On freeway - 4:29 AM
Back at the house - 10:15 PM
Miles traveled round trip - 545
One of my problems is that I hype things up too much, for the benefit of both others and myself. When those things actually come to pass, they have to be really excellent to live up to my hype. The Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in North Carolina were not quite as awesomely awesome as I had hoped they'd be, and I was a bit disappointed. I still enjoyed myself, though, and I think the whole experience was important for me personally, and worth it overall.
I woke up later than I wanted to, as usual, and, after filling up the White Whale's tank, got on the freeway at 4:29 AM. Once again MapQuest and I had a slight difference of opinion, which led to me having to retrace my route at one point and then diverge from their directions altogether. I finally made my way to the Blue Ridge Parkway, which is by far the most mountainous and twisty road I've ever driven (but not the most twisty I've ever ridden). Part of the Grandfather Mountain weekend is a marathon, and part of that marathon was on the Blue Ridge Parkway, so my driving skills were further tested by having to avoid killing crazy marathoners. I finally made it past the runners and to MacRae Meadow, where the games are held, but where there is no public parking. Driving past the Meadow, I heard the first strains of pipes, and was happy. I and a few other motorists followed a school bus to find one of the shuttle parking lots, and I parked about ten minutes away from the Meadow--not too bad, I thought, as one shuttle lot was 45 minutes away, according to the GMHG website. It had been a while since I'd ridden a school bus. I'm glad I don't have to ride them on any kind of regular basis.
When the bus arrived at the Meadow, we tramped through the overnight camping area to the main gate. Approaching the gate, visitors saw this:
That's the Star Spangled Banner and the Saltire, or St. Andrew's Cross, the national flag of Scotland. The cross is white, though the shadows make it look black.
When I got to the gate I already had my wristband, because I bought my ticket in advance. That's how excited I was. I bought a program, whereupon I discovered that the massed pipe bands, one of my favorite parts, had been at 9:45, when I was still following runners. That saddened me. There's nothing like getting all the pipers and drummers in a place to play at once.
The "Meadow" is actually a basic football stadium, complete with a track surrounding the field. On one side was a bank where people could sit, and a review stand where the announcer and VIPs sat. It was the basic home side and press box setup, for my fellow marching band aficionados. The rest of the field was on the same level with everything outside it. Around the field were the clan booths and some vendors. There were also places set up called "Celtic Groves"; these were little groves with stages where different groups performed. The groves were quite nice, because they were shady and cool. Not that it was overwarm anyway; I almost put on a jacket when I got there because it was so cool up in the mountains. The weather was great.
My main complaint about the way the event was set up was that
there were too many things going on at once. At one end of the field were individual piping competitions, and at the other were Highland dance competitions. In between there was, at various times, heavy athletics, sheepdog demonstrations, and a brass band with pipers. I would've really liked to pay attention to the brass band, as one does not get as many chances to listen to a brass band as one would like. Sadly for me and the band, they were performing right next to the dance stages, and the dancers had live pipe accompaniment. At the same time, a pipe band was playing behind the press box. I chose to pay attention to the pipe band, as they were nearer. Furthermore, besides all the usual heavy athletics and the Scottish wrestling, there were also regular track and field events, like pole vault and high jump and running events. As you know, I like track and field as much as the next person who did it for six years, but I think that portion tipped the scale from Probably Too Much to Way Too Much Stuff Going On.
The sheepdog ("Shep," I kid you not) demonstrating his stuff herded not only sheep but ducks, too. I liked that.
Shep was the only dog, though, so I felt sorry for him. Neither GM nor the Aiken games had sheepdog trials, only demonstrations. I wonder why that is. As fun as it is to watch demonstrations, it's even more fun to watch trials, à la "Babe." I love this picture of Shep running. Look at him go!
When I was walking through the clan booths, I kept wanting someone to stop me and ask what my last name was to try to figure out what clan I belong to. I wanted to proudly tell them my very un-Scottish last name, and laugh. I guess I want people to know that I am just as proud of my paternal heritage as I am of my maternal. There just aren't as many festivals for my dad's side, though. But no one accosted me to ask who my people were.
(Don't look at the picture coming up, Dad.)
The same British food vendor was there, but with a slightly larger selection this time. The fish and chips looked really good--the fish did, at least; the "chips" were ye olde crinkle-cut fries, and just as mediocre as you'd expect. But I had to go for the haggis and chips. It
looked horrible, and still does in that picture. It didn't taste as bad as it looked, although I wouldn't eat it on a regular basis. The closest thing I can think of to compare it to is corned beef hash, and even that's not that close. All that being said, when I finally go to Scotland, if I'm offered haggis there, I'll try it again. I also had a sausage roll later in the day, and I wanted some shepherd's pie, but it wasn't ready when I tried to order some. And of course I washed my haggis and chips down with an Irn Bru.
Dear Barr, makers of Irn Bru,
If you ever decide to start marketing Irn Bru in America (I'm afraid you'd have to add more sugar for it to sell widely), I've got your advertising campaign right here. Observe.
It doesn't necessarily have to be this particular dude. He was just the inspiration. He didn't look like he was wearing a costume, like some guys do when wearing kilts. He looked like it was nothing out of the ordinary for him. I also like the shirt. Anyway, A.G. Barr p.l.c., your ads would feature a guy in a kilt drinking Irn Bru and enjoying it. That's all you'd really need. Of course, you'd sell more if the guy said something with a Scottish accent. It wouldn't even matter what he said. Pretty much anything and we'd be all over it. Think about it, and have your people call my people. We could make this happen.
