, I'm not making this up."

"It was Hogmanay back in 1968 and myself and a few friends had gone out on a pub crawl for a few drams to celebrate the New Year. Being raised in London, one had the tendency to think as a Sassenach and not as a Scot, although my parents were Scots. My father was an Aberdonian from Strathdon, and my mother was from Paisley, Clydeside.

"It didn't occur to me that this First Footing bit was serious business, at least to my mum. So, after quaffing several drams and many beers, and seeing in the New Year at the pub, myself and my mate, Pete, staggered home to my folks' place. Upon ringing the doorbell, the door was opened by my mother who is a diminutive 4' 10-1/2'' and gives real meaning to the phrase, ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed.' She immediately demanded to see the First Footing gift before she would let us in.

"Well, I looked at her and laughed, thinking she was joking, and said I didn't have one. Her reply was, ‘Well, ye little sod, ye'll nae come ben this hoose the nicht wi oot it,' and she slammed the door in our faces.

"Well, what to do? The pubs were all closed, as were the stores, but my friend Pete had a brain that wasn't totally awash in Scotch. He suggested we go back to his place and get the bottle of Scotch he had been saving for a special occasion.

"Back to my mum's house we trotted, and this time it was my dad who answered the door. He let us in without asking for anything, but he paid for that one. My mother found out and gave him hell until we produced the bottle of Scotch. That placated her, but not until she chastised me for not knowing better, and asked me where my pride in my Scots heritage was. I blurted out something about being raised as an Englishman -- and a Londoner to boot -- and that carrying lumps of coal from pubs after a skinful of brew wasn't exactly high on my priorities list. And as to wearing a kilt as First Footer, ‘Forget it Baby,' I didn't own one, and if I had, I doubt that I would have worn it, especially in some of the boozers I used to frequent in my young and foolish days.

"I tell this little tale just to show that a lot of these old, and sometimes silly, traditions still carry a lot of meaning for people. The lesson I learned was that my mother was one of those who took it semi-seriously. I believe she really would not have let me ‘ben the hoose' that night, although the whole episode was filled with fun and laughter."

Beltane

Back in the mists of time, November 1997 to be precise, I wrote an article about the ancient Celtic ritual festival of Samhain (November ’97 newsletter), and to celebrate it, the “hearty partiers” of the Society met at Bridge Bay Resort for the first annual Samhain gathering.  This hopefully will become an annual event, especially as it falls on Halloween and we all enjoy a party.

Well folks, those of you who are well-versed in ancient Celtic festivals and rituals know that it is the season of Beltane!  Like Samhain (remember, it’s “sow-EEN,” the sow as in the female pig), this is an another ancient fire ritual, this time celebrating the end of Spring and the beginning of Summer, and was the precursor to what is now May Day.  I say it is an ancient fire ritual rather than was, because it is still celebrated in Edinburgh on the night of April 30 on Calton Hill in Edinburgh to an intimate crowd of between ten and twelve thousand spectators!

Anyhow, the Edinburgh festival is a re-incarnation of the ancient pagan Celtic fire ritual celebrating the coming of the full sun and Summer growth after the lean times of Winter.  The fire symbolizes the sun, which finally burns away the darkness and suffering of the Winter months.  Fire back then, of course, was very important and was taken more seriously because there weren’t too many Bics around, and if a fire went out it wasn’t that easy to start up again.  During the ritual, the fire was circled three times for good luck in the coming year, and the flames leapt through to ensure fertility.  To purify the clan cattle (ancient Celts, remember, were a pastoral culture) the beasts were herded between two bonfires.  The home fires that had burned throughout the Winter and Spring after Samhain, would now be extinguished and re-lit with fresh fire from the hilltop where the communal fire was burning.  Torches were lit and swung to symbolize the re-born sun and ashes were smudged on people’s faces and scattered into the fields.

Beltane was essentially a celebration of rampant fertility.  (Those marauding mavens at Gibbs would have been right at home at this one!)  The interpretation of Beltane being a fertility rite is fairly unshakable and is probably the reason why it has retained its charm and symbolism over thousands of years.  There are those though, who view Beltane as being associated with the occult.  They argue that the Bel in Beltane is synonymous with Baal, the god of the ancient Assyrians, or Baal Phegor, an ancient Greek or Roman phallic god, or Baal Melkarth, a Phoenician sun god.  Here we have a rogue’s gallery of deities that could only be placated by blood sacrifice and were feared and respected by their followers.  The name was also linked to the name Baal Zebul, later corrupted to Beel-Zebub (the dung god), from which is derived one of the incarnations of the Christian devil.  However, none of this is proven and may have been used by Christian historians to point to a darker side of the natural pagan rituals and paint them as being sacrificial and evil.

A more obvious and Celtic origin of Bel would be Belenus, the pastoral god of the Gauls.  Another interpretation comes from the Isle of Lewis where the word Beltane is derived from beul, meaning “mouth” and tein(e), meaning “fire.”  This interpretation seems logical as the main ritual consisted of herding cattle between two fires to purify them, and is supported by references from other Celtic influenced areas to bil tene meaning “lucky fire.”  In the Western Isles, there is a common saying, lath buidhe Bealltain, which means “the lucky day of Beltane.”  There, the color yellow is equated with luck (buidhe is Gaelic for yellow), however in this case probably refers more to the many yellow flowers that bloom at that time of year.  As you can see, this derivation of Beltane is far removed from that of occult deities demanding blood sacrifice of first-born sons!

The present day Beltane celebration was started in 1988 in Edinburgh by Angus Farqhar, who wanted to re-invent Beltane in a modern form, and so formed the Beltane Fire Society.  The modern festival consists of a two-hour May Day procession and “wild after-events.”  Sounds like Spring Break to me!  (The marauding mavens would definitely fit in here!).   The main characters are the May Queen and her consort, the Green Man.  The Green Man is the human embodiment of the transition from Winter to Summer who dies at the hands of the May Queen’s Hand Maidens.  Re-born as the fresh young Oak Lord, he is ready to join with the May Queen in consummating the ritual with the fertility that Summer and the Beltane brings.  Incidentally, there are lots of pubs in Britain, especially London, that are called The Green Man.  Or, like the one I used to frequent pretty regularly, The Green Man and the French Horn where I participated in a few “belt anes” masel ye ken.  (Maybe that’s where the word comes from!)  These may probably be named for this ancient Celtic Beltane character.  Of course I have no proof of this and anyway, pubs are another story.

