In the echoes of time, I often find myself retracing the steps of my youth, where the pulse of competition and the rhythm of discipline shaped the contours of my character. Back in those days, I was a sporty soul, not just confined to the green fields of football but stretching my limbs across the courts of basketball and the sands of volleyball. My father, with his stoic wisdom, had ingrained in me a simple yet profound mantra – be the best at what you do. Practice relentlessly, correct mistakes without hesitation, and restart the journey with renewed vigour. It was a fabulous grounding, a legacy that still echoes in my pursuits.
The Long Road To Flin Flon is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Somewhere around the age of nineteen or twenty, a yearning for something beyond the familiar sports fields began to blossom within me. The seed had been planted in my childhood when I was exposed to the graceful throws of Judo. However, this time, my curiosity led me to the mysterious world of Chinese martial arts. Documentaries on Wing Chun masters, the disciplined Shaolin Monks, and the electrifying moves of Bruce Lee fueled my fascination. It was then that I stumbled upon a weekly Kung Fu class in the heart of Dalry Road, tucked away in the basement of an old church.
As I descended into that dimly lit church basement, I was greeted by a mesmerizing sight – Kung Fu disciples engaged in a ballet of stretching exercises. The instructor, a figure of authority and wisdom, approached me. His question hung in the air, "Why are you here? What brings you to the path of Kung Fu?" Without hesitation, I shared my cinematic inspirations and the desire to defend myself.
His response, delivered with a stern yet paternal tone, resonated deeply, "Son, if you're here for the movies, this is not the place for you. Kung Fu is not a performance; it's a way of life. Dedicate yourself to the teachings of Master Jeremy Yau. Understand that you're carrying on a legacy, a way of life."
Grand Master Jeremy Yau of Lau Gar Kung Fu.
In that moment, the cinematic allure melted away, and I embraced the gravity of his words. Seven long years unfolded, marked by countless hours of practising movements, street fighting techniques, and the ancient art of wielding weapons. Yet, it wasn't just physical prowess we honed; we delved into the realms of philosophy, explored the mysteries of chi, and learned the essence of respecting others.
A few years into this transformative journey, I found myself stepping onto the stage of freestyle fighting competitions. Against formidable opponents representing various styles – Kung Fu, Karate, Tae Kwon Do – I stood my ground. The Scottish Freestyle Martial Arts Championships witnessed my mettle, earning me a respectable fourth place.
Now, nearing the cusp of sixty, I reflect on those years with a nostalgic smile. The suppleness of youth may have given way to the rigors of time, but the lessons learned in that old church basement echo through the corridors of my life. If only I could stretch like that now, a sentiment that blends the ache of aging with the warmth of cherished memories.
The autumn wind carried whispers of opportunity as I stood at the crossroads of my teenage years. The letter on the kitchen table, adorned with the Notts County Football Club crest, spoke of dreams materializing, of a future carved on English soil. But at 16, nerves tangled with ambition, and my heart hesitated, unwilling to abandon the familiar streets of my Scottish upbringing.
Don Masson, the stalwart Scottish international and captain of Notts County, was extending a hand that could have propelled me into the realm of English Division One football. The allure of that path was undeniable, a journey with the potential to etch my name in the annals of the sport. Yet, as the ink on the contract beckoned my signature, doubt lingered like a specter in the recesses of my mind.
The allure of the familiar held its grip, and so I chose to remain on the hallowed Scottish grounds. A decision etched in my history, a path diverged but not forgotten. Football might have been my first love, but the comfort of the Highlands was a siren song that echoed in the chambers of my youthful heart.
The twists and turns of fate guided me to a different field, one where the grass was replaced by the haunting melody of bagpipes. At 23, I bid farewell to the echoes of a football stadium and embraced a new rhythm. My boots were exchanged for the traditional attire of a piper, a path illuminated by the notes that resonated through the Scottish air. 1986 feels like a lifetime ago, but the memories of that first tour with The Lothian and Borders Police Pipe Band remain etched in my mind, each moment painted with a nostalgic hue. We were a tight-knit group of musicians, bound by the shared passion for our craft and the camaraderie that only comes from countless hours of practice and performance.
