Good to Be Chieftain

‘Aye, laddie,’ says the voice on the phone, ‘We’d like ye tae be oor Chieftain at the Brigadoon Highland Gathering in Bundanoon next year.’

I’ve been asked before, but I’ve always been too busy. ‘What do you think, Jane? Shall I do it this time? It’s the fortieth anniversary.’ I always look to Jane for guidance.

‘I think it will be a good thing for you to do,’ she replies enthusiastically. ‘And I love seeing Scottish men in kilts. You know that.’

Jane is in and so am I. I’ve been looking for a good excuse to wear one of my many kilts and impress her.

Brigadoon is a Highland gathering that happens once a year in Bundanoon, in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales. Highland gatherings pop up all over Australia, indeed all over the world, but this one is right in my backyard. I’ve gone to it for a quick look a few times, and certain things about it appeal to me. The obvious one of course is that I am Scottish and love all things Scottish. But it’s more than just that. It’s partly to do with this lifelong search I seem to be on to find my place in the world. The need to belong burns in my heart. Being uprooted from Scotland at an early age and then moving from one place I didn’t fit in to another place I didn’t fit in for most of my life has left a hole in me that needs to be filled. Family and real friends have helped with that, but there is still a gap that only Scotland can fill. And a little piece of Scotland is carried in the hearts of the many people who are drawn to Bundanoon every year, looking for the same thing as me.

So I agree. The timing is good. I have the time off. And I really want to be a part of it.

I try not to be, but as the date gets closer, I’m increasingly excited. Shit. I hope it’s good. I’ve been invited to the odd Scottish get-together before and they always sound like nightmares, but this should be great.

And I will be the Chieftain. But I don’t know what’s expected of me, so I ring one of the organisers.

‘Yeah. Hi, it’s Jimmy Barnes here. You know, the new Chieftain?’

The guy cuts me off. ‘Och aye, Jimmy Barnes. Aye, aye,’ he says in a broad Scottish brogue.

I cut him off. ‘Just call me Chief!’

He’s not sure whether to take me seriously or not.

I press on. ‘I was just wondering, if you wouldn’t mind telling me, what the hell does the Chieftain actually do? Can you send me a program or a timetable or something?’

He laughs. ‘Aye, aw right, Chief, ah will, ah will.’ And he hangs up.

It’s nine o’clock at night. Maybe it’s after his bedtime. He’ll probably wake up the next day thinking it was a dream and ring one of his mates. ‘Hey, Peter, ah had the weirdest dream last night. Jimmy Barnes rang me and told me tae call him Chief. He wanted me tae send him a program. Aye, it was weird, but ah think I’ll send him one anyway. Just in case. He is the Chief.’

Two days later I receive the running order of the events. Pipe bands start playing at eight in the morning. That will wake the neighbours. At 9.45, I get started, leading the massed pipe bands through town then into the car park and onto the oval. Every pipe band that will be playing that day will be involved and I’ll march at the front of them all. That sounds good. I’ll need to be there early.

Then I have to judge the Tartan Warriors, a group of competitive strongmen, as they race each other to lift huge balls of granite known as the Bundanoon Stones onto barrels in the shortest time possible. That might be fun, getting sand kicked in my face. Next I decide who wins the Tug o’ War – that’ll be fun too, kind of – and I adjudicate the Tossing the Caber, Hammer Throwing, Stone Putt, Weights for Distance and Weights for Height competitions as well. I’ll need a good lie-down after that.

Then, believe it or not, I have to judge the Bonnie Bairns. A fucking kids’ beauty competition. Fuck me, really? They need me to do that? Finally, we all go to a good old Scottish knees-up for haggis, drinks and dancing. Well, I’ll need a drink by then and I guess if the haggis is good I could have a wee bite or two, but I’m not dancing at all and the only time my knees are going up is when I get home and put my feet up to watch television.

I start to wonder what I’ve let myself in for. Too late to back down now.

Meanwhile Jane is worried. ‘Maybe you can go and do this on your own. I’ll just get in the way,’ she says, trying to weasel out of it.

‘But Jane, every Chieftain needs a Mrs Chieftain by his side. You know that.’

Margo Callaghan, a dear friend of ours, happens to be there at the time. Margo is a beautiful, tall, Celtic-looking woman with flowing red hair and pale white skin with freckles. She is Australian and married to my friend Mark.

‘I’ll be Mrs Chieftain,’ she says. ‘I’ve always wanted to be the chief’s wife at the gathering—’

I butt in. ‘Sorry, Margo. You can come along with us, but I need my real Mrs Chieftain with me.’

Jane looks at me bewildered. ‘How am I supposed to look like a Scottish Mrs Chieftain?’ It’s true that, being from Thailand, Jane doesn’t look Scottish at all.

‘They have highlands in Thailand, don’t they?’ I argue. ‘We’ll just say you are from the Highlands and not tell them which part.’

It is settled. A bunch of us will all go together. Jane and myself, Margo and Mark Callaghan, my youngest daughter, Elly-May, and her husband, Liam. Liam by the way is not only a real Highlander, but is also tall, red-headed and has a wild red beard. He comes from up near Aberdeen. A little town called Glenbuchat. Population four humans and forty cows. That’s pronounced coos. Elly and Liam have a beautiful boy called Dylan and he, despite the fact that he is quarter Thai, has red hair and freckles too. In fact, he looks more like one of Margo’s kids than any of ours.