As usual, I’ve run off at the bleedin mouf again, in’t I.  Get on a topic and do it ter bleedin def (“death” in proper English) and now you know more than you ever wanted to about a subject no one had a clue existed.  Actually, there’s a lot more and most of what I’ve written here came verbatim from the WWW and the only requirement to be able to do that was to give the web address.  So here it is for those of you who want even more detailed info on Beltane: http://www.electricfrog.co.uk/beltane/intro.htm

 
Bob Elrick

JACOBITES: WHO, WHAT, WHY, WHERE AND WHEN!

Jamie VII of Scotland and II of England; Bonnie Prince Chairley; Flora MacDonald; William, Duke of Cumberland (Butcher Cumberland); Simon Fraser (Lord Lovat); Lord Balmerino; Rev. Tom Coppach; James Bradshaw...

The above-named, and many others unnamed, all had one thing in common: they were all Jacobites. Who and what they were, and are, makes a fascinating story, albeit a long one. It covers one of Britain's more complex and bloody periods of history, beginning just prior to the death of King Charles II in 1685 when Parliament tried to enact laws to prohibit his brother, James, an avowed Catholic, from inheriting the throne of England. And it ended with the carnage at Culloden Field in 1746, and the resultant brutal aftermath of proscription of anything remotely highland.

However, residual echoes of these past events are still heard today, such as the troubles in Northern Ireland. What goes on there today is a direct outcome of the events of 1689, which culminated at the Battle of the Boyne when the Protestant army of Holland's William of Orange soundly defeated the Catholic army of England's James II, sending him scuttling off to end his days in exile in France. As every Irish person knows, the lines betwixt the Catholics and the Protestants were drawn then, and still exist to this day. Scotland's loss of independence, which it regained from England only last year, was a direct outcome of what occurred in 1688-89 during the Glorious Revolution. And still today in England, the Great Highland Bagpipe is classified as a weapon of war and not a musical instrument.

What started such catastrophic events was England's fear of the return of Catholicism. To set the stage, after the Reformation of Henry VIII (1509-1547), England and Scotland were Protestant countries. Henry had parted ways with the established church of Rome after he couldn't get the Pope to annul his first marriage and formed his own church, the Church of England, with himself as the head of the church. The English hated popery with a passion and would not allow any king or queen, past or future, to return the nation to rule by Rome. So what happened to cause all the ruckus?

Well, after the English Civil War ended with the decapitation of King Charles I in 1649, England became a Republic under the iron rule of the Cromwells. It failed miserably and the son of Charles I, Charles II, was restored to the throne. (He is the king who gained notoriety through his colorful private exploits and association with Nell Gwynn.) He died suddenly and his brother succeeded him to the throne. His brother was James, who became James VII of Scotland and II of England. Problem was that James, unlike his brother, had converted to Catholicism in the late 1660s and was fully intent on restoring that faith to the country. Even after he was exiled to France he never lost that ideal, and instilled it in his heirs.

It is this man who has the dubious distinction of becoming the first Jacobite king. The name Jacobite comes from his name (the Latin derivation of Jacobus, meaning James) and was taken up by his supporters. There are still Jacobites living today, including the "Duke of Bavaria" who lives in Germany and is the direct descendant of the first Jacobite king.

So it can all be laid at the feet of one man, James VII of Scotland and II of England, and his open support for Roman Catholicism and his absolutist behavior. It was he, Jamie the seventh, who set the stage for a period of history that still affects life in Britain today.

This is such an involved and complicated period that I'm going to break it up into installments. The research alone is daunting, and I want to get the facts straight. Why would I do this you may ask? (I ask myself the same question!) The answer is that I was approached by founding SCS member Harry Maguire back at the Burns Night bash to do another article for the newsletter. Specifically, something on the Jacobites, and even more specifically, Jacobite women. He and SCS members Andy and Darline MacNeill had been talking about Jacobites and thought it would make interesting reading. It's certainly a romantic period of Brit history - red coats against kilted highlanders, Covenanters against Williamites, Bonnie Prince Chairley, etc. So in the vein of Celtic education, one of the objectives of the Celtic Society, I shall (hopefully) submit various articles on the subject of the Jacobites. Stay tuned! Of course anyone can rebut anything written here, especially if the facts are skewed or incorrect.

(Bob Elrick)

THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH:
A VIEW FROM BELOW THE SALT!

It was quite deafening really. The silence. Peacefully deafening, and I was totally absorbed in it, a million miles away. It was so unbelievably beautiful it wasn't real, and to think I was working at the time, too! Silent and beautiful - and for a wee while it was mine.

Silence. Then, imperceptibly at first, growing slowly louder, I heard it - a dull, strange noise. Whump! Whump! Whump! Then quietly, almost in slow motion and with utmost majesty, he came gliding round the lee side of the heather-covered hill I was perched atop. He flew just beyond arm's length. I could have touched him. He sailed effortlessly across the strath in front of me, disappearing into the distant mountains beyond. He hadn't seen me- I hadn't moved since I'd parked my arse deep in the heather waiting for the next drive to begin, enjoying my piece and jeely sandwich and flask of hot tea. He was a full grown goldie, a golden eagle, and the glen he flew over was just one of many I'd trudged through this particular August in the high Cairngorm Mountains in Scotland.

Yes, I was hard at work, if you could call it work. They paid me to do this, although it was a nominal fee. A few quid a day, but for a lad on summer holidays in Scotland it was just great. I forget what year it was, around 1961 or '62, but I was up in Scotland for the summer hols with my aunt. She was cook to an English lord, Lord Glendyne, and I was working for her as a scullery boy. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what "being in service" was, or what a scullery boy is (he who works in the dishwashing room scrubbing pots and pans), the PBS TV show Upstairs, Downstairs explains it very well. My aunt and I, in fact all our family, both paternal and maternal, were on the "downstairs" side of life, definitely "below the salt." But that was OK. We were happy enough and I was especially so at this particular time, sitting in the heather. I had just been given my spot on line for the first drive of the afternoon and had been watching the line string out and the gamey (gamekeeper) disappear over the last wee hillock when my goldie came flying by. The weather was fantastic for Scotland and I was really enjoying the last few minutes break before we had to start off again and drive the puir wee birdies awa' tae the butts o'er the hill. "Butts" in this case means a blind for shooting from, like a duck blind, only these are built from blocks of peat and stacked up like bricks, and could not be seen by the wee birds until it was too late. It was grouse hunting season and all this ftm traditionally started on the 12th of August, which was known as The Glorious Twetfth.

