As a Scot in the city, I sometimes get homesick. It tends to start in the run up to Hogmanay and continues through January and peaks on Burns Night. With saltires in my family texts and tartan all over my timeline, the fiddle in my Celtic heart tells my legs I should be at a ceilidh, but I’m not, because I’m the wrong side of Hadrian’s Wall.
When I hit Burns Night this year I had had enough of my dreich patter and went on a search for a ceilidh in London. I was delighted to find the Ceilidh Club at Cecil Sharp House, in Primrose Hill. And what a find! Hundreds of people of all ages dancing to the rhythms of my school days, abundant with smiles.
We Scots are raised in a dancing culture from childhood. From midway through October to all of December, right through primary school and into secondary, Scottish country dancing replaces gym classes. Steps to every routine are drummed into little feet for the build-up to an exciting event at Christmas. This is usually where the first flush of sweaty hand-holding flowers into the idea of proto-romance (as long as you don’t get picked by the boy with the wart on his hand).
I recruited three local mums for local Ceilidh Club and we booked 7 March (it’s very popular, sign up early), drove down and parked right outside on Regent’s Park Road, ready for the revelry. We had done our research: comfortable shoes, check, water bottle, check, few or no belongings and bags, check. It’s all about the floor.
Inside Cecil Sharp House is Kennedy Hall, a huge, 300-capacity dance area for folk music, dancing and concerts. On entry you can immediately feel the residual endorphins of the millions of steps taken before yours since the 1930s. It’s a special place, steeped in warmth.
The fantastically-named folk band, The Sassenachs, have a caller named Laurie, who is head to toe decked in full kilt regalia, He swings around, calling out instructions with great humour. It should be noted that at least 80 per cent of the people in the room do not know what they’re doing; and it’s because of this that strangers become friends.
The charm is in the mis-steps, bumps and trips. These get people laughing, which vaporises social anxiety. You’re there, you’re not good at it, neither are they, get on with it. Yes, you can go alone, and yes, you will be dragged in, willingly, to a little haven of Scottish hospitality.
Two dances in, I’m boiling hot. My mind thinks I’m ten, back at school, but my knees tell me otherwise, and I’m wishing I had packed some recreational Voltarol.
Sitting one out beside me is Dee, who is on her own, waiting for her friend. We get to talking and bravely decide to embark on a dance together, with which an initial mess of steps eventually becomes a professional star-making finish (ok, it was on the last bar). When her friend, Ophelia, arrives, we all make happy introductions and are now a full team of six (not) to be reckoned with.
The place is dotted with kilts, tartan trousers and the like, but only a peppering. A few Scottish accents can be heard, and down by the water fountain I discover these accents are quite sought after, at least for a small minority of the room that includes two women in their 20s filling their bottles in front of me.
“His name is Adam. He’s so nice and friendly.”
“The handsome guy you were dancing with? In the kilt? Is he definitely Scottish?”
“Yes! And single.”
“Oh that accent! My God.”
“I know…It’s so… I mean, it’s intense!”
“Are you going in for another dance?”
“Yes, if I can grab him. He studies fashion!”
“That’s so cool! That kilt, though!”
“I know!” (Small squeals).
“This all sounds promising. Keep me posted.”
Water bottles filled and bar visits complete, we’re into the second half. The band is firing out the belters on the fiddle, flute, guitar, bass and drums, and the caller is calling out the steps through his Madonna mic with the all-too-familiar authority of a Scottish headmistress you dare not disappoint.
The freedom and speed of the organised dance is quite exhilarating, and seeing a room full of strangers come together and attempt to co-ordinate their moves is a deeply joyous experience.
At one point, I look around the room and every single face is smiling except one, an elderly gent sitting one out, looking a tad grumpy. But five minutes later he was up, in amongst it, being carried in a Cumberland swing, his starry faced-expression illuminating the room like a bride.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots more. Follow her on Bluesky. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE. Photo kindly provided by The Sassenachs.