A New Challenge

This week I eagerly hurried off to a dance class held by a branch of the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society (RSCDS). Inspired by a year-and-a-half of learning ceilidh dances, I decided I wanted to grasp The Real Thing. Meanwhile, I thought that having figured out how to dance “Hamilton House” would stand me in good stead. That was merely the first of my mistakes.

My second mistake was picking Flashdance clothes over House of Bruar. That is, I pondered my wardrobe, consulted another branch’s advice, and decided my lovely tartan skirt was too “shortbread tin.” Thus I pulled on fleece-lined leggings and a sweatshirt, as if I were on my way to ballet class. Imagine my chagrin when I saw the many tartan skirts and kilts in the church hall and a decided lack of leggings.

There were no leggings in part because nobody of my mother’s generation wears leggings in this town, and everyone there but me was of that ilk. And the townswomen of her generation will wear jeans, and they will wear black slacks, but they will not wear leggings. By appearing in those leggings (so suitable for the gym), I wasn’t sure if I looked young or just outrageously immodest. As Daniel Cleaver emailed Bridget Jones, “Is skirt off sick?”

Meanwhile, everyone there but me also appeared to be 100% Scottish, albeit some with Irish ancestry and at least one who spoke RP. It was like being surrounded by versions of all the Scottish- and Irish-Canadian women of my childhood, especially the teachers, most especially the nuns, although the look of irritation that flickered across one face as I stumbled hither and thither was pure Miss Walker circa 1979.

The men also looked somewhat familiar, as if they were all retired Toronto police sergeants who were old neighbours of my grandmother, or were on the parish council 45 years ago.

At this point in reading my Scottish husband will get irritated and ask me why I was surprised to find so many Scots at Scottish Country Dancing, and I will say, Bo mieszkamy pod Edynburgiem, kochany,” which will irritate him even more as he doesn’t speak Scotland’s fourth (“Third!”) language.

Happily for me, a veteran dancer soon took me under her wing. Unhappily for me, all my ceilidh dancing was (as I mentioned above) not adequate preparation for this Scottish Country Dancing class. For one thing, the steps have English names that I didn’t know (“What,” I finally asked, “is a reel?”), and the names of some of the dances are Gaelic, and I am not yet very good at remembering patterns.

The first dance was called “Nice to See You”, and that wasn’t too complicated. Here is another group doing that below:

However, the second dance was called “Bratach Bana,” and that one is extremely difficult. Bratach Bana is Gaelic for ” the white flags.”

Well were you named, o Bratach Bana.

“This is much more difficult than Hamilton House,” I remarked to someone.

As she agreed she employed the same note of amused contempt as had the RSCDS teacher when pronouncing the words “ceilidh dancing.”

My sufferings were acute and would have pleased Seneca, whose Letters on Ethics I am currently reading, for he would have found them excellent training for real hardship, like being taken prisoner in battle. The other dancers told me where I should go and pushed me and pulled me and led me about. They were helpful and welcoming but also, I fear, a trifle exasperated, which I could tell because I have been able to read Scottish micro expressions from birth. It was like joining one’s mother’s tribe for some important tribal ritual and having no clue.

If you watched that, you may have an idea of my frustration. Mr Pettigrew talks about “half reels,” and I am still unsure of what those are.

The third dance–Dream Catcher–was much simpler (and, thank goodness, slower) although still a lot for someone who never grasped geometry to handle.

When that was over, I left early to go to work, feeling that the sets were better off without me but also glad that I had not run away after (or during) Bratach Bana.

Meanwhile, I will certainly go back because one thing I have always learned from dance class is that the first one is the worst. Also, I hate to quit.