Open Writing

Although I like Brigadoon, the musical does not make it into my top ten. Yet, because of its whimsicality and the marked contrast between Brigadonians and a pair of enervated New Yorkers who begin the show by moaning about all the stuff and pleasures they have left at home, only to be shrouded, disoriented, and miserable under a thick wet blanket of the best Scotch Fog.

Yet, despite dark misgivings about the drawbacks they have encountered, they are about to witness a marvel, for, when the mist disappears after the opening number, they find they are come upon the quaint Scottish village of Brigadoon, an enthralling place that is hidden from common sight by a dense Highland mist, from which it emerges for a brief period once every century.

Brigadoon’s charm is its re-creation of unaffected and simpler times that reveal the Great Truth that our lives are not meant to be lived in frantic races to nowhere and nothing, by showing the Greater Truth that good hearts, courtly manners, and affability shorten the distance between existences as cold and dreary as river damp, and the ecstasy that is the sanctuary of those whose congenial spirits procure priceless endowments of their happy lives.

The villagers, dressed as they were in the 1700s, and speaking in the Scottish brogue common to Highlanders, meet, greet, and welcome the flabbergasted pair. The show is enchanting for several reasons, but, alas, here we must leave the merry comeliness of Brigadoon, and proceed with the story of Brigazonia.

I mention Brigadoon because at the end of March, unsuspecting souls that took to wandering on foot, or cruising in motor vehicles in the vicinity of the Montessori School in Camp Verde, Arizona, noticed odours and sounds not native to the Sonoran Desert. The unearthly noise first bored itself into their ears, and was followed by peculiar smells that shot up into their nostrils without so much as a ‘with your leave.’

It is fair to say that Arizonans in general are not familiar with the aforementioned Highland Phantasy, so they were unable to make any connection. The haze hanging over the happening was not Scotch Mist, but a domestic counterfeit composed of common dust, various carcinogens, invisible droplets of fine liquids, smoke, mist, fumes, and particulate matter from the infernal combustion engines of cars, boats, wagons, petrol driven power tools, and garden equipment.

The fog that lingers over the City of Phoenix is generously shared by Phoenicians with their neighbours. It has an orange-brown tint that is as unmistakable as it is constant, and there is more of the stuff than they can breathe in between them, even if they all breathed in at the same time.

In the case of unwary wanderers in the region of unexpected sounds and smells, the mist did not swirl and lift to reveal a cozy little community, although it might just as well have done. Some heard the noise, and wondered if demons had risen to earth’s surface and were sacrificing unwilling victims to satisfy their grisly pantheons’ requirements.

The wailing was high-pitched, undulating, dissonant, and persistent, and accompanied by pot au feu amounts of pervasive and enticing aromas.

When close enough to the sources of commotion and pot-pourri what they saw was mysterious and astonishing. The most conspicuous sight was of a score or so of Herculean men in sleeveless undershirts and skirts. These were busy grunting as their faces changed like traffic lights from the obligatory Arizonan tan, then to red, and finally to purple, as they took up and threw telephone poles down the length of the sports field.

The outlandish noise turned out to be a trio of red-haired, red-bearded, pipers – also in skirts. They were occupied with blowing down tubes connected to underarm pouches, each pouch with three tubes sticking up from their tops through which idiosyncratic noises were released into the air. Escape was impossible!

The smells were harder to pin down until the curious, following their noses, discovered the refreshment booths. The unfamiliar fragrances were fumes from steaming dishes that were formed from nostalgic memories of émigrés from a land a world away that have not fully devoured the lotus flower.

The menu included Shepherd’s Pie, Steak and Kidney Pie, and Chicken Pie. Available to the more adventurous were portions of a creature of myth and wonder, The Haggis. Haggis is not only Scotland’s National Dish, it is the guest of honour in the grand ritual enacted throughout Scotland, and wherever else Scots gather to celebrate Robbie Burns’ Night, and a source of mystifying bewilderment to the rest of the world.

However, both the mystique of and enthusiasm for Haggis make like Brigadoon and vanish when it is revealed as nothing more exotic than offal mixed with oats and onions, the mix then stuffed inside a sheep’s stomach to be boiled until it turns into a porridgy paste. Provided that salt and pepper are added prior to cooking, Haggis is tasty and filling, more so when it is accompanied with tatties and neaps. However, it is not a dish for squeamish souls whose imaginations run ahead of their appetites.