The gamey's whistle blew, telling all us beaters to get aff ye'r duff and get tae work! Instantly, all the silence and stillness had gone. Where once I had been the only soul on the hill, there were other beaters to my left and right. Local chiels (lads) and quines (lassies) of all ages, but mainly school kids and a few farm hands like Big Geordie who'd never missed a season n his life. To all of them I was known as the Sassenach frae London, even though I was as Scots as the rest of them. Well, Scots-Sassenach. All of us had oor wee bit stick wi' oor wee bit flag on the end o' it, and all of us were there at the behest of the guns. "Guns" in this context means not only the actual shotgun, but the folks who wielded them. We, the beaters, beat the heather with our flags in order to frighten the wee birdies out of their hiding places in the deep heather, and drive them towards the gentries' guns. There they were summarily slaughtered and collected by the gamekeepers and gentries' Labrador retrievers. For the dogs, this was what they were bred to do, but you could tell it was great fun for them, too. Sounds barbaric, doesn't it? But it does keep the numbers of grouse under control, as there are no natural predators in Scotland to do it any more. It also provides work for the gamekeepers and underkeepers, who are stewards of the land and who keep track of the grouse and deer population year round. And it provided a paid day oot o'er the hill for the likes of my fellow beaters and myself. More importantly, of course, it gave those above the salt some sport and fun for the season, and plenty of after-dinner conversation - leastwise until deer hunting season came along.

So off we go flapping the wee bit stick and not seeing too many birds come up. It was more of a pleasant hike in the hills. It was Lord Glendyne's land, this beautiful, treeless, heather-covered moorland that hid the wee birdies that were the object of this whole activity. The drives lasted about an hour on average and would entail some heavy hiking, especially in the real tall heather. Trudging through thigh-high heather was absolute drudgery. When wet, it soaked you through and through, making walking difficult; and when dry, great clouds of pollen dust rose up to choke you. Once I was absentmindedly beating the heather when a young red deer fawn suddenly bolted right in front of me. I'd practically stepped on it, and it scared me near to death, but it was so beautiful to see nature this close up. The fawn did not get shot and had the sense to run away from the butts. However, some of us beaters weren't always so lucky. When we got closer and closer to the gun butts, the hunters were supposed to wait until the birds had flown over the butt, then take their shot. This was purely a safety precaution to prevent any of the beaters from being shot. However, there were a couple of times I heard the pitter-pat of shot spattering all around me and felt it tear through the flag. (I think Monty Python's sketch of the gentry shooting themselves in various body parts kind of sums up some of the "bright sparks" that got to handle twelve-gauge shotguns out in the wild highlands!) Still, no one actually got shot all the times I'd gone beating. On the very rare occasion someone did, the gamekeepers would go ballistic and chew the offending gun up one side and down the other, regardless of their exulted station in life.

After the last drive of the day, everybody piled into Land Rovers and buggered off home, wherever home was. For me this particular summer it was the home of Lord Glendyne. Lord Glendyne was a multimillionaire, whose father had invented the post office savings stamps that children bought as a savings vehicle, and later redeemed for cash. He was a very wealthy gentleman, in the true sense of the word, one of the many gentry who were swarming all over these heather-covered hills. (Actually it was folk o' my ilk that did all the bloody swarming o'er the hills.) The wee English lairdie wasn't as young as he'd been and to get to the butts in safety and comfort he had bought himself a Norwegian 'Sno-Cat.' He and his guests could be seen gadding about the hills in this bright red civilian tank, driving sometimes at ninety degrees to the horizontal over seemingly impassable burns (creeks) just so they could get in a grand day's sport. Yes folks, this was, and to my knowledge still is, the way the gentry while away the hot (or wet) August days in bonnie Scotland.

We, the great unwashed, on the other hand, were not driven around in such modem convenience. We got to ride in the back of the gamekeeper's Land Rovers, along with all the retriever dogs and the other beaters. This was especially joyful on a typical Scottish summer when it would just pour down with rain for days on end. You've spent all day in the wet heather with the dogs and then get to ride home with this bunch of wet, stinking canines with their hot, stinking doggy breath; wet, sweaty beaters and gamekeepers; several hundred dead grouse; and blood and guts and mud on the floor of the Rover. I just bloody loved every minute of it, rain and all!

After spending a wonderful day on the hills, I then got to gut and clean all the grouse they had shot that day. Then in true scullery tradition, I got to clean and shine all the pots and pans used in the preparation of that evening's six-course meal, the main course being roast grouse. Then we'd do the whole thing all over again the next day, and I loved it. I used to go grouse beating with my dad around the hills and glens of Strathdon, Aberdeenshire, and I made several good friends over the years I spent as a beater. As I said, I loved it and couldn't get enough of it. It was a great way to spend a summer and get paid to boot. Each year we always looked forward to The Glorious Twelfth, whether above or below the salt! Must be the Jock in this Cockney, eh!

BOTHY BALLADS:
A Look at an Aberdonian Phenomenon

The above, like the Jeannie MacPherson song printed in the August newsletter, is a typical Scottish nonsense song where words were put to the music of well-known songs and sung as work songs, or just for fun. Most of these songs are sung unaccompanied by any musical instrument and are sung to music either from pipe tunes, jigs or reels. For those of you who attended the Burns Night Supper earlier this year, you may remember having heard me sing the above ditty as a sort of tribute to Rabbie and the sets of twins he sired. Although not strictly classed as a bothy ballad, it fits the idiom. The advice of the mother to stay away from women is echoed in many other bothy ballads and they were not only funny, but purported to give sage advice as well. Some were just totally nonsensical and fit the Celtic Mouth music idiom of "Puirt A beul," which was used as nothing more than to dance to. The words had little if any meaning at all and this style of music was also known as "Diddling." It was and is still common to both Scotland and Ireland.
 

