The only musical instrument ever outlawed as a weapon of war.
Tomorrow morning the skirl of bagpipes will bounce through the canyons of Manhattan. Here in the States, pipes herald parades, weddings and funerals but they still send me back to our Highland castle ruin. In those complex days of heartbreak and renaissance, my greatest savior was the evening ritual.
Alone on a desolate moor, dressed in full clan regalia, the soloist played from his heart, driven by the sheer power of the harmony and his love of the ancient earth. All civilization paused, spellbound and silent in reverence. Legend told of brave pipers that inspired soldiers to battle and instilled dread of certain death in their enemies.
I feel for a foreigner’s terror. The pipes stir my soul to the core-pulling me home to our roots in the blood forest, our grandest battle plans and decisive victories.
Two tenor drones and one base, tuned an octave apart. Follow their call-your reward will be the dawn of spring in all her ancient glory.
Happy St Patty’s