As not all the civilised world is familiar with the word ‘offal,’ I will explain that the ancient Anglo-Saxon word refers to the inner parts of an animal, such as the heart, liver, kidneys, etc, which are determined by some to be regular food, and resolved by others as fit only for consumption by vultures and other scavengers. Scots in olden times were obliged to eat offal for want of better fare due to their grinding poverty in ages that were especially unkind to the poor.

It is a fitting paean to the Scottish spirit that what was foisted upon them by necessity, is embraced by Scots as an enduring symbol of their country.

Nomadic Scots that pitched their tents in the desert to visit the Arizonan version of Highland Games hoping to taste the best in Scottish feasting, can be excused if they went from the event harbouring disappointment at not finding Selkirk Bannock, Forfar Bridies, Roastit Bubbly-jock, Strathbogie Mist, Cock-a-Leekie Soup, Cloutie Dumpling, or Rumbledethumps among the culinary offerings.

Despite what there wasn’t, there was brilliant sunshine, there was a cloudless blue sky, and there was a buoyant carnival atmosphere as sportsmen sported and pipers played Highland music.

After hearing bagpipes for a wee while, they become much less wearing to the soul and ears. It also becomes easier to pick out the tunes that are shrouded within the ceaseless skirl of groanings and lamentations. It is told that the Irish gave the bagpipes to the Scots, but the Scots haven’t seen the joke yet.

For seven hours that day, the grassy arena in the desert was transformed into a wee part of Scotland under the genius of Arizona resident, David McNabb. Scottish transplant Iain Walnick played traditional music, and Highland dancers danced traditional sets developed from victory dances of the Clans.

Attendees with claims to Scottish ancestry were able to identify their clan tartans and history in one tent, whilst in another tent they were instructed in the basics of researching and constructing family trees that led back to the ‘Auld Countrie.’

To add spice to the occasion, several famous inter-Clan battles were re-enacted with the energy, enthusiasm, and realism, as the real battle must have had. A train of vigorous and bloodthirsty re-enactments thrilled the crowds, and only frightened a few little children.

The athletic kept themselves busy hurling the stone, launching the hammer, and tossing the caber, as well as taking part in other events that called for accuracy, strength, and speed in which participants gave their all, and then some, for which they were suitably rewarded by an appreciative multi-ethnic multitude.

Irn Bru, the most famous Scottish soft drink ever made, was on sale. Those hesitating to taste it for the first time were fulsomely assured by experienced Irn Bruers that it really was, as the sign declared, "Made from Girrrrders!" Sadly, none of those who purchased several gallons of it, on the strength of its legendary ability to cure the worst hangover, could be reached for comment.

The high point of the Scotfest was a trio of Border Collies that jointly and severally herded a flock of sheep and a gaggle of Indian Running Ducks. For many spectators it was their first chance to see these legendary genii of the dog world demonstrate their talents, including their competence in reasoned and predictive judgement leading to rapid completion of their tasks.

I almost forgot to mention the Scotch-tasting booth, an entertainment that did not want for volunteers willing to test whisky at the risk of getting alcohol poisoning. Naturally, all in the interests of science.

I also neglected to make known the edifying discourse presented by a Scottish barman from the Celtic Crossings Pub, in Prescott, who told all there was to tell about single-malt scotches.

These diversions were kept apart from each other to separate Theorists and Practitioners of Scotch Whisky lest a scientific debate about the merits of this and that, or who is what, why did you, and when am I, and other fundamental questions that can arise between the Clan of the viscerally dampened peripherally warmed, and forced to sing, and members of the Clan of stimulated minds and steady gaits. And all this was in the cause of advancing scientific frontiers.

Bringing up the rear was the ‘Four Peaks Brewing Company’ of Tempe, a sponsor of the Games. This brewery sold a beer with the thought-provoking name of, "The Kilt Lifter."

After this, further comment from me would be redundant. Och, aye!

Copyright © 2009 – Ronnie Bray
All Rights reserved

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