But what, you may ask, is a bothy ballad anyway? What's a bothy? Why do I even care? Well part of the Society's purpose is to not only entertain, but to inform as well, and so here's where you find out about a unique Aberdonian folk culture, folks.
 

Bothy ballads originated in the northeast counties of Scotland, primarily Aberdeenshire, where farming was the primary occupation and plooboys (ploughboys) were plentiful. It was the bothy system on northeastern farms that served as a sort of folk-song incubator in the late Victorian and Edwardian days. The unmarried farm laborers were accommodated in stone-built outbuildings called bothies. After a bloody hard day in the fields behind the plough, these chiels (a chiel, pronounced cheel, is Aberdonian for lad or man) would spend a lot of their spare time making their own music, like playing fiddle, melodeon or pipes. Usually the farming scene itself often provided good material for satirical and comic invective, and new songs were composed commemorating the trials and tribulations of many gifted bothy chiels. It must be stated here that although these men were farm laborers they were not uneducated or illiterate and a lot of these songs were written down and archived in Aberdeen, which makes this gray, granite city a unique repository of a rich cultural heritage.
 

These landless laborers usually attended the feein’ fairs and fee'd (hired on) for six-month stints. The lads feed on at such big farms as Castles of Auchry (the ch here is pronounced as eccchhh, a hard sound like clearing phlegm from the back of your throat), Drumgeldie, and the most famous, The Barnyards O'Delgaty. The latter farm became the subject of a famous bothy song and has been resurrected by the Old Blind Dogs, a folk (bothy!) band, also originating in Aberdeenshire. (The fiddle player, Johnny Hardie, hails from my father's home village of Strathdon.) They are a premier band, keeping bothy ballads alive and well with modern arrangements that truly enhance these colorful songs.
 

These modern musicians however don't have to live the hard, sometimes brutal life of the old time plooboys. As Ed Miller explained at one of his concerts, a lot of these songs came west with the Scots and the plooboy turned into the cooboy of the Old West. Both had one thing in common: tough days behind a plough (Scotland) or behind cows (US). Their music reflected their lifestyle and for the plooboys at least, it could be gey roch ye ken mon (very rough you know man). Their day started at 5 AM after a meal of brose — the staple diet of oatmeal and boiling water, with which they had to make do three times a day, all washed down with a wee dram o whisky. Often because of this excess of oatmeal in their diet, many laborers came out with a kind of scurvy rash known as Scotch fiddle. (They should have taken advice from the limeys on how to avoid scurvy!)
 

Then they were kicked (sometimes literally) out of the bothy to yoke up their pair (Clydesdales usually) to the plough, behind which they spent their day. Of course, any and all farm work was performed by the bothy cheils, and all for the pitiful sum of $50 a year with free coal, meal and milk; but that only after they specialized either as a cattleman or the like. After the day was done and they retired to the bothy, they would often strike up a tune, or sing or swap songs before going to sleep. A lot of the songs told about the romantic escapades of the bothy chiels after they had finished their days' toil (if they had any energy left!). Out of this grew a strong folksong culture.
 

On a more personal level, my father knew and sang a lot of these bothy ballads. In over forty years of living in London he never lost that thick Eberdonian brogue and at parties and in pubs, after a certain amount of encouragement, would sing these songs. One in particular always brought complete silence to the room when he started to sing, but when the chorus hit, it was utter bedlam; everyone joined in! The song as I remember was just known as Ricky Doo Dum Dey and is about a farmer's daughter who is trying to sneak out of the house to meet her lover (lots of bothy songs in this vein) and all the things that happen as she does so. I never learned the words to that one and maybe I need to see if my mum knows them.
 A truly old bothy ballad is The Muckin’ o’ Geordie's Byre written in the early seventeen hundreds. It's also a pipe tune, although which came first I'm not sure (the song, I think). It's also one of the funniest of the bothy ballads, although the words were considered crude by many, not the least of whom was The Bard hissel. Aye, Rabbie Burns tried to rewrite the poetry but failed miserably; sometimes the rough diamonds are the best. This is the chorus to the ballad and it's written in Lallans Scots, which is Lowland Scots English:

Certainly loses something in the queen's English, doesn't it? Here is one a little more ribald, and so I'll not translate it in its entirety. I'm sure ye'll a' figure it oot yersels, ye ken. Rabbie may hae likit this ane, ye ken!

It's unfortunate that this year Old Blind Dogs will not be touring the West Coast. Last year my family and I and the Beldame of Ayre were fortunate enough to see them perform at the Chico World Festival. We weren't disappointed. For myself it was a blast from the past to hear, alive and well in California, something that I thought had kind of died with my dad. But as long as there are talented musicians like O.B.D., Ed Miller, Dougie McClean and others of their ilk, bothy ballads will be around for awhile yet it seems. They are not only keeping this art form alive, but modernizing it with the combination of moderns rhythms and instruments. And for that I at least am glad. Must be the Jock in this Cockney!
 

Well I started with a song so I'll finish with one. This is another song that my father sang that's a true bothy ballad and I do know the words to it. It's called Airlin's Fine Braes and describes the lifestyle of one young chiel. Like a lot of these songs, it has a warning at the end:

It's a wonder anyone got married in Scotland with all the advice to stay awa frae the wimmin, but it's still fine advice to this day, especially if ye're kilted up and piping at C.R. Gibbs on St. Paddy's Day and the marauding mavens are on the loose!

BOXING DAY!

Just what is Boxing Day and why is it the day after Christmas in Britain, Australia, Canada, New Zealand and any other English-speaking country, excepting the USA, that was colored pink on atlases prior to 1960? This question has been asked of me many times since I came to the US. I shall attempt to answer it for the non-anglophiles of our little group.

Does it have anything to do with burning boxes that gifts came wrapped in after Christmas Day? Does it have anything to do with buying new boxes for gifts for next Christmas? Does it have anything to do with the Chinese Boxer Rebellion of 1900 when Charlton Heston single-handedly saved all the foreign nationals besieged in Peking? The answer to all the above is NO! (An aside: Did you know Charlton Heston belongs to Clan Fraser, the Cockney Jock's clan?!)

