The Spirit of Scotland, Served Lukewarm

Cultural Reporting at its Most Dutiful

This town’s not what it used to be. Even by the end of Reading Week, St Andrews still felt like a cemetery — cold, quiet, and faintly judgemental. My mood wasn’t much better. I strolled down Queen’s Terrace to the Boys’ Brigade Hall, collar up against the wind, wondering if everyone had packed up and fled south for the winter.

I’d been handed a new case: the Celtic Society’s Annual Halloween Ceilidh. The advertising promised tartan, tradition, and unbridled Scottish spirit. In a town where most spirits come in bottles, I figured it might be worth investigating.

6:15pm. I arrive impolitely early — standard journalistic malpractice. The Boys’ Brigade Hall was the sort of place that smelled of dust and brought back uncomfortable memories of school assemblies. Union Jacks and faded flags drooped from the rafters, cobwebs doing their best to fill the gaps in the decor.

By 7:15pm — fifteen minutes past the advertised start time — there were twelve of us; I counted twice to make sure. Some had gone for full face paint; another was dressed (I think) as a vagrant. The rest lingered at the edges, waiting for someone else to make the first move. I sat down, ready to be impressed.

The Celtic Society tells a curious tale. Being 230 years old, they’re the oldest student-run society at the University. They run weekly Gaelic and Scottish country dancing classes — a noble pursuit, if not a particularly populous one. These days, the society survives on the quiet persistence of a small, devoted few.

I cornered a committee member near the entrance table.

“Thin crowd tonight?” I asked.

“About normal,” she smiled cheerfully. “We average twenty to 30 people most weeks.”

Despite being the elder, Celtic Society has always given me the appearance of the Caledonian Society’s scruffier younger brother — less polished, more honest. The rivalry runs deep. Both clubs share their roots in Regency-era partner dancing before splitting into distinct forms. According to Celtic, while reeling places far more emphasis on form and how the dance looks, Celtic’s dancers are there “to actually have fun.” It’s a noble sentiment — Caledonian’s reeling practices attract hundreds, with strict choreography and ball applications dependent on your diligently tracked attendance. Celtic’s gatherings, by contrast, feel more beginner-friendly, messier, and far more human.

Several attendees cited Caledonian’s ‘cliquey’ culture as their reason for staying away, alongside suspicions that the reeling crowd was infested with “Americans who preferred the status of the society, rather than actually dancing.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them that half the room sounded like downtown Manhattan.

Despite initial appearances, the night did gather pace, rounding up to an even twenty attendees. The live band — to their credit — were excellent. The dancing wasn’t half bad either, but without alcohol, three hours of it felt more like penance than pastime.

Between reels, I drifted between conversations: a pair of cowboys debating the Indonesian military, a tourist from Bristol, and one man who swore he owned no phone and wrote exclusively on a typewriter. By then, I was beginning to understand why recruitment was tough.

“It’s like a primary school talent show,” I wrote in my notes, “but with more sweating.”

Halfway through, they held a costume contest. Some looked ready for the West End; others looked like they’d remembered halfway through brushing their teeth. I’d come dressed as a journalist — arguably the most terrifying thing in St Andrews.

By 9pm, I’d had enough. I’d got the long and short of it, and I wasn’t about to risk hypothermia for journalistic integrity. As I stepped out into the freezing dark, breath fogging in the air, the band struck up another reel. Inside, a handful of dancers gallantly persevered.

For all its awkwardness, the night had a kind of stubborn charm. £7.50 isn’t a poor price for live music, organised dancing, and a chance to win a bag of Squashies. If Caledonian represents St Andrews’ fantasy of Scotland – polished reels, champagne, and tweed – then Celtic Society might be its reality: scrappy, sincere, and determined to keep dancing, no matter how cold the hall gets.