Travel Pathology

Crammed inside a humble cottage, seated by a cozy hearth, a group of nine friends assembled to partake in an evening filled with laughter, camaraderie, and the reverberations of cherished memories. The occasion commemorated the solemn fifth anniversary of their dear friend’s death. With bellies full of Haggis, they raised a glass and joined together in song, reciting his most clever works, honoring his legacy.

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Their friend, Robert Burns, was a drink-loving, womanizing, son of a farmer who grew up in humble Alloway. His works contributed greatly to the romanticization of Scottish landscapes and offered his countrymen works written in their own dialect. Five years after his death from illness in 1796, nine of his closest friends gathered in the Burns cottage to fondly remember his life and legacy. In the subsequent years, they upheld the tradition each year on his birthday, January 25th.

Did those individuals, brought together by the love of a friend, realize that they were participating in the inaugural celebration of what would evolve into a national holiday? That this legend would be remembered for over two centuries and that the entire nation now gathers annually on the birthdate of their beloved “Rabbie” to savor Scotch, indulge in haggis, and recite his works? Could they have imagined that one day, a random girl from the New World, would partake in the same traditions that they did a little over 200 years later?

I spent my very first Burns Night in a hidden room resembling a bunker, accompanied by four newfound friends I had met earlier that evening. Together, we recited poems by Burns and even composed one on the spot, all while indulging in haggis and sipping on drams of whisky.

Whisky sours kicked off the evening, served alongside our dinner of haggis. Although this tradition wasn’t observed last night, our Scottish friend Sam recounted that on Burns Night, traditionally, a piper would play as the chef enters the hall to the chants of “Address to a Haggis,” and at the end, he would ceremoniously stab the haggis before serving it up. While that would’ve been quite the spectacle, our little group enjoyed more of an intimate and friendly group reading of the famous poem and then enjoyed delicately made haggis covered in pastry and drizzled with whisky sauce.

I remember Alissa led us in recounting the life of Robert Burns, along with other historically significant events, her hybrid Scottish/American accent adding a distinctive charm to her enthusiastic and theatrical delivery. Meanwhile, we savored sips of Brooding Hen 10 whisky, a tribute to 17th-century whisky makers who cleverly hid their spirits from tax collectors inside their hen houses. These hens, constantly protective of their eggs, would peck relentlessly at anyone who approached too closely, effectively deterring taxmen from inspecting anywhere near their nests.

At one point in the night, we participated in the tradition known as the “Toast to the Lassies,” which, I believe, is associated with Robert Burns’s unmistakable affection for women, as evidenced by his numerous romantic relationships. Throughout his life, Burns fathered twelve children all with four different mothers, although his loyal wife claimed all of them.

When the whisky was all gone, we ventured to “The Royal Dick”, a nearby pub housed in a former veterinary school building, to continue our festivities. As the time crept closer to 8pm, Luke shared that they had to leave for dinner reservations at a restaurant that sounded like the American equivalent to Buffalo Wild Wings.

“It’s only sauces to choose from on the menu!” he shared this with unparalleled excitement that I think in my tipsy state my response was in the format of a “congratulations”…on their choice of restaurant? Finally, after we all pledged that we would begin watching the tv series “The Bear”, the four of them bundled up and left, leaving me with two extra drams and another pint that they didn’t finish.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
To sing thy name!

I then made my way to the Sandy Bell for a wee bit of folk music. The tiny pub was full to the brim, the windows covered in condensation. On the way home, I stopped by a Sainsbury’s to pick up some chicken wings I would later air-fry. A poor man’s Buffalo Wild Wings.

I capped off my night in a candlelit room, recounting poems I have written over the years. I believe this will be the first of many annual Burns Night celebrations, whether I am in Scotland or not. It’s a holiday all about gathering your friends to enjoy a hearty meal, sip some Scotch, and appreciate the creativity of others.