“Turn left after the police station.” How could I miss it? Because the ‘station’ is a house. An ordinary house with a man, woman, kid and dog in the front yard. The solitary banana yellow car, also threw me off. Beyond the ‘station’ a sign reads, Kinlaulich. I remember the look of that word and turn onto the gravel, tree-lined drive. It runs parallel to a sheep-grazing pasture, followed by acres of gardens,

Fiona’s amazing cabbage

and ends at The Treehouse. An octagonal two-story cottage, a tree stands in its center, reaching but not penetrating the roof.

Surprisingly, more enchanting than the tree to me, are the windows. Church-like lancet windows all around. Their presence infuses the room with a quiet reverence. Surround sound no-sound.

The Treehouse

The Church of Tree

Fiona, the owner of the gardens and caretaker of the cottage, stops by and invites me to walk the gardens anytime, especially at dusk when the birds flit and sing in chorus. She writes directions to a health food store in Oban thirty miles away. I’ll stock up for the week. The ‘highway’ curves around lakes (lochs), varying elevations of farms and pastures, and a stunning church with burial grounds.

Light and Death

A harbor comes into focus and suddenly, I am amidst a town buzzing with autos, buses, and people. Thank the gods I weave the car to the health food store without a hit, or near-dent experience.

On the return drive, I pass through a construction zone and take the next turn. Some miles up that erroneous road, a sign reads: “Taynuilt Highland Games, Saturday”. Taynuilt? I realize two things: one, I’m going in the wrong direction and two, this will be my direction for the weekend. One wrong makes a right!

That week, mornings at the Treehouse begin with a jog to the castle on the loch. Days are spent writing, reading…wallowing in the sounds of silence. At dusk, silence is broken by symphonies of bird song. I’ve never heard so many varied bird notes in my life. Makes me think of them as individuals. After dark, I build fires and listen to the primitive, comforting sounds of crackling wood.

Beyond the Treehouse

Hugging Tree

Before slumber, I wrap my arms around my tree and squeeze.

Come Saturday morning. Here I am, in the Scottish Highlands going to Scottish Highland Games. Trippin’. Video: Highland Games

Kilts, kilts, and more kilts burst with color and brighten the overcast sky, creating a festive atmosphere.

Piping competition

Generations of Tradition

The Taynuilt Sports Hub resembles a grassy football field; at opposite ends are the piping and dancing competitions and in the center is the caber toss and other field events (this caber was 155 lbs. but they soaked it in water to make it heavier!).

Caber Toss
Heavens to Mergatroyd!

Surrounding the field are concession stands and various amusements. Parking further afield, I walk on the damp grass, past a kid jumping and rolling in a plastic bubble ‘ride’, and in the distance, hear a piper playing the Highland Fling! In a previous post I mentioned that my twin and I do not hold the fondest of memories of our pubescent piping and dancing years. Not wanting our fellow students to know we were involved in such humiliating practices, we kept it our secret. My mother tirelessly drove us to lessons weekly with expectations of us practicing in-between (thus shortening our ‘free time’, not happening). All the while we had to pretend to appreciate our self-absorbed Scottish-Canadian grandfather who promised to take us to Scotland (never did). I may have even told my mother I hated her for putting me through the degradation. Oh horrible teenager! Nevertheless…being here evokes an inexplicable sentimentality that softens my recollections.

Observing the dancers’ every move and behavior, I become transfixed, transported…

The Lineup

I see them now, I envision me years ago… one of Margaret’s students; sharing camaraderie with the others through stretching,

Check out stage construction

Cutey pie Beginners

jumping, talking, practicing pas de basques and high cuts, waiting to be called. We eye our competition and hope that the one-that-always-wins gives us a break and doesn’t show. This is our world now; we are participants, competitors. We carry pride in our posture, even a hint of confidence (unusual in pubescent girls). People gather to witness history and tradition through our dancing and applaud their appreciation. We are called…nerves are aflutter. We line up. Step on stage, three at a time. Smile at the omnipotent judge. Bow. Focus. Lift to the balls of the feet. Dance in step to the Piper man. Smile. Bow. Exit. Hope.

There was a dancer in whom I knew her efforts

Sweet Emily

would be rewarded. She kept her chin up. She jumped higher. She executed challenging steps with ease. I introduced myself to her and her parents. To her I said, “You are a delight to watch. I was a dancer. Your execution, your precision and style, exquisite. You’re a natural. And…you’re the only one who smiled.” Her proud parents, appreciative of the encouragement, said she was shy, but they knew she had a talent for Highland dancing.
Emily earned four medals that day — three firsts and one second. To an advanced group of dancers, I asked, “You’re all equally amazing. But what was that move after the second step in the Fling? I danced in pre-historic times, but I don’t remember that one,” as I tried to duplicate the move. They giggled. “It’s new. It was introduced only two years ago.” This is encouraging; Highland dancing is not fading, it’s  evolving!

Oh mom. IF I said I hated you, I’m sorry. (My nieces and nephews know I don’t use that word anymore suggesting, “Hate is such a strong word. Can we substitute it for dislike?”)
Your devotion and diligence gifted us, at a formative age, to the benefits of Discipline. Tradition.  Camaraderie. Humility. Optimism.
Long ago, I discarded my medals and trophies. But my nostalgic sentiments are not so inexplicable after all…thank you, mommy (my pet name for her in her later years). I miss you. I love you, you hear?

Back at the Treehouse, a confirmation email for a concert that I thought was sold out, popped up. I’m going back to Perth!

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.” –Desiderata