Does it have anything to do with the fine art of pugilism, with strapping young lads duking it out in the streets of London? Partly. It does have more to do with boxes, but not in the way mentioned above. To be truthful, until I started researching, I really didn't have a clue myself. To me it was just the day after Christmas, when as a kid one got to play with all the new stuff one got at Christmas. It was also the day your folks dragged you off to visit some relative or friends of theirs, to a party or some kind of get-together. When one became older it was the day you buggered off down the pub wiv yer mates an all, and quaffed dahn vast quantities of ale, before passing out on the couch after a bloody great meal of leftover Christmas turkey, Christmas pud and custard with rum butter, mince pies, dates and all the other wonderful foods of Christmas. Then yer pulled yer crackers and told the silly jokes that fell out of ‘em, wore the paper hats that looked bloody daft on ya, but after a few glasses of fine red or white wine and perhaps the odd liqueur or scotch only added to the festive feeling and made folks not wearing ‘em look even dafter! Never knew the day had real meaning to it. Still what can one expect of such a shallow, callow youth, and I wasn't alone in my ignorance. Most of us thought it was a leftover of a Victorian custom of having boxing matches on Black Heath Common on the day after Christmas. Whether this in fact did have any bearing on the naming of the public holiday that all in the English-speaking world except the United States enjoy is up for conjecture. For many years it was what I believed.

Boxing Day, as it happens, is an old festival and dates back to Roman times. Scholarly types think that it started with the custom of giving strenae, (gifts of sacred boughs at first and later dolls and candles) during the pagan festival of Saturnalia. In the Christian calendar, December 26th is St. Stephen's Day, or the Feast of St. Stephen. St. Stephen was a deacon of the early Christian community in Jerusalem and the first martyr of the church. Anyone who knows the old carol Good King Wenceslas will recall that it's on the "Feast of Stephen" when he last looked out. (What was he looking out for? His Boxing Day box?) The early Christian Church adopted the Roman gift-giving custom by placing boxes in the churches in order to collect monies for special masses. The Christmas Mass (and therefore the Christmas box) was important because all sins were forgiven in celebration for the Christmas holiday. These boxes became known as Alms Boxes and were opened the day after the Christmas Festival, and the contents distributed to the poor.

On the same day, apprentices and servants broke open small earthenware boxes in which their masters had deposited small sums of money. In the great houses and great estates and even large households, the family of the house used Boxing Day to distribute Christmas boxes to the staff. This, as far as I know, still occurs.

It was also a time for folks who had plenty to give to those in need, a tradition still carried on today. Not only was money given, but unused clothing, shoes and useful household items were "boxed up," sent to the local churches and distributed to the poor and needy.

On Boxing Day, tradesmen and working boys took to the streets with their Christmas boxes to collect coins door to door. In the US this tradition is informally preserved in the practice of giving larger than normal tips to doormen, receptionists, postpersons, and other valued service people as a way of thanking them for their service throughout the year.

On a personal level, as a paperboy in London in the late 50’s, early 60’s, I always looked forward to getting my Christmas box. I didn't particularly like going from door to door, knocking on the door and saying, "Hello, I'm your paperboy and hope I have given good service for the past year. If you've been pleased with the service, would you like to contribute to my Christmas box?" and then hold out an old cigar box my dad had given me, hoping for a generous tip. It felt a little like begging, but I figured I'd worked for it, so I did it every year. Most folks were very generous; Christmas definitely brings out the "giving gene" in most people. However, some didn't give anything, quoting the now modern corporate phrase when it comes to paying bonuses, "You got paid didn't ya!" Needless to say, the service to those residences was less than it should have been the following year!

Well folks, that's about all I can find out about Boxing Day, and as usual I gleaned most of my info from the Web, better than any encyclopedia. I learned a lot, and hopefully you did too. If of course any of you have anything to add or rebut just send it in to the editor of this fine publication, and she will print it in the next edition.

Hogmanay is the Scots word for New Year, and is of course celebrated on New Year’s Eve. Hogmanay is the traditional Scottish New Year’s Festival and commemorates the solar divinity, Hogmagog, the combination of Gog and Magog, the spiritual guardians of Edinburgh. It is a more important occasion in Scotland than England, Ireland or Wales. The name Hogmanay has its roots in the Gaelic oge maidne meaning "new morning," Celtic Hogunnus meaning "new year" and Anglo-Saxon Haleg Monath meaning "holy month." Hogmanay in Scotland was more celebrated than Christmas, and centered around the new year. Some think this is an old Celtic tradition, but it most probably started after the Covenanters held sway and viewed celebrating Christmas as superstitious. Traditional Hogmanay ceremonies involved dressing in cow hides and running around the village being hit with sticks; this was called guising. There was also the custom of first footing which entailed certain individuals calling on friends and relatives and bringing the gift of uiseage beath, the water of life, better known as whisky! This had to be accomplished preferably before midnight. Other acceptable gifts were pieces of coal symbolizing the wish for a warm and happy dwelling in the coming year. The old saying lang may ye’re lum reek wi’ ither foolks’ coal comes from this old tradition of giving coal. Translated, that little saying goes "long may your chimney smoke from other folks’ coal." Bannocks (a kind of kaiser bun) and oatcakes were also welcome gifts, but scotch was by far the favorite gift. Last year the newsletter published an article on Hogmanay written by The Beldame of Ayre. As an addendum, I wrote a piece on first footing from a personal point of view. If members have access to the web they can get to the Shasta Celtic Society’s web page and read the article in the archives section.

Last year, several members of the Society met at C.R. Gibbs and held an impromptu Hogmanay celebration. The "Twa Bawbies" (Skinner and myself) played pipes, joined by Gerry Smida who accompanied us on various instruments. I think it safe to say that a great time was had by members and nonmembers alike. This year will most probably be the same — a very impromptu gathering at C.R. Gibbs on New Year’s Eve. This will be the last time a Hogmanay will ever be held at Gibbs’ old establishment as it will close down for three months of re-modeling after New Year’s Day. Hopefully it will be open in time for St. Patrick’s Day celebration.

ORANGEMEN AND JACOBITES

The Drumcree protest by Portadown Orangemen is to continue, but hopes were rising today that the violence which accompanied it across Northern Ireland is at an end. There were some violent incidents overnight. Police said a 75-year-old man was subjected to a "disgraceful" sledgehammer attack by men who smashed their way into his Belfast home. The man's wrist and leg were smashed with the weapon. Orangemen at more than a dozen centres across the province marched in parades on July 12 to mark the anniversary of The Battle of the Boyne in 1690.