Amongst the vendors was a booth run by the Union Jack import shop. It was filled with British goods, especially food. They had all kinds of things: Scottish oatmeal, canned haggis, curds and jellies, cookies, and candy. Oh, the candy. I bought a Cadbury Flake and was very proud of myself when I ate it without it crumbling all over my shirt. I should have bought more candy. There was an article in the New York Times last week about how English candy bars are better than American ones. The prepared-British-food vendor was also selling boxes of Walkers shortbread and Jaffa cakes for a dollar each, because they were slightly past their sell-by date. Whatever. I had to buy a box of Jaffa cakes. I'd heard of them before, but didn't really know what they were. They're little spongy cakes with orange squishy stuff on top, all covered with chocolate. I bet they would've tasted even better had they been really fresh, as in not shipped over from the UK and then a little old. I like the box, especially where it says "yippee!" and on the right where it calls the orange part "squidgy" (it's partly cut off in the picture).
The caber they were using was over 17 feet long. Here are four mere mortals carrying what one kilted man can carry. I was watching the caber/brass band/dancing and a girl near me was telling one of her associates about the origins of the heavy athletics, i.e. that they were war training exercises. Um, duh. Everybody knows that. When the grid goes down and EMPs have rendered all those fancy weapons useless, the throwers of the world will be the artilleries. At least until the trebuchets get built.
In Celtic Grove #1 I listened to a singer from Edinburgh who now lives in Texas named Ed Miller. He played guitar and sang folk songs and drinking songs. With him were another guitar player, a fiddler, and a flautist/backup vocalist. I liked that before every song Mr. Miller told the audience the words to the chorus and encouraged us to sing along. Either Avery County is dry or the GMHG powers that be decided not to have any alcohol for sale; whatever the case, Mr. Miller questioned how it was possible to have a Scottish festival without alcohol. So a nice young man from the audience walked to the stage and gave him a beer. A bit later the group played a song whose chorus began, "Give the fiddler a dram, boys," and another audience member walked up and set a dram in front of the fiddler, who drank it as soon as the chorus was over. I liked listening to this group because it was in a nice, shady place where I could sit down, and because it was a change from the mayhem on the main field. Plus, Mr. Miller sang Scottish songs that weren't the usual traditional stuff. It was pleasant.
I can't think of a good place to put this picture, so it's going here. As I mentioned in the Aiken Highland Games post, some tenor drummers twirl their mallets. Here's an example. Also note the Emo Piper on the left.
The other band that I listened to in Celtic Grove #1 was
Albannach. Albannach is made up of six Scots, five dudes and a woman, who are five drummers and a piper, although not respectively. "Albannach," they explained, means "Scots" or "Scottish" in Scottish Gaelic.
The best way I can think of to describe their music is as war music. I heard someone else call it "tribal," but I think that term is played out. No, it brings to mind the music very early Scots might have played before battle. Maybe that's just me, though. The drummers move around a lot, or at least I assume they do; there was quite a crowd there to watch them and I was near the back, so I didn't get a good view. But the music is energetic and a bit wild. They're nothing like traditional pipe music, or even like any of the Celtic rock groups around. Well, maybe a tiny bit like some Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly. I liked it. Check them out. A friend of the band introduced them, and at the end of his introduction recited a variation of the Viking prayer,
* inserting William Wallace and Robert Bruce, and substituting Tir Na Nog for Valhalla. I thought it was interesting/amusing/a rip-off, especially since I don't know how many people would recognize the original. Albannach has played at battlefields in Scotland, like Culloden and Stirling, and they talked about that being an honor. I cannot imagine how awe-inspiring that would be, as a spectator, let alone as a performer. My favorite part was when Albannach brought out two American Indian performers, known as
The Blessed Blend, who sang as Albannach drummed. It reminded me of home, when from our house we can hear the singers and drummers from the powwow. They said that during the colonial period, children whose parents were of Celtic descent on one side and Indian on the other were said to be of the "blessed blend." The performance was unique and cool, and shorter than I wished it had been. I'm going to have to check out their website a little more.
After Albannach I left, because it was a long drive. Overall I had a good time, of course, but I wish I'd had people with me to talk to. I called the Best Roommate Ever twice so she could listen to bagpipes, and Mom once, but it wasn't the same. I don't know why my cell phone reception was so bad, as I was on a mountain. That was also one of the highlights, going to the mountains. I miss mountains. That is, I miss seeing them behind my house, or being in them, but I do not miss getting into them. And the weather could not have been nicer; I estimate that it was about 20 degrees cooler there than at the house. I function better when it's cooler than I do when it's hot and humid and disgusting, and I believe that's why I was hardly tired by the time I got back. So it was nice and cool and there were mountains and sausage rolls and bagpipes, so I can hardly complain. Well done, me.
And for the grand finale, here's some North Carolina cows on the way back.
*Not a real Norse prayer, but here it is anyway.
Lo, there do I see my father
Lo, there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers
Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning
Lo, they do call to me
They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla
Where the brave may live
Forever.
In Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany, you can take a tour of the city guided by a nightwatchman. He's dressed in black and carries a lantern and a halberd and talks about the history of the walled city, from medieval times to modern, when parts of the wall were destroyed by bombing during World War II. The tour is very interesting, and the city itself is the definition of picturesque.* This Christmas day I saw a short piece on some news program about holiday traditions around the world, and that evening's featured location was... Rothenburg! And they interviewed the same nightwatchman who led us on the tour seven and a half years ago. Quelle coincidence. It was great. I like seeing places I've been on TV or movies, even though it often makes me want to go back, and even though I tend to say "I've been there!" probably to the annoyance of my fellow viewers. Hurrah for a flashback to my treasured past. Here's a picture of the nightwatchman looking bemused by two of my compatriots.
If I knew how to say "Merry Christmas" in German I would. Failing that, merry Christmas, and happy travels into the New Year!
