Dilexit Andream Dominus

An Andrewcentric Introduction

We go to Mass in a 1900 wooden flatpack church shipped from another northern country and assembled on what was then newly bought land. According to legend, all the money was spent on the land and the archdiocese hoped to build a proper church after subsequent fundraising. This never happened.

One big change to the church in my time was the removal of the original wooden structure over the altar bearing the motto “Dilexit Andream Dominus in odorem suavitatis“, the traditional Lesser Alleluia for the Feast of Saint Andrew. A year or two ago, this was replaced with another structure reading “Lord where do you live? Come and see” and my husband and others fizzled with horror at the question mark. Apparently punctuation is NOT DONE on baldicchini, or whatever that particular piece of wood is called. (And, ahem, did anyone ask Historic Environment Scotland for permission?)

A strange introduction to a post about St. Andrew’s Day revels, perhaps, but this blog is very much about the clash of tradition and modernism, and how babies are inadvertently thrown out with their bathwater. Every Sunday for 120 years, local Catholics pondered the mysterious nature of the Lord’s love for St. Andrew, and now we have a flatter (if undeniably scriptural ) invitation that does not explicitly mention the patron saint of the church in which we are praying.

Happily, Scotland still retains enough of a love of St. Andrew to keep his feast as a Bank Holiday and hold celebrations here and there. For example, there were at least two public St. Andrew’s Night ceilidhs in Edinburgh, and I organized* a Mrs McLean’s Waltzing Party (MMWP) trip to one of them.

Saint Andrew’s Night

The Attire

“Don’t wear formal dress,” I warned the young man proposing to wear a dinner suit (i.e. tuxedo), for I felt deep in my bones that casual dress would be the norm. And so it was, although another young man of our party arrived in immaculate Highland dress (though he wisely removed his jacket for the dancing), all our young women wore skirts, the tuxedo-loving young man wore a 3-piece suit, his older brother wore a jacket-and-tie, and I wore my Maclean sash over a knee-length frock. Though personally faithful to traditional notions about clothing, we did not stand out–or at least not as much as the lady in the gold lamรฉ playsuit and the lady who donned a Viking helmet made of Royal Stewart tartan with red cloth horns.

The Piper

We had little trouble finding the dance, which was held in a former church near the conjunction of two ancient streets, for a young piper stood outside blaring away. As my fellow Scotland-loving Canadian and I approached from the Grassmarket, we couldn’t see the piper, but we could certainly hear him. After walking a few meters down an alley, we entered a narrow forecourt (about which more later) and saw both him and the door. And after our three young men had arrived, we went indoors to snag our complimentary whisky and a table and wait for the other young ladies.

(Flashback to the Day’s Swing Workshop)

We were asked not to drink our whisky until the Address to the Haggis, and I looked very much forward to drinking it, for I had spent my morning in housework and my afternoon at a swing-dancing workshop with a MMWP stalwart. The stalwart won’t dance with male followers, so we signed up as a pair and stuck to each other, dancing in circles and swing-outs, for 2 hours, 50 minutes. (I was planning, if challenged, to say we were the dash of vanilla adding diversity to the room.) I then skittered to the railway station to collect my Canadian friend, take her and her luggage home, change my clothes, and rush off to the ceilidh.

The Haggis

By the time the ceremonial Haggis, a round ball rather too small for the 50 or so people in the room, was piped in, the MMWP party consisted of three young men, three young women, and me. This is a good ratio for dancing, and at the ceilidh there was no nonsense about “leads” and “follows”: we were addressed as ladies and gentlemen. (Ladies served as honorary gentlemen when the need arose.)

The Dinner and the Dancing

The music began after our surprisingly delicious haggis-neeps (mashed swedes)-and-tatties (mashed potatoes) supper. In keeping with tradition, the first dance was the Gay Gordons, which I did not dance, and the next was the Dashing White Sergeant, which I did. When not dancing, I took photos and videos of my young friends, which I will eventually send to their parents them.

There was a live ceilidh band, of course, and an expert introduced and called all the dances. She was a mercy as some in the company had never danced them before, and some (I’m looking at you, Circassian Circle) were rather complicated. Happily, I had practised a sufficient number of ceilidh dances to be able to enjoy them thoroughly. Even though my partner was about 14 inches taller than shrimpy me, we danced the St. Bernard’s Waltz quite fluidly, and he twice enthused about it afterwards, crediting our waltzing classes.

Although I love proper dancing, I love even more that young folk around me love proper dancing. Perhaps this is another of the rewards of aging.

The Whisky and the Gaelic

There was an interval, during which took place a short introduction to four whiskies and a whisky tasting. This was now officially my Most Scottish St. Andrew’s Night Ever. In fact, the first language of one of our young men is Gaelic, and my fellow Canadian is learning it, so I heard English, Scots, Gaelic, and Polish that evening. From an aural perspective, it could have been 1940.

More Dancing

Primed with more complimentary whisky, we went back to the dance floor. About this second half, I am hazier, perhaps because by then I had drunk more whisky in one evening than I had in 10 years (i.e. two drams). I do remember filming my 6 friends executing a complicated dance in trios and that the band played such Yankee-doodle clichรฉs as “Turkey In The Straw” and “O Susanna” for the Virginia Reel, which amused us two Canadians greatly. Also amusing (but also slightly alarming) were the women attempting to Reel while, shall we say, reeling.

Absolutely alarming was the Strip the Willow, for the caller directed us to form two long lines stretching almost to the door, and I had to dance the gauntlet with my bouncing evening bag’s chain digging into my shoulder. Although I managed to pull my bag off halfway through, I now have an angry weal.

Lesson learned: don’t wear a heavy crossbody evening bag with a chain strap while dancing the Strip the Willow.

The After-dancing Dancing

After we sang “Auld Lang Syne”, our Gaelic friend rushed for his train, and our Fifers for their car. My fellow Canadian told the others she had danced the Shim-Sham she learned at MMWP for her family at (Canadian) Thanksgiving, and I invited her to dance it with me in the forecourt. (Of course a traditional ceilidh ought to stay traditional, but what is an evening of dancing without a little jazz?) I have “‘Taint What You Do,” on my phone, so I turned it up as loud as it would go (not very), we danced away, and seized the boys when the strictly Shim-Sham part was over. However, there was some confusion about the beat, so we hesitated in pairs until the song ended and the next–Lazy Swing Band’s “Piotruล›”–began.

Then my partner rock-stepped us into a full three minutes of Grade A “Jump Time”swing.** Our dance ended only when I slipped on a patch of ice, thus interrupting the beat and illustrating the dangers of dancing outdoors on a cold Edinburgh night.

But nobody was hurt, and it was absolutely fabulous. Like the St Bernard’s Waltz, it was a splendid reward for all the work, worry, and wokeness that Edinburgh trads encounter as we learn how to dance.

A blessed Advent to you all! I look forward to Gaudete Sunday, when there will be a brief pause in penitence for some lovely dancing!

*My organization consisted of finding a ceilidh, buying two tickets, posting on Facebook a million-squillion times that some of us were going, inviting others flat out, and finding someone to take the ticket of the person who sadly had to drop out.

**Of your kindness, say a prayer for our late preceptress Seema, who died 6 weeks after the last wonderful class she gave us. REQUIEM aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen. 

To buy tickets for the Eastertide Dance 2025, please contact me at info@tradcathsocialdancing.co.uk.