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...