In this blog I have often celebrated Things Scots. I have visited the country twice and delighted in its hills, heather, history and hospitality. Known to many as a nation of bridge builders, missionaries, union stewards, swordsmen and stag hunters it seems to have acquired a following abroad which far outnumbers the home crowd.
In the label group entitled Things Scots, you might examine such titles as "Landseer Remains" or "Prodigal Daughter" or "Macleod's Scottish Shop" or "Blair Knew Rutherford" or "Brooding Glencoe" to get a taste.
I suppose that the pull has come from my Father who served in Scotland and with the Air Force over the North Sea during the Second World War. I remember one story that he told occasionally with moist eyes. He was on leave in August from the Invergordon base and had gone to Edinburgh. The annual Scottish Tattoo was underway and the pipe and dance competitions took up a number of days. On the final evening with all of the large bands assembled beneath Castle Hill, a hush of anticipation spread through the crowd, and the spotlights in the large lot were turned off. A single light focused on the top-most corner of the castle where a lone piper was tied securely to a wrought iron rail against possible strong winds. He began his rendering of Amazing Grace. One piper. One soul. One elevated spot. One brooding sky. One Lord and Saviour. One hope of grace.
My Father cried telling it. I cried hearing of it...