16 August 2024
Once more, Elvis presides as my companion, his voice a rich, velvety thread weaving through the fabric of my day. The vinyl records, their grooves etched with the soulful cadence of his songs, spin beneath the needle with a satisfying crackle, a symphony of nostalgia that would surely cause any true Elvis aficionado to blush with envy. His music fills the air, a warm, resonant balm against the relentless downpour outside. The rain, far heavier than yesterday's gentle drizzle, drums incessantly against the windows, its rhythm steady and unyielding. The birds, those usual choristers of the Highlands, have fallen silent, their songs swallowed by the sombre grey of the storm.
Today has been one of quiet industry, my time divided between the ceaseless flow of emails and the meticulous task of editing, each image a piece of art waiting to emerge from the digital canvas. There is a certain satisfaction in this work, a meditative quality to the process that allows my mind to wander, even as my hands remain engaged. Yet, as the hours slip by, I am acutely aware of the preparations that must be made for tomorrow’s journey. The evening train will carry me to Oban, a town cradled by the sea and steeped in history, where I have been commissioned to photograph a wedding reception. The thought of it stirs a quiet excitement within me—a chance to capture the fleeting beauty of love, framed against the rugged charm of the Scottish coast.
The bride and groom, in a gesture of warm hospitality, have extended an invitation for me to stay the night and partake in the ceilidh that will follow. It has been many years since I last attended a proper ceilidh, that joyous celebration of music and dance that is so intrinsic to our culture. The prospect fills me with anticipation, a rekindling of fond memories long buried beneath the sands of time. I even found myself rummaging through the recesses of my wardrobe to unearth a pair of proper dance shoes, their leather softened by years of use but still as sturdy as ever.
I must have been in my early twenties, full of the carefree vigour that youth affords. It was another traditional wedding, much like the one I am to attend tomorrow, where the evening air was thick with the mingling scents of whisky and heather, and the laughter of old friends echoed through the hall. I remember finding myself swept into the arms of a young man clad in a rugged kilt, his presence as commanding as the Highlands themselves. His hands were firm and sure as he led me into the Gay Gordons, the familiar steps falling into place as if we had rehearsed them a hundred times before.
He spun me with such enthusiasm that the world became a blur of tartan and smiles, the room spinning faster than my feet could keep up. There was a wildness to his movements, a reckless abandon that sent us both careening around the dance floor, our laughter mingling with the music in a dizzying crescendo. He twirled me a little too vigorously, and I felt my balance falter, my feet barely grazing the ground as I was pulled into his orbit. But that, of course, is the essence of a true ceilidh—a dance that leaves you breathless, your heart pounding not just from the exertion but from the sheer joy of it all.
By the time the music faded and we stumbled to a halt, I was breathless, my cheeks flushed with exertion and exhilaration. I could already feel the telltale twinge of what would soon become a spectacular bruise on my shin, a mark of honour from the night’s revelries. It isn’t a true ceilidh if you don’t leave with a few bruises, a small price to pay for the unbridled joy of the dance. As I think back on that night, I find myself smiling at the memory—the aching muscles, the sore feet, the way we all staggered out into the cool night air, still laughing, still caught in the rhythm of the music that had long since ended.
I often find myself wondering what became of that boy, the one who spun me through the night with such reckless joy. Now, in my late twenties, the details of that evening have softened around the edges, like a well-loved photograph faded by time. His name eludes me, slipping through the grasp of memory like mist on a Highland morning. Yet, I hold on to the hope that wherever he is, he is still enjoying a ceilidh or two this season, his laughter mingling with the music as it once did with mine. Perhaps he, too, thinks back on our one night together with a smile, remembering the wild energy of our dance, the way we were carried away by the music and the moment.
As for tomorrow, I will step into the festivities with anticipation, ready to be swept up once more in the whirl of kilts and the lively strains of the fiddle. Yet, I shall exercise a measure of restraint, ensuring that the whisky does not flow too freely. It would be a shame to lose myself entirely to the night, only to wake the next morning with the faces and names of those I met blurred and indistinct, like a dream half-remembere
d. No, I will savour the evening, but with a clear mind, so that I might capture each detail, each fleeting moment, and pen them here in the quiet hours that follow.
For it is not just the dance that I cherish, but the stories that linger in its wake—the faces, the conversations, the shared glances that might otherwise be lost to the passage of time. And so, tomorrow, I will dance and drink and laugh, but I will also remember, carefully storing away each memory to be woven into the tapestry of these pages.
In other news, I find myself in the curious position of having completed my work for the day, only to be met with a discovery that borders on the tragic—I am nearly out of whisky. The very notion seems to mock the sanctity of a Scottish home, where such an oversight is nothing short of sacrilege. What kind of abode, nestled within the mists of the Highlands, would allow its whisky supply to dwindle so perilously close to nothing? The thought alone is enough to make one shudder.
I completed my tasks with a sense of quiet satisfaction, the kind that comes only from a day well-spent, and I had looked forward to the small ritual that signals the day’s end: a glass of whisky, its rich amber glow catching the firelight as it swirls in the glass, a liquid sunset held captive by crystal. Yet, as I reached for the bottle, a most unsettling truth revealed itself—the level had sunk dangerously low, a scant few drops remaining to fend off the encroaching night.
What manner of home is this, where the hearth is warm, the air thick with the scent of peat, yet the glass is empty of its rightful fill? It is as if a violin were missing its strings, a canvas left untouched by paint. The whisky bottle stands there, a solemn witness to my negligence, the glass growing ever lighter with each pour, each sip a reminder of what little remains.
And so, with a mix of resignation and bemusement, I shall pour what is left and savour it as one might savour the last rose of summer, knowing it is the final bloom before the frost. I shall sit by the fire, the night pressing close against the windows, and reflect on the irony of it all—this Scottish home, so full of life and warmth, yet perilously close to being without the very essence of its identity. Tomorrow, perhaps, I shall rectify this grievous error, but tonight, I will make do with what remains, a reminder that even in the land of whisky, nothing is ever truly certain.