The games themselves are pretty much the same as those in Scotland, except with a higher ratio of kilts and beards than you see in Braemar, and with some stunningly accurate caber tossing - several perfect 12 o'clock throws. (The aim is not to throw it the furthest but rather to get it to go over in a straight line.) There was also something I had not come across in Scotland: a man giving introductory lessons in Gaelic.
What distinguished this gathering was not so much the games themselves nor even the Scottish weather: you are more than 1500m up so it was cool and rainy compared with the baking plains below. The extraordinary feature was that it was a true gathering. Instead of the tents round the ground being run by banks and estate agents, the tents were run by the clans.
I had gone there with my Washington-based daughter to meet some of the American side of our family, some 20 in all and none of whom I had met. They had come from as far apart as North Dakota, Kansas City, Florida and Massachusetts to see each other. So we were a mini-gathering ourselves a group of people linked by that chance decision, on the flip of a coin, that my grandfather would come down to London while his younger brother would try his luck in America.
When I signed in at the McRae tent, sure enough there was another cousin from Massachusetts whom none of our group had ever met, and who had signed in a few minutes before.
I know it is an American industry to hunt the heritage, but this was not just a nostalgic search for roots and it certainly was not overly commercial. It was about family: the bringing together of scattered grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren who otherwise might never know they were linked, and who, in this instance at least, got a lot out of meeting each other.
- INDEPENDENT
