Why do I cry at the sound of the bagpipes? I don’t know. I’m trying to remember how I reacted when I first heard them as a child. I think I was alarmed. Excited. My father wore a little hat and marched behind men in skirts. Someone had a tray with a dish that everyone seemed to like or want or treasure. And all of this to the sound of screeching cats.

It was pride, that’s what I felt. “‘My dad’s Scottish,” I told my friends. My inherited Scottishness didn’t go far, however, I never joined the Highland Fling or Scottish Country Dancing.   I wanted to but I did ballet. So, it was Margot Fonteyn versus the ancestors up North.

But it was in dad’s blood. He read and recited Robbie Burns for weeks before the Burn’s Nicht. Ode to a Wee Mouse – that made me cry. I liked Robbie Burns, he was sensitive. And his browned, leather covered books lay in dad’s library, secretly placed in special spots behind two long curtains at the entrance to this sacred room. Scottish books, Scottish Bibles. Anything from the past was placed in this sanctuary.

So, when I recently listened to the pipes and drums of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, it was as if the first 21 years of my life suddenly opened up. My pride at being half Scottish. The haunting, evocative sounds swirling and twirling and there was dad in his kilt before me, a bygone era suddenly revealed.  I tried not to cry. But eventually, it didn’t matter. This is proof of a successful performance -reducing the audience to tears.  “Our Chief piper piped for the Queen at Balmoral on her 90^th!” said their leader.  The lone piper was now a conduit to Her Royal Majesty. The crowd cheered as if the Queen herself had appeared on stage. Scotland the Brave had a similar effect and I unexpectedly clapped and tapped with the crowd.

We used to say that the Bloemfontein Caledonian Society in the heart of South Africa was more Scottish than the Scottish.    It now seems there are pockets of Scottish around the world who enthusiastically reconnect with their common past. Hopefully the Scots in Scotland are as happy.

It’s all in the bag. Everything past and present, including the Queen, are tied up in an air bag.  Well played bags are stirring and tears are proof.