The End of the Adventure

Well, the time has come for the end of my ramblings on this blog.  I found honest work in the summer of 2012 and have been happily employed ever since.  I occasionally play downtown but the instances are fewer and fewer.  It was a marvelous time and an adventure I will always cherish.  Now I just play the pipes for myself.  I still play daily, and have numerous stop and desist orders to prove it.

I find myself enjoying the antiquity of the process.  I am studying the old Piobairaechd tunes and playing them with great relish.  It is as if I can transport myself back in time to those damp and misty moors, where brave men filled the air with soulful laments and led great throngs of men into harms way.  One can almost feel the spirits rise to walk with me as I pipe.  I am reminded of my experience playing in Scotland.

It has almost been four years now, but I remember is as if only yesterday.  The hour was late, well not that late.  It was just as the sun was beginning to set.  I arrived at Culloden to view the historic monument and tour the visitors center.  Unfortunately, they had closed for the evening.  A lone security guard greeted me with the sad news.  I explained that I was here from the U.S. and wanted to play my pipes.  He lit up and told me I was welcome to stroll the battlefield and play to my hearts content, no one would bother me.

A lone Cottage on the Edge of Culloden Moor

I hoisted the pipes to my shoulder as I passed a small cottage that stood on the edge of the old battlefield.  The sky was awash with beautiful tones of amber and blue as I let the drones have their way.  I began a mornful lament entitled, "Lament for Sir James McDonald of the Isles".  The tones lilted across the moor as I strolled slowly past the large stones that marked the mass graves of those highlanders who fought for their freedom.  The Mackintoshes, the McDonalds, The Macgillivrays, and so on...  It seemed so still and peaceful as I walked along.  The midges were buzzing around, obviously admirers of the Ceol Mor.

All of a sudden I felt as though others were there with me.  I looked from side to side but saw no one, yet their presence was real.  If felt as if a legion were walking with me.  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I continued my lament.  I was a stranger in a strange land and yet I was not.  I felt at home, as though accepted and even one of them.  In my minds eye I could see them, brave warriors in kilt and sporran walking proud.  There were others too.  Men with ancient pipes of their own, hoisted high and joining with me in a symphony of Celtic pride.  

That is why I play the pipes, for them.  To honor my ancestors with some symbol that defines who they were.  The English tried to squash this Celtic symbol with no success.  That I play today is proof of their failure.  Long may the grand tradition of Scottish pride continue, and may I always honor my noble ancestors with the haunting tones of the Ceol Mor.

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