Valerian at her door

Probably not the same as the wondrous hoodoo staple, my friend has let it grow, almost shame-faced because everyone calls it a weed plus it may not be the most medicinally justified of plants to a herbalist. But it smells sweet and brings bees, so I hope she'll leave it be.

Friend hasn't had time to sort the garden, given the job, the house, the dogs, plus all the stuff that's happening across Scotland's public health sector. Yesterday we went to her local celebration here https://www.burntislandhighlandgames.co.uk/

FB has just informed me that this moment of the town pipers (https://www.facebook.com/debbie.gallagher.7923/videos/1019358129090247) would 'make a good reel.' It might, but I don't fancy putting it out there for some wit to mash up with the Benny Hill theme tune! I love the pipes, but for me the smile of the lady in the yellow cardigan was the procession's winner.

The games in the town are a 17th century tradition, but I don't understand the reasoning behind holding them on a Monday. Not that we minded. Somehow we managed to miss a lot of the events, but we were there for the dangerous stuff:



It had its surreal aspects; the racers race around the performance stage at the same time as the dance contest, so along with the fairground sounds, you had Scottish/Irish dance music frequently interspersed with shots of a starter pistol. There's doubtless some way of recording the event that brings out its latent sense of a David Lynch movie, but I couldn't work out how.



Next to us stood an elderly lady of very soft voice, who took up conversation and shyly revealed a black and white photo of herself in tartan earasaid and Balmoral bonnet, dancing long ago in the contest. She was like Burntisland itself, like all that valerian, old and sweet and rooted.