So read the headline story in The London Times of Wednesday, July 13, 2000. This goes on every year come hell or high water. The loyalists (Orangemen/Protestants) demand the right to march through nationalist (Catholic) neighborhoods to celebrate the victory of King Billy over King Jamie the II of England (VII of Scotland) in an in-your-face manner, resulting in the sort of violence mentioned above. (Ask founding SCS member Marcia Greene about her experience last year with this lot for an up-close and personal viewpoint!)

Every year since the first march of 1807, members of the Orange Order come from all over the world to remember this 311-year-old battle. So what was so special about this battle? And why is it remembered every year, more so than any other battle in Ireland?

You may remember from my previous article on Jacobites that James II had been forced to abdicate the British crown in 1688 during what has become known as the Glorious Revolution. The reasons for this forced abdication are many, but basically it was a result of his conversion to the Catholic faith sometime in the 1660s. England and Scotland were Protestant countries, and the thought of a Catholic revival was abhorrent to them. Parliament actually tried to stop James' succession to the throne but failed, and James was crowned in 1685. James was a typical Stuart king in that he believed in and ruled under the auspices of the Divine Right of Kings - a peculiarly Catholic idea meaning that the king was answerable only to God, not the people he ruled. This, of course, ran contrary to the new democratic parliamentary system emerging in England as Parliament was becoming more and more the voice of the common man, not just an advisory board or fundraising entity when the king needed money.

James got into trouble early on in his reign by passing a series of inept policies, attempting to pack both the army and Parliament with Catholics, and attempting to repeal the penal laws against Catholics. Even so, things didn't really come to a head until the birth of James' son. Fearing a Catholic heir to the crown, England's Protestant leaders invited Holland's William of Orange to investigate the circumstances of this birth. They had, in effect, committed treason by inviting a foreign prince (albeit one married to the king's own daughter, Mary) to invade their own country.

When William arrived in England in November 1688, James and his family were allowed to escape to France to the Court of Louis XIV. Parliament then declared the crown vacant and offered it to William and Mary. William was the exact opposite of James. He was an advocate of tolerance and believed in a constitutional monarchy but was obsessed with the Grand Alliance (united provinces of the Netherlands, Austria, England, Brandenburg, Saxony, Bavaria and Spain against France) and the destruction of the expansionist plans of Louis XIV. He needed England as an ally so as to stop Louis and save Holland, and so he accepted the crown of England. However, holding on to the throne was to prove more difficult than William had anticipated.

James, with the backing of Louis XIV, agreed to lead an army of about 21,000 French and Irish to take back his crown, and chose to land in Ireland in 1689. The Irish (as well as the Scots, especially the Highland clans) were used to the autocratic rule of the Chief - it was the Gaelic way of life. It was perhaps this trait, more than anything else, that led them to support the Jacobite kings and their failed claims to the throne. William responded to James' invasion by landing with around 35,000 Dutch, English, Prussian and Swiss mercenary troops.

James and his "army," a ragtag bunch of Irish peasants and French mercenaries, armed with nothing more in some cases than sharp sticks, had failed to provision for the campaign and set to plundering the countryside to survive the winter. They laid siege to Derry and Enniskillen. This, of course, did not endear them to the local populace who viewed these Jacobite rebels more as a scourge on the land rather than as saviors. William's army was better equipped and he kept stricter control over his troops, hanging looters and marauders.

Failing to take Derry and Enniskillen, James marched to meet William. And William, after initially declining to lead the army in battle, changed his mind on the eve of the battle and the opposing forces finally met on the banks of the River Boyne on July 1, 1690 (which is July 12 on our present-day calendar) at Oldbridge.

The armies fought each other all day, but basically the battle ended in a draw, around 5 PM. The Protestant army had managed to flank the Jacobite forces and James fled the field at the end of the day, making his way to Dublin to await his retreating troops. William, who was wounded and fatigued, failed to give chase to the French and Jacobites, but he'd effectively defeated James, once again sending him packing off to France. James blamed his Irish troops for his defeat, but advised them to surrender to William. Unfortunately, they didn't take this advice, and continued to fight with England for another year. In the end, they lost this war, and this had grave consequences for the future. Against William's advice, Parliament implemented a severe set of Penal Laws against the Catholics, which was to last for years.

Today, the Orangemen march every year in Northern Ireland to observe the events written above. Which is interesting, considering that the Orange Order wasn't founded until September 21, 1795 - a century later! That's another story, but there obviously weren't any Orangemen at the actual battle!

One hopes the marching is to remember the deeper ideals for which the battle was fought, as well as the fifteen hundred Jacobites and five hundred Williamites who died fighting it. There are those who say it marked a milestone in the evolution of Democracy. The defeat of James II, an absolutist monarch, rejected by his own country and defeated by a tolerant ruler subject to the rule of Parliament is one such milestone. That's a pretty high ideal.

Then again, it might be just an excuse for a bunch of yobbos to get liquored up and go beat up people with sledgehammers.

(Bob Elrick)

It was just a faint sound in the air. Nothing you could put your finger on, for sure. It was an unfamiliar sound to me; I'd never heard it before, or so I thought. It got louder and more pronounced. My cousin stopped in his tracks and started running for the head of the brae, shouting, "They're coming! They're coming!" "Who's coming?" I thought. "What's this about?"

Just then my dad came out of the house along with the rest of the family, scooped up my baby sister and, herding me and my younger sister in front of him, followed my cousin James to the head of the brae. By now the faint sound had become the full-blown skirl of the Great Highland pipes. Ten or more of them complete with drums and drummers. This was really the first time I'd been exposed to this strange but exhilarating sound. It was something completely different from what I'd been used to. The whole family was now standing along the upper driveway of my granddad's house, straining to catch a glimpse of what was making that sound.

Making that sound was The Lonach Pipe Band, practicing for that year's Lonach Highland Games. There is only one road running through Strathdon - the A944 heading west out of Aberdeen in northeast Scotland - and on this summer's eve the pipe band had the right of way! When they finally marched into view to the strains of Piobreachd of Donald Dhu (or Black Donald's March in English), the signature tune of the Lonach, there was quite a crowd up on the upper road to my granddad's house.

