Homecoming Queen

It's the Year of Homecoming here in Scotland. Three hundred events are scheduled between Burns Day on the 25 January through to November. Pageantry, pipers and tartan abound.

The official line is that the Homecoming Year will recognise and celebrate a unique cultural heritage and welcome "home" the estimated 100 million people in the world with a 'blood link' to Scotland.

It has also been pointed out that it is a good way for Alex Salmond, Scotland's First Minister, to incite a little nationalist fervour and further cement the Scottish National Party as the natural government of choice. Besides, finding another reason to fleece the tourists by offloading shitloads of tartan, whisky and Loch Ness monster hats never goes astray, especially when there is a recession lurking in the wings.

It has not gone unnoticed that many of these ancient traditions are in fact a Victorian invention, conjured up by Sir Walter Scott. Ever on the lookout for a good promotional opportunity, when the George IV came north for a "King's Jaunt" in 1822 Scott went out of his way to ensure that there was never a dull moment. As Stuart Kelly points out in his article (well worth a read), the grand tradition of fleecing tourists for over-priced tartan was born: the King paid the modern equivalent of £1,123,750 for his.

One of the biggest Homecoming events was the Clan Gathering (25-26 July). Hordes of visitors from New Zealand, USA, Australia, Germany, Canada (among others) wearing little laminated access passes flooded into to Holyrood Park. Despite the fact that J had spent the morning grumbling to his barber about the whole thing being a 'pile of pants' I made him trek into the Old Town to watch the parade at the end. A parade's a parade, after all. Besides, what better way to start to get my head around all this clan business?

Each clan carried a sign, like at the Olympics, and the names were announced by loudspeaker. The leaders were usually all tartaned up, but various codes of dress applied thereafter. Americans sported bum-bags, shades and tartan bandanas. A Maori sported a full set of facial tattoos and traditional ceremonial cloak. Everyone was waving, a few were staggering, some of the old folk looked like it may well be one parade too many.

Many 'homecomers' from the diaspora had brought their own ornate banners to declare their allegiance. In general, the non-Scots were looking either baffled or delighted to the point of tears. One large American man marched up the middle of the street waving to the crowd and, with his hand on his heart, kept announcing "I've come home! I've come home!" John Michie of Taggart fame was spotted in the front line of one group, and the crowd greeting him with an spontaneous chorus of "There's been a murrrrrderrrrrr!" It was a warm and warm and sunny evening, pipe bands were playing Scotland the Brave ad infinitum and people were waving and giving a a little cheer when their own clan passed by.

Suddenly the laughing was replaced by a loud, resounding and quite sustained booing. The Campbells had arrived.

Its a long and complicated story (see a short account courtesty of the BBC. Wikipedia has a longer one), but basically Campbell soldiers were being housed and fed under the laws of highland hospitality by a bunch of McDonalds who had failed, despite attempts, to declare allegiance to the King William of Orange by the specified deadline. The Campbell lads had been sharing the houses of the McDonalds for 12 days when they received the order to kill. On the night of February 13, thirty-eight McDonalds were slaughtered in their beds, with many others perishing when they fled into the blizzard outside.

The Massacre of Glen Coe, as it is now known, occured in 1692, but apparently there is at least one pub in the are that display a notice that they accept 'No Hawkers or Campbells'.

The booing was reasonably good natured, but it was there. It was the booing, as much as the pipe bands, that made you believe that Scottish history is alive and well.