*For my dear friend and fellow canuck, Francine Roberts who adores the whimsical,
the lyrical and the magical. Her poetry always charms with the romance found in the
everyday, in the extraordinary and in all the charms of nature.
Thank you, Francine, for all you bring to soup!
I brought Francine to the Fergus Highland Festival, the largest of its kind in all of Canada.
Fergus is less than an hour from Kitchener. We have attended many of these festivals.
Like many Canadians, I am a VERY mixed breed, lol, but am most proud of my
Scot heritage. Nothing stirs the blood more than 30 or so massed bands
playing down the sun with Amazing Grace.
Francine, I took you to a former festival. The new festivals no longer
have the tea tent! Grrrrrrrrr…The VON (Victorian Order of Nurses)
ran the tea tent and it was almost surreal to see in it: spotless white
linens, real bone china pots and cups, small vases of roses and thistles on
tartaned-up tables… scones and jam…. and a small stage featuring
Celtic performers. It was very restorative for those who’d spent hours
walking the festival, and had become weary, sunburned and parched.
It really did feel like a Brigadoon in the middle of a scene from
Braveheart --- they actually had weapon demonstrations not far from
this tent… lol... the Pipers Pub was like something out of a film.
Talk about struts! LOL!!!
If I know you at all, I think you’d be smitten by the atmosphere
of a bygone time… and… ahem… men in kilts!
Oh, yes, leaves a gal weak in the knees! Sigh!
and post notes and photos about your poem.
There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed
end over end. Then, across the glen, highland
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins
in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful.
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull
heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin and let wee thistles bloom.