Beacons of Light

No dance is more awkward than the one you do in wellies. In my defense, they were the only footwear I brought for my weekend in Scotland. It was late October and the forecast called for rain for what seemed to be the rest of time. Contrary to expectation, I was more than happy to spend the majority of my little highlands jaunt in a bus. Rain surely has a subduing effect, but the overcast skies only enhanced the glorious colors of Scotland's national parks in autumn. I was dismayed to look around and see half of my classmates asleep in their seats, missing the unreal tableaux passing by our windows.
We arrived at our hostel in Inverness at around dinnertime. Our tour guide, John, could not have cared less about where we went for dinner, but his one urgent recommendation was that we go to a pub called Hootenanny's afterwards. I had been ill for a few days prior so I was not particularly keen on going to a pub that night, but everything sounds better in a Scottish accent, and who was I to say no to that?
Hootenanny's certainly lived up to its name that night. I disregarded Scottish custom and decided to drink nothing that night, but stone cold sobriety did not stop me from reveling in the delightful madness of the Ceilidh. No single factor made the Hootenanny's experience so splendid. Music is key for a good Ceilidh, and the live band consisted of four young people who were about my age, all just as passionate as myself about Scotland though much more musically talented. In the beginning, no one danced except for a lone enthusiast. Balding and scrawny, he clapped and stomped around in front of the tiny stage like a marionette, not a single care in the world except for the Gaelic melody. Surely, he must have realized that he was surrounded by shell-shocked American students, for he dragged us up to dance with him one by one. Soon enough he was nowhere to be found, but it was just us kids, clumsily hopping around as he was earlier.
I rarely feel as though all the stars have aligned in such a way that everything is perfect. Anywhere else, Hootenanny's could be just an ordinary pub, but juxtaposed to the vast expanse of darkness that surrounds Inverness at night, it felt like a beacon of light. I imagined Nessie sleeping in the bottom of her quiet Loch, and the stillness of the mountains in Cairngorns National Park. Hootenanny's is a microscopic dot on the map of Scotland, but it is alive, energetic, joyful and kinetic; I could certainly see myself as a regular.