From the church tower, the haunting lament of the Bagpipes is heard.
Then I hear another sound coming from the tower. Bagpipes. Their unmistakable haunting lament drifts through the cold clear air. I always feel quite emotional when I hear them. I know others hate them but for me, they seem to resonate a longing deep within. They call of home.
In a way, I almost prefer Burns Night to Hogmanay. There is a huge sense of belonging to the past. When the address to the haggis is said, as it has been for over 200 years, it makes me think of things that have gone before. The 25th January is to keep the immortal memory of Burns, but I suspect others, like me, think of their own memories.
There is a huge sense of belonging to the past.
Poetry always speaks to that “knower behind the thinker“, that deeper part in all of us that longs to belong, to love and never to leave what we hold dear, even though we know one day we will. Burn’s knew a thing or two about those fundamental desires and was able to communicate them in verse, sometimes heart rendering, sometimes a wee bit rude my darlings, but always to the soul.
To honour the splendid evening at the Badger Inn, I made buttonholes for the staff. Each element was wired. For the men, I used beaded eucalyptus and eryngium, a substitute for thistle epitomising the Scottish theme. I added a spring of chamelaucium for the girls.
There was a clean kill of the haggis (important at a Burns Night) and much merriment ensued.
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