Consulting the Muse concerning Bardic Roots whilst visiting the Fair Land for a wee Gathering of the Borderfolk.

To have an itch unsatiated, tho' 2 week scratched.
Consuming, nomadic thoughts;
Pulling, Urging, Screaming: North!
Borders, Rievers, family ties: A perfect match.

How many branches in a family tree?
More than one:
Littles, Everetts, Jones, MacCauls,
Bonners, Miones, Duncan, Coots
Even broader roots:
Scotland, England, Ireland, Italy;
Nordic, German, French.
Northern stew, Southern spice.

Set sail for the Borders. Dumfrieshire. Galloway.
Land of poets, UN'ed hostels and the Gathering
Land of llamas?!?! Land of Kings! Land of wet...
Will we find that Holy Fair? Or will it simply be an epithet?



To scale the tallest peak in the Borders
The Merrick - Gobs of views, gobs of muck,
Gobs of slaughter;
Thoughts of freedom and brave hearts.




Nights in hostels with groups of Sundies
Swiss blokes begging bread,
Traveling Danes, young German girls
Bewitching old Scots.

Fawlty Towers panto by guys in undies
Quite a night with song and laughter,
(And not a small bit of cider.)
Recreated again, dramatically, with a cheater version:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgAi7DYHA94

Setting: common room of the hostel with 4 long tables. The Nomad and an older Sunderlander at one table, 7 young and 2 older Sunderlanders spread over the others. 2 German girls in the kitchen washing up. The Sundies are talking in their version of Cockney Rhyme and the German girls think they keep saying Fritz...
German girl 1: enters the common room "Who is Fritz"?
Sunderlanders: quizzical looks.
German girl 1: "Who is Fritz? Is there a Fritz here?"
Young Sunderlander 1: from the far side of the room, gesticulating wildly towards the nomad and the old sundie, who is drifting off to blessed sleep "There, he's Fritz!"
German girl 2: enters the common room "You are Fritz???"
Old Sunderlander: Leaping from his chair, knocking it down. "YES, I am Fritz!" he proceeds to perform the fawlty towers skit with the hitler impression and walk exactly like John Cleese. Straight towards the German girls.
German girls: Deadpanningly say: "Vyou know, vee are Germans."
Old Sunderlander: "But you started it, you invaded Poland!"
The room: Riotous laughing and falling out of chairs.
German girls: Exit stage left, slamming the door.
The room: proceed to drink cider and tell stories until a very unreasonable hour.

A foggy-headed morning, a nice drive to Dumfries.
The Bard's town by way of burial mound
Somehow appropriate, somehow mind-clearing,
It pushes us East, towards the Games, Tam O'Shanter hearing.



To sit in the chair wha' wrote Scotch Drink
To hear the whispers of a Bard's Epitaph.
And look for the Muse, gone to the West Indies
Makes you pause for a drink, and of inspired Ayr draw breath.

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.) - the Muse



Off to find the games, I seek that Holy Fair.
"Aye, ye must cross that ancient bridge o' there.
Then listen in the air;
You'll hear the dancing and the piping", calling you from old.



What a Holy Fair it was! The Pipes!
Wi' bards and bands and birds of prey;
They danced, they sang,
They fought with valor.



But, all were awaitin' on that hour,
Biggies warming up their toes with drams of Life,
For tossing stones, hefting spears, foolishly catching.
Without doubt, a site worth watching!



The crowing glory of that day,
Came after sharing of uisge.
How fantastically fun it was to see,
The Haggis fly so wondrously!



And so it ends, this mighty tale,
But, all of this was true.
Aye, wha' great fun it was to see, to hear, to feel,
The piping of my Bardic roots!