The journey began when we received the invitation to play at the Halifax Military Tattoo. It was an honour, a validation of our hard work and dedication. Little did we know that this tour would become a tapestry of unforgettable experiences, weaving together the thrill of the performance, the joy of victory, and the camaraderie forged in the crucible of shared adventures.
Nova Scotia welcomed us with open arms, its rugged landscapes and warm-hearted people creating the perfect backdrop for our musical odyssey. From the historic streets of Halifax to the enchanting beauty of Cape Breton Island, every step felt like a dance with destiny.
The Halifax Military Tattoo was a spectacle, a showcase of military precision and musical prowess. As the skirl of our bagpipes filled the air, we felt the energy of the crowd and the weight of our responsibility as ambassadors of our craft. The applause and cheers echoed in our ears, a symphony of appreciation that fuelled our passion.
After the performances, we embarked on a tour of the province, a journey that blurred the lines between reality and reverie. The landscapes unfolded like pages of a storybook, and our music became the soundtrack to the unfolding adventure. We played in quaint towns and bustling cities, leaving behind a trail of memories as we marched to the rhythm of our own heartbeat.
Antigonish Highland games marked a pivotal moment in our journey. The competition was fierce, but we played with a fire in our hearts. The notes soared through the air, echoing the spirit of our collective determination. When the announcement came, and we were declared the winners in grade 1, it was a euphoric moment — a crescendo of achievement that reverberated through our ranks.
Celebration followed our victory, as it often did. We embraced the mantra of "work hard, play hard," a motto that seemed to define our band culture. The beer flowed freely, and the laughter echoed in the night. But our tour guide, wise and seasoned, had foreseen the need for a break. She orchestrated the clearing of the beer tent, ensuring that that we had plenty of alcohol for the four hour journey to Baddeck on Cape Breton Island.
Baddeck welcomed us with open arms, a tranquil haven after the storm of competition. However, our guide's preparation proved to be a wise move, the band had consumed three bottles of Dewar's Whisky, the carafe of wine, and 286 cans of Alexander Keith's beer on the four hour trip to our next destination, the band had embraced it all with enthusiasm. Our Tour guide was astonished, she thought that the amount of beer she had been able to secure would last us at least a week, she was beginning to understand the Scottish Pipe Band Culture.
In those moments, surrounded by the fading echoes of our victory and the camaraderie forged in the crucible of our shared adventures, we realized that this tour was more than a musical journey — it was a chapter in the story of our lives, a chapter that we would revisit with a smile and a nostalgic sigh for years to come.
Relaxing with a hangover by the pool for a practice session in Baddeck, Cape Breton Island, Canada, 1986. ( I am far left, shirtless )
Life, with its intricate dance of opportunities and choices, has a way of weaving threads into a tapestry that is both unpredictable and beautiful. The path from a football pitch in Scotland to a Kung Fu studio in a church basement, and then onto the stages of freestyle fighting and the melodic fields of bagpiping, was not one I could have envisioned as a boy. Yet, every twist and turn, every decision and hesitation, has led me to this point of reflection and appreciation.
As I sit by the window, in our apartment in Port Credit, I am filled with a sense of gratitude for the journey I have traveled. The physical suppleness of my youth may have faded, but the spirit of competition, the rhythm of discipline, and the melody of camaraderie continue to resonate within me. The lessons learned on the football field, in the Kung Fu studio, and with the pipe band have all contributed to the person I am today.
And so, as I continue down the long road to Flin Flon, I carry with me the echoes of a life well-lived, a life defined by the pursuit of excellence, the joy of shared victories, and the wisdom gained from each experience. This is my way of life, a testament to the power of dedication, resilience, and the unwavering belief in the possibilities that lie ahead.
Episode 6