All the neighbors were out to watch as well, chatting away in that familiar Aberdonian brogue my father still held on to, even after many years of London living. As they came into view, they ended the set and marched towards and past us in silence, broken only by the tap, tap, tap of a single snare to keep them in step. Everyone had stopped talking by then and quietness reigned. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a very young, very shrill voice that yelled out in full Cockney glory, "Why don't they ply?!" to the great amusement of everyone there.

My baby sister had echoed what everyone was thinking. The pipe major must have heard her admonition, so he obliged her and the rest of us by calling off their next set of tunes. And so, to the stirring strains of Scotland the Brave, they disappeared around the bend towards the Lonach Hall at the Colquhonnie (KUL-hone-nee) Hotel to practice for games day.

That was over forty-six years ago and Lonach is still going strong. Stronger than ever.

The Lonach Highland and Friendly Society was created in 1823 in celebration of Sir Charles Forbes of Newe (nee-YOW) and Edinglassie's elevation to the Barony of Newe, and of the coming of age of his eldest son, John Forbes. The local tenantry at the time, headed by pipers, marched up to the top of the Lonach Hill, lit a huge bonfire and with much celebratory drinking of drams, officially formed the Society. A massive cairn was later erected with an engraved stone set in the front proclaiming the Society's aims, or in modern parlance, its mission statement.

The Society set itself-three goals. The first was to aid the poor of the parish of Strathdon. Second was to promote the wearing of the highland garb. Third was to encourage and keep the Gaelic language alive and well. Two of those three have been successfully kept to this day. The Society still offers assistance to those who apply and qualify for it, and the wearing of highland garb is celebrated each year with the March of the Lonach Highlanders, as well as with the Lonach Highland Gathering and Games. Unfortunately, the Gaelic language did not survive the sea of "Eberdonian English" that is spoken in and around Strathdon. The "Eberdonian" brogue is itself in danger of being overwhelmed by Standard Southern English. This is the typical southern English dialect spoken in Britain. The numbers of English folk moving into the district, and more importantly the modern day conveniences of TV, movies, etc., do more to destroy local dialects and accents than anything else.

The word Lonach itself is an idiomatic Gaelic place name - Lonaig - Lon, meaning heathy or heath-like, and ach (pronounced achhhh - making a sound like one clearing one's throat) meaning place. So Lonach means heath-like place. This fits the description of the Lonach Hill, which I hiked up back in 1973 to see the cairn. One gets a beautiful view of the whole of the "strath." Strathdon literally means "wide valley" (Strath) of the river Don (don). It is the ancestral homeland to the Forbes of Newe and Edinglassie. Gordon and Wallace are the two other prominent clans of the district. These are the clans whose tartans are prominently worn by the Lonach Highlanders.

This year, Lonach celebrated its 160th Gathering and Games. This event has been held on the fourth Saturday in August every year, from 1823 to the present, excepting the war years. As a highland games, Lonach isn't any different from any other small local highland gathering. It is the March of the Clansmen that makes this gathering unique throughout Scotland. Other highland games have massed pipe and drum bands, but the March of the Lonach Men is only seen at Lonach, in Strathdon, Aberdeenshire. There is no other spectacle like this and when you're a part of it, it is truly magical.

The march takes place on the morning of the games. For four hours, the clansmen parade around the district, then march twice around the Lonach field, marking the official start of the games. For most marchers, it starts at 8 AM on Saturday morning. For some, it starts on the Friday evening prior to the games, when many of the marchers meet at the Colquhonnie Hotel pub to reacquaint themselves with their comrades from marches past. There's a great deal of celebratory dooning o' drams. For some, all night long! Then, as they say, ane pits on the Garb of Auld Gaul and maks yer way doon tae the muster point at Bellabeg Post Office, approximately six miles west of the hotel. There you're checked oot by the Sergeant at Arms, and the clan plant badges are handed out to be put in each clansman's cap or bonnet. Broom for the Forbes and Gordons, white heather for the Wallaces. Soon Donald, the horse, pulling the Lonach cart full of ten-foot-long pikes, comes lumbering into view. The pipes are tuning up and the drummers are beating on their snares relentlessly (much to the dismay of those celebrants of the night before who had one too many drams!). Then the order is given to get your pike and fall into line. Two lines are formed. At the head march the three halberd stewards. Behind them and providing the music is the Lonach Pipe Band followed by the Lonach colors and banners. Next is the Chief and Chieftain, Major Hamish Forbes, Bart, M.B.E., M.C., accompanied by his son, James Forbes, who presently resides in the wine country of California. The tail follows next, comprised of 200 to 300 Lonach Highlanders. Forbes and Gordon men are sporting the full highland garb of dark green tartans of those respective clans, each man shouldering his ten-foot pike. Shadowing them are the Wallace men in their distinctive red Wallace tartan. The "hangers on," those who sport the kilt but are not Lonach Highlanders, end the tail. Bringing up the rear is Donald the horse and his cart. He's there to carry any pikes that become too heavy for the pikemen, or for those who may have one dram too many.

At 8 AM, the order is given and the band starts playing Piobreachd of Donald Dhu and the March of the Lonach Highlanders is underway. The column, marching on a predetermined route, stops at various houses and castles of patrons of the Society. In my father and grandfather's day, the patrons were auld moneyed gentry, their money made usually by trading in the Far East. Nowadays, it's more likely to be a Hollywood celebrity and their entourage. Here the highlanders receive the traditional hospitality of the hosts by quaffing drams of quid Scots whiskey in one gulp (for real men!). There is water or orange juice for teetotalers, of course. There are eight of these stops and all are required to offer a dram. None of your cheap scotch either. Minimum 12-year-old malt scotch for these lads - Glenlivet, Glenfiddich or The Old Grouse. By the time the last patron has been visited and the last dram drunk, that once rather stiff and smart column of men has loosened up visibly.

After a well deserved pit stop at the halfway mark, and the other four drams safely tucked awa' in yer belly, the whole march makes its way doon the road and up the brae to the Lonach Hall, situated next door to the Colquhonnie Hotel. You may remember that this was the site of much drinking and merrymaking the night before! The parade swings around in front of the hall and comes to a swaying halt! Sir Hamish, the present patron of the Society, and other local and visiting notables say a few words of welcome to one and all. Sir Hamish then offers the traditional cheer of "Ho Ho Lonach" and dismisses the march for lunch. Everyone does a wobbly right turn and falls out. Some literally!

