Death or Victory

The fabled week of Macleanarama started off surprisingly low-key. The programme leading up the main day of revelry largely consisted of tours and talks based around small collections of rocks around Mull and drinks parties that us "young things" weren't invited to. My Mum kindly let us lie low in our cabin overlooking Tobermory harbour, only emerging to shout insults down at my Dad's friends who gathered there daily to compare scabbards. I should add that my Dad was the ringleader of this exploit. 

There was a concert evening in the marquee next to Duart Castle (the Clan castle) where Dougie Maclean made a cameo and performed his "world famous" 'Caledonia.' Is it sacrilege that I've never heard it? After him the lovely Gaelic laments continued and we were taught THE MACLEAN SONG! I did not know we had one, and the only bit I now remember goes "and we gather, gather, gather, like  the sons of loyal men." The rest I will happily improvise if I'm ever mocked into reciting it after a few glasses of wine. Later, just at the point where heads were beginning to nod, a band of men in 16th century Highland costume broke into the tent yelling "Get out! The Campbells are coming!!" I.Kid.You.Not. 

At that, we all evacuated and hovered awkwardly at the base of the hill leading to the castle. Clearly not stirred enough, the actors had repeat the cry "Defend Duart from the Campbells!" and we hobbled forward. I write hobbled because the average age of these "Maclean warriors" was genuinely 70, there were even a few wheelchairs amongst us. Nevertheless, on we went to the sound of musket fire being sent into the darkness behind until the dreaded Campbells were "killed off." Mercifully the fireworks then began and we didn't have to do much more than make supportive noises and complain about draughts for the rest of the night. I think this should go out as a warning to anyone planning on mustering an army at short notice not to target those who attend Gaelic singing concerts by choice. 

When equipped with my bullet-proof kilt, I was almost triumphant when the big day dawned in a thick fug of greyness. At the castle, the hordes had gathered to await the grand procession. Chieftans were herded to the front along with their flag bearers and anyone else garbed convincingly enough in tweed to pass as a big shot in the clan. The rest followed after and the slow walk up to the castle proceeded in all the heraldic dignity the Clan Maclean could hope for. At the doors to the castle my Dad stepped forward for his big moment, reciting in Gaelic the words his grandfather had said 100 years earlier, telling the Chief that his clan awaits him. Top that Mel Gibson. 

Robin 'Bravehat' Maclean

After that peak, the rest of the day played out in a melee of pipe music, speeches, white hair and (faux) musket fire. One of my Dad's friends was put in-charge of the tannoy. I'm not sure whether that was in spite of or  because of the fact he always sounds a little sloshed... Anyway, it was entertaining enough to hear his commentary boomed across the acres of land in general, but he really peaked when he lost his wife and repeatedly asked over the sound system whether anyone had seen her. I think someone swiftly took over from that.

After a group photo and a few more songs (I swear this is not a cult) my immediate family of 8 (these points have to be clarified in this context!) sidled off to regather strength before throwing ourselves back into the lions den of family fun - a night of ceilidh dancing. Thankfully my sisters and I had been headhunted during the day by some youngsters who, by a series of covert nods and winks, communicated that the Young Macleans were going to have drinks beforehand in Tobermory. Finding we had more in-common with one another than having hair pigment and identical surnames, the pre-drinks turned out to be great fun.  

The sizeable bunch of new Maclean friends had already whittled down the key features that make a Maclean - laughter lines and a smile gets you away with anything. The latter I can definitely NOT attest to. My smile only owns to my guilt or awkwardness. The laughter lines are impending. 

When in Rome

Regardless, these outgoing types had our haphazard group of youngsters boozed up in readiness for the rest of the nights dancing in a flash of that smile. Tragically the evening did not end with another rendition of the Maclean song, but there were free venison burgers which I judge to be a fair compromise. My sisters and I left Mull the next day in the blazing sunshine, feeling grateful to return to relative normality. After a few days of it though, I'm starting to think that normality has lost its edge. The brainwash has been a success...The three foremost questions on my mind are now - when can I attack a Campbell again? when is the next gathering? and how easy will it be to get Tom Cruise to initiate? 

And I would walk 500 miles...

I now know why people travel, it turns out that returning home from 9 months away is about the funnest experience possible. After almost two days of twiddling my thumbs on the long haul flight back to Britain, willing those propeller engines to whirr just a little faster, I was ecstatic to land in a drizzly and grey Heathrow airport at the beginning of June. Through my rose tinted spectacles everyone I spoke to was full of good humour, every building I looked at was eked in history and the name of every street sounded homely and familiar. This is in London, the place I've probably spent altogether a month in in my whole life. Just imagine how I was going to react North of the border?  

Ignoring my pleas of jet lag and behaving like pushy mother crossed with an army major (let's not forget she joined the OTC in first year), Jessie had me showered, champagned and ready to go to the pub within 2 hours of landing. The pub was filled with almost all the wonderful people I had been pining for all year and I immediately knew I'd done the right thing in coming back. The rest of that week followed in a heady haze of the delights of London and I boarded the flight to Glasgow the following Monday feeling slightly broken. So much for stepping off the plane from Oz brimming with sunshine and cheery stories. My Dad picked me up at the other end and whizzed me up North to the homeland. 

Now, when I was in Australia I always reasoned that people were so baffled by the stories of my upbringing because I was exaggerating ever so slightly - rrrrolling my r's and throwing in more references to tartan than is ever acceptable. However, it turns out that if anything, my family got more extreme in my absence. I probably timed my first week back in Scotland quite badly as it was the run up to the Clan Maclean International Gathering 2012. The Maclean household, being avid supporters of all that is clanaholic, was getting PRETTY heated. No "how was Australia?'s" or "not such a tentative graduate now eh?'s" for me. Instead, I was immediately enslaved to preparations for the gathering; covering any visible possession in tartan, even our dog's collar, and cooking lunches for the various Macleans passing through on their way to the Mecca of Macleandom - the Isle of Mull. Those Macleans didn't care I'd just come back Australia, they'd probably come further..and purely for this event. 

It's really hard to describe to anyone that hasn't been brought up in the midst of a clan the significance of all this. 1,000 distant relatives descending on a wee island to celebrate the one thing they have in common can more easily be alikened to the early stages of a cult than a traditional family gathering. But this is Scotland, and we blaze our own trail for family get-togethers. This one only comes around every 5 years and is the 100th anniversary of our first official one. Having been washing my hair over the last few, I thought this one should not be missed. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation I am re-packing my bag. My Surry Hills hipster skirts have been replaced with bullet-proof tartan ones and my suncream with woad. Actually that was a lie… I don't own any hipster skirts. I am also rehearsing the all important battle cry of the Macleans as it may become scarily relevant to the week ahead; "Death or Victory!" 

Here goes...