Toasts in Tartan at The Beer Museum

On Saturday the Scottish flag was flying outside the Beer Museum for its Burns Night Celebration. I'd been last year, enjoying it immensely, and was looking forward to this year's event, especially as now I knew a lot more people than I did a year ago. Sadly, I only had my phone to take photos with this year, once again lamenting the death of my little Canon camera.

 The place was pretty packed as I entered, a sea of smiling faces greeting me. I nudged my way through to the bar, calling out, "Hello!" to the left and right, and got myself a beer. Chatting commenced immediately and I was pleased to discover that the actually ceremony hadn't started; I was afraid I'd missed the arrival of The Haggis. Walking out to the back, I was greeted by another crowd of folks and a huge blazing fire. We've had weird weather lately and tonight it wasn't cold. I'd discarded my jacket and stood happily in just my tartan blouse, a balmy breeze ruffling my sleeves. We heard a call from someone that the ceremony was about to start. The bagpiper had been warming up his pipes on the front sidewalk, getting everyone in the mood, so we scurried indoors.
 A photographer from DC, called Silver, was taking photos with two huge cameras attached to long lenses, one slung on each hip so he looked like a camera cowboy as he strode through the museum. He heard me talking and came over, announcing to me that he'd never heard an English accent first hand, so tonight made his day. He chatted for a while and parted with big hugs before he flung one of his heavy cameras up in front of his face, ready to shoot the arriving procession.

David Downes, the owner of the museum, gave a short speech before The Haggis arrived, heralding Robbie Burns' passion for poetry and women. I had to chuckle when I spotted a photo of Jamie Frazer from Highlander stuck to the podium. Someone commented that he and Mr Burns shared a likeness. I could only conclude that the person commenting had got a head start on the evening's proceedings and was already viewing everything with a distorted vision.

Everyone was hushed and the small procession came down the stairs, people hustling to move out of the way. The reporter from The Royal Examiner was standing on a chair and taking photos. His report is here, and I'm on the far right in the fifth photo, with Silver, the DC photographer at the front. Sloane entered, holding his sword high, and actually looking very Highlanderish himself, with a slight likeness to Jamie. The piper came next and then Eric, holding The Haggis high. I got a lovely waft as it passed by and was gently placed on a table. We listened to the wonderful music that only bagpipes can make and then dutifully stood silent as Eric toasted the lambs innards wrapped in plastic. Everyone had been armed with a tot of whiskey and they were all poured down the hatch after a raucous cheer.

 Eric licked his knife enthusiastically after slicing open The Haggis, and then we listened to the toasts to the lads and the lasses and one very long poem written by The Bard himself. I had been dreading this part, because last year, the recitals had been exceedingly long and fatiguing, requiring the moving of one's weight from one foot to another multiple times while focusing on not letting any loud sighs escape. But this year's readings were decidedly shorter, allowing people to return to the bar and refill glasses sooner, and thus ensuring that the mood of joy was uninterrupted. Well planned indeed!

Out the back there was still a crowd, a little louder by now, and it was decided a few Scottish songs should be sung. Sheets of words were handed out and we all sang out loud. I knew very few of the tunes but after the first verse and chorus of each song I was good to go and belted out the tunes along with everyone else. Strangely enough, we didn't sing Auld Lang Syne, even though it was on the sheets,but nobody seemed to mind.

 I wandered back inside as I realized that I hadn't yet had any of the haggis. Leaping up the stairs I entered the Room of Fodder and stared in complete disbelief at an empty plate where the revered dish had once sat steaming. I looked closely inside the bowl and there wasn't even enough to collect on a cocktail stick. I had to console myself with the thought that it had at least been enjoyed, even if it was by all except me. There were still some neeps and tatties left but my hunger had suddenly dissipated. Time for another beer.
Towards the end of the evening I discovered that David had a Secret Bar. As I entered I realized I was just in time. An aged bottle of whiskey was about to be cracked open and I was now in the small group that would enjoy it. Another toast to the ladies was called out and so I obviously raised my drink to that, and then found myself tugged on to the dance floor where I found myself dancing a jig with a very handsome man in a kilt. God only knows how I managed to stay upright as we capered around in circles and then he spun me around a few times, clockwise and anticlockwise, but I'm pretty sure I managed to keep my toes tapping in time. Alas, it was late in the evening and folks were starting to tire and head for home. I said my good byes and joined the throng, walking the quiet streets home to The Blue House.