The time is now noon and there are usually a few minutes before lunch is quite ready. So most of the men make for, yeah you guessed it - the bar - at the hotel. Those who have the constitution for it down several more drams. Then off to the hall for a substantial highland lunch of Scotch Broth soup, beef, tatties and cabbage, roll and twa McKeown's Export beers. This is prepared and served by the ladies of Lonach. These are the wives and family members of the local men and they always do a fine feast, tae help soak up some o' yon drams that we haud earlier on. Unless things have changed since I last marched (16 years ago), women do not march with the Highlanders. The only lassies who march are pipers or drummers with the band. My wife made a point of bringing this to my attention, but I told her I couldn't change tradition.

After lunch, everyone musters again in front of the hall, feeling a wonderful warm glow, not just in your belly, but all over. One has met old friends and made new ones. Everyone is very congenial. If the sun is shining (a rare event in Lonach), everything is just wonderful. If it's raining; everything is just wonderful!

Sir Hamish gives the order to fall in, right dress and then quick march. The band kicks in to Piobreached of Donald Dhu for the umpteenth time and the whole parade lurches doon the brae, right wheels gently onto the A944 and swings and sways its way down to the Lonach field. By now there's quite a throng marching along beside the men of Lonach. TV cameras, video cameras, newspaper folk and just plain ol' bystanders. Police are directing traffic out of the way of this leviathan that has just taken over the whole bloody road and stopped traffic dead.

The pipes and drums are skirling ahead and, as the familiar tree-lined Lonach field looms up the whole parade, to a man, sharpens itself up. Bellies are sucked in, shoulders and stooped backs straightened, pikes held aloft with pride, kilts a-swinging, whiskey-warmed bodies sway in time to that wonderful pipe music wafting all over them. Entry into the field is met with a roar from the crowd that has been waiting for this for a few hours by now. Many folk follow the whole parade and march the whole route with the clansmen. For those who can't, a ringside seat offers the best view of this unique spectacle. For them, the first inkling of anything happening is the skirl of the pipes and perhaps a glimpse of the banners held aloft in the wind. Then they come into view, the three halberd stewards leading the way, the pipe band, the colors and Lonach Banner, the Chief with his young Chieftain aside him, followed by his tail of loyal Lonach Highlanders. Just as it was centuries ago when a clan chief went visiting.

The Lonach men march twice around the field and then exit and dismiss outside of the main games area. If you still haven't had enough drams, there is a pub tent set up just for you. Lots of the men find their way here, have a couple of brews and then join their families to enjoy the rest of the games. Lonach is a typical highland gathering. The Piobreachd competition is the premier event, with the Cael beg, or light-music piping, such as the march, strathespey and reel, is next in importance. Those events start early in the morning. Highland dancing and all the heavy athletic events are going on all afternoon. One other event unique to the Lonach is "The best-dressed Highlander" competition. Anyone can compete, but it is usually a Lonach Highlander who wins.

At 2:30 PM, the men muster yet again for the final march of the day. By this hour of the day, the games are at their zenith and the crowd is usually at capacity. The march is announced, the band starts up and the Lonach men once more enter the ring and march to literally thunderous applause. People love it. The celebrities love it, (not that they're any more important than anyone else in my never-to-be-humble opinion!). Twice around to the strains of Piobreachd of Donald Dhu yet again. Then it's out of the ring to be dismissed for the final time that year. The two columns do a right face and fall out. Next year's march seems a long way off at that point.

For some it ends there. They watch the rest of the games, or go off and have another dram or twa, or just bugger off home to sleep it off. But for the "real men" amongst us, it's just a lull in the fun. After the games are done, the prizes awarded, the officials thanked, the cotton-candy booths and kiddie rides shut down, one makes one's wobbly way back to one's bed for a well-deserved nap. My last games, my wife found me napping under the bleachers! It's tiring having to do all this drinking and marching and eating and drinking and marching and smiling at the bonnie lassies who're wondering what, apart from ghillie brogues, is really under that kilt!

Besides, you have to be ready for the Lonach Dance held, where else, at the Lonach Hall. If you're with the pipe band, you're automatically a celebrity. If you're in a kilt and still standing, you're a near-celebrity! The music is Scottish Country Dance music, played by local musicians or a band out of Aberdeen. The Gey Gordons and Eightsome Reel are the order of the day, along with lots of waltzes. (Sixteen years ago, anyway. Not too much rap back then. Maybe it's all changed; maybe there's a disc jockey and lotsa rap nowadays.) It's a fun evening made even more so when the Lonach Pipe Band plays a few sets outside on the lawn in front of the hall. For those who love pipes, of course. There's a lot of "hot dogging," too, by the young laddies strutting their piping prowess to win over some young lassie wha' disna ken ony better.

The whiskey, or whatever your poison is by now, (orange juice if you've any sense) continues flowing like the River Don down the gullets of the young who think they can handle it, and the old who know they can't but still try anyway. Some can't handle it and then things get rowdy, and fists may fly. But things are brought under control quickly, for we don't want the bawbies frae Eberdeen camin' oot tae spoil things noo dae wi lads!

And so, if you're able to make it all the way to midnight, and you've said your good-byes to your Lonach friends for another year, you slowly wend your way hame tae yer bed. You shuck off the Garb of Auld Gaul and creep between the sheets and hope to hell there's enough aspirin in the house for that doozy of a hangover you're bound to get when you wake up!

And that, my fellow Celtophiles, is typical of Lonach gatherings as I remember them.

This may all seem rather silly to those not familiar with such things. Some who read this may be forgiven in thinking that it's just a pub-crawl in skirts! There's certainly a lot of drinking that occurs before, on and after the march. But for me, and those of my family who're still living in Strathdon and who play an active role in Lonach, it is a link to the past. It is living history and tradition worth keeping alive.

Like my father and his father before him, I'm a Lonach Highlander. My son, Ian, has been enrolled in the Society too, making him one as well. I haven't marched in over sixteen years, and I think it's about time I got over there and did it again. This time, though, I'd like to play with the pipe band, but that may not be possible. They may not allow ringers in! Pipey Skinner, or Frack as he's now known, would like to accompany me and march as well. I hope that one day we can swing it so that he can experience the real fun and tradition of Lonach. It's what keeps the Jock in this Cockney!

(Bob Elrick)