One of Elly-May’s best friends, Kitty, who is also Margo’s daughter, will come along too. Kitty is another beauty, about six foot tall with red hair way down her back. We will all dress to kill, in kilts, sashes and sporrans. Two other friends, Paul Field and his wife, Pauline, will join the group later. Like us, those two welcome any excuse to wear a kilt. We decide then and there that our party will win the Best Dressed prize. I think I know the judge.

The day arrives. After many attempts to get out of it, Jane comes along with me, and she looks beautiful in her Scottish apparel. We get there before the others because we have chiefly duties to take care of. In my sporran I make sure I have everything I need: money and two hip flasks of whisky. It’s going to be a long day.

At 9.45, the bands fire up. I use that term deliberately, because that’s what the sound of a pipe band does to me. It starts a fire in my heart. And to be standing in the middle of four hundred pipers sounds better than anything I have ever experienced before and I nearly break down in tears.

‘Where did I leave those four hundred pipers?’ (Ted O’Donnell)

A soft-spoken, polite Scotsman called Alaistair Saunders is given the job of guiding me around the events. As the day goes on I realise that I don’t have to worry about judging the events, I’m really just there to encourage the contestants. Thank goodness, as I’m no expert when it comes to something like tossing the caber. There is obviously a technique – the aim seems to be to send the log tumbling end over end as opposed to just flinging it up in the air to land flat on the ground. But beyond that, who knows?

‘Would you like tae have a wee try, Jimmy?’ one of the competitors asks me with a look in his eye that says, ‘I dare you to try.’

I briefly ponder his suggestion, but I don’t think anyone really wants to see a grown man fall backwards then have a large tree land on top of him. That’s not entertainment.

‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I threw a few gum trees this morning and I think I pulled a hamstring. But very kind of you to offer.’

I quickly limp away, feigning injury, but only make it as far as the Tartan Warriors. Each of these guys is the size of three of me, and as wide as he is tall. And they’re pretty tall. They’re picking up the big round Bundanoon Stones, each one weighing more than the last, and placing them on the barrels. I couldn’t get my arms around one of the stones, never mind carry it anywhere. I quickly say hello then move on.

I’m stopped by another enthusiast. ‘So, have ye seen much hammer tossing, Jimmy? Oh, it’s a great sport.’

I agree to look on as the Tartan Warriors spin in circles and throw hammers across the oval.

‘Would ye like a wee throw, Jimmy?’

I shake my head. ‘I tell you what, though. If you find me a much smaller hammer and a pair of gloves, I’ll get Jane to have a go.’

Alistair laughs, but I know he can smell the fear coming from me. ‘Let’s go over there, Jimmy. I think you’ll like this event.’ He walks me over to what is obviously the Bonnie Bairns competition. This should be much easier, I think.

‘Hey, mister,’ a voice calls out, ‘choose carefully. The wean over there is ma baby and I love her more than life. Especially your life.’

I look up. The woman in front of me looks a lot like the guy I saw lifting stones a few minutes ago, only now he’s wearing a dress.

‘Sorry, sir, what did you say?’ I ask with a smile.

‘It’s “Mrs”, ya cheeky bastard.’ She half-smiles back at me. I say ‘half-smiles’ because when she opens her mouth I see she only has half her teeth.

My official duties are done for a while, so I go for a walk to see the stalls and take photos with the punters. There are Clydesdale horses walking around and Scottish terriers for sale. If I had a bigger sporran, I’d buy myself a pup. But I have to say no and keep moving. There are HLTs for sale – haggis, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. No, there aren’t really. I made that up. But I bet you once the organisers read this, there will be.

Everyone is friendly and happy to be a part of the event, and although I feel unworthy, they seem happy to have me as Chieftain. I’m happy to be here too. It’s good to be Chieftain.

Later that day the four hundred pipers and scores of drummers line up and march across the oval towards me, the Chieftain. A wall of sound and human flesh marching as one and seemingly unstoppable. This is what it must have felt like to go into battle against the Scots. My heart swells with pride. I am Scottish and I do belong. This is the connection I need. These are my people, and they are not all living in Scotland. But they have Scotland living inside each and every one of them.

It was a long, enjoyable day, but Dylan had had enough.

The rest of the day flies by. I am happy to be surrounded by the sounds of my home. All I have to deal with now is the knees-up. We go to the party, even though we are exhausted after being on our feet all day. In fact, Jane and I are both well and truly fried. It’s been an emotional day.

Anyway, we make an entrance to the shindig and take our seats at the front of the stage. A band is playing folk songs and a few couples are dancing. Most people are waiting for the big moment when the haggis will be piped in by a lone bagpiper. It has to be said that haggis is an acquired taste, and some people never acquire a taste for it in this lifetime. Jane is one of those people. I like haggis if it is made well, but I’m sure I noticed this particular haggis sitting in the sun all day. It has certainly seen better days – like when it was a whole sheep, for instance. Now the stomach of that sheep is stuffed with its own insides and is being brought into a dance hall while a man plays music on another sheep’s stomach. Next the poor haggis is cut open – life is tough for Scottish sheep – and that’s our cue to leave.

It’s been a long day, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Next time I hope to be playing in one of the pipe bands. I am taking lessons and so is Mrs Chieftain. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s better at it than me.