Loon Mountain, N.H, U.S.A
The rattle of snares, deep pulse of bass and the unmistakable throaty bellow of the pipes. The thud of hundreds of shoes upon the pavement, echoing against the stillness of anything else as a mass of marching figures step forth, their kilts swishing gaily in the wind as they come. The noise of their pipes is high, fierce and very archaic and carried on the back of the tenor, snare and massive bass drums which transport the listener right back to the days when whole Scottish armies would rally around the pipes and storm off to bloody battle.
There cannot be anything much more terrifying than seeing legions of bagpipers and drummers march towards you. When playing the nicest accountant, green grocer or teacher is transformed into a kilted heathen and the entire band takes on the shape of a war party. The pipe major, marching always at the front, swings his baton and is nearly always a white bearded brute and is often decked out in a finery of broaches, medals, tartan sashes and a giant feather hat that makes him look about nine feet tall. The pipers and drummers that follow him, both male and female, are resplendent in fitted waistcoats and Glen Garrys (small, Scottish hats with red bobbles.) Their faces are serious, they march straight and true, their eyes are focused and there are roughly three hundred of them, marching together as one.
This is the scene that greets me at the annual New Hampshire Highland Games, a celebration of Scottish culture that has been running for over thirty years. For one weekend many average New England citizens drop their drawers, pick up kilts, bagpipes, cabers, swords and anything else Scottish before marching on the New Hampshire ski resort of Loon Mountain. They come in huge numbers; over the three day event roughly 26000, many of the competitors in the myriad of sports and events offered. These include sheepdog trials, piping and dancing contests and many others. The festivities go on late into the night with drunken reels and general Scottish partying accompanied as always, by someone with the bagpipes.
There is something about bagpipes that always makes the hair rise on the back of my neck and reminds me so strongly of home that I often times need to sit down after hearing them. Since moving to America I have acquired an almost uncanny ability to detect the pipes and will often head straight towards the noise, no matter how faint or how badly they are being played. It was thus a certainty that upon finding out that there was to be a New Hampshire Highland Games held in Loon Mountain, I would gather my camera and head up north with Britt.
On the road north, as we headed to Loon, I began to worry. I spent many Scottish summers of my childhood at the Highland Games, dressed in a thick coat and wellies, standing in a muddy field watching the heavies, tug of war, and the massed pipe bands. I understood things there, the strange clan hierarchies governed by peerage, the chieftains tent with its flag flying proudly, the faces in many tents familiar ones to me. I knew what to wear, what was expected of me, how things would definitely proceed. At Loon I knew that I would not have that luxury for however Scottish the games proclaimed to be, they were sure to be a very American affair.
The minute we climbed from the shuttle bus that had ferried us from the car park, I realized I was both right and wrong about my above fears. Around me I could see dozens of very American people milling in crowds and wearing the usual attire of jeans, baseball hat and sports hoodie or t-shirt. Standing next to them however were at least three pipe bands that I could see straight away, fully outfitted and playing almost perfectly. Everywhere I spied kilts, and even some people who had gone so overboard that they were carrying broadswords or flintlock rifles. It was clear the games was not going to be completely Scottish or American.
To get my bearings I launched straight into the fray, Britt following behind. This was her first experience (beside braving Spain with my brother) of Scottish culture, and so we stopped at the food tent to pick up Irn Bru and lamb sandwiches with huge wedges of something potato/cabbage based called thumps that I decided was an invented name. Fully hyped up on Bru we headed through the clan tents to find the Gordon’s, only to find out that it had been blown down due to harsh winds and replaced by a empty car. Moving on we passed the heavies and watched the caber tossers for a while, before chatting to some British squadies on tour with their band then hitching a free ride up the mountain on one of the ski lifts.
It was amazingly beautiful on top of the mountain, and we stood for a while looking down at the valley below, the leaves on trees all around us beginning to change, crackle and wither as fall approached. Finished with this respite we headed back down in time to quickly chat to the president of the games, Jon Lang and this years honorary Chieftain, well-known Scottish musician John Wallace about the games. While Jon briefly explained the technicalities of running the festival, John shared with me what he feels makes this festival shine far above it’s Scottish competitors. “The weather” he laughs in his Glaswegian accent, and explains that apart from this Americans can stage a show with constant entertainment value, something he feels is missing from Scotland.
Personally, it was the prize giving and massed pipe bands that I found to be my personal highlight. Britt looked aghast as we stood in the central arena and watched band after band appeared and promptly marched straight towards with seemingly no intention of stopping. One after another they came, their coats and kilts every colour imaginable, their heads held high and their playing surprisingly almost perfect. One by one they halted, and more followed till there were dozens laid out before us.
As Britt’s ears finally started to fail we left and journeyed back to Ringe and in the car I tried to work out what I thought of the games. Unlike John Wallace I think that they can never beat the Scottish Games because though these are perhaps more glamorous most of those present here have never been to the country they come to represent, and thus cannot surely have the true pride that I think many Scott’s have when they enter even a small Scottish games. The American bands can surely play well enough to hold their own but there is something bigger lacking in the whole atmosphere that makes it feel like a theme park rather than a traditional event. Whatever the reason people come though, I found it deeply moving to see so many proud to be Scottish.
