The Curious Case of the Missing Kilts, a Victorian Mystery

[Livingston]

This is very entertaining. I'll be watching this thread for a while. Great job Penache.

[Alan H]

Donning my pince-nez, and adjusting the wick length on my studies oil-lamp, I settle in for a further read....

[Panache]

It occurs to me that I should start this latest installment in the small adventures I have seen ( in perhaps a moment of spurious self dramatization) to record for the edification and amusement of the members of our forum, with the mysterious invocation “it was a dark and stormy night“. Sadly for my efforts as a teller of tales the early evening in which we had embarked to join the Scottish Country Dance class had proven neither dark nor stormy. Mother Nature lacking a sense of the dramatic (or more likely entertaining a higher sense of mischief) had seen fit to provide my lovely companion and I a clear sky and the rays of the dying sun to light our way to the hall in which we sought instruction.

We had prepared ourselves as best as we were able based on that information we were able to glean from various sources using that wireless device that so many hail as man’s greatest achievement in the propagation and spread of knowledge, whilst others condemn it as a contributor to idle hands that lead to the devil’s work (if not untold hours of games of solitaire.) We had procured for the lovely Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess a pair of dancing shoes which were known in the trade as ghillies. Previously I, in my great ignorance had thought to understood that a ghillie was a gentleman who would assist his Master in the maintenance and pursuit of game on vast Scottish estates. Apparently both meanings are accepted among Highland Culture. Which begs the question, did the position become named after the shoe, or did by some curious circumstances the shoe was somehow dubbed after it’s namesake by historical reason now lost in the midst of time? Also one ponders the philosophical query of "do ghillies wear ghillies?" But I digress (as usual). Equipped with footwear appropriate to the job at hand she had seen fit to dress in a demure fashion wearing a simple black skirt and cuffed white shirt. I endeavoring to both prove a complimentary companion to my companion and fit in amongst the male dancers had chosen a black wool kilt of good quality procured by one shop keeper named Jerald. A good fellow though one with the curious hobby of raising small flying rodentia. Which in of itself is not too out of the ordinary. I myself had an aunt devoted to raising prawns. This was never taken as an indication of any mental instability on the part of dear aunt Jacoba, at least not until she had to be committed to the sanitarium…but I digress again.

Having arrived and completed all the clerical requirements required to establish our position within the class, we set forth amongst our new peers to observe their attire. With the two exceptions of the male instructor and myself, all other males in the dance studio, be they newcomer or experienced, were clad only in short pants and polo shirts. I had smelling salts ready at hand should the F-H.C.A.G. grow faint at this revelation. As I approached her with the phial ready to assist she, as a matter of fact, informed me that if I didn’t remove the noxious bottle away from her nose she would in fact cause me severe bodily harm. Such is the spirit of my lovely lady that I quickly secreted the remedy away for future use before she finished winding up her arm to finish a stout roundhouse punch ( in which cicumstances I did hope she would use the salts to revive me.) Further study showed evidence of kilted fashion. Many amongst the more experienced gentlemen dancers wore the hose and flashes of highland dress-BUT NOT THE KILTS THEMSELVES! The mysterious scented woman was right! Within the cadre of the Scottish Country dancers there was a curious lack of kilts.

After several more classes we were unsuccessful in our efforts to find other kilted gentlemen. Many of the lady dancers sported various kilted skirts in familiar tartans. But aside from the instructor and myself there was not a tartan pleat to be seen on any other gentlemen present. My lady and I did fall prey to one small inconvenience. Based on our attire the various teachers refused to believe that we were lacking in experience. We had dressed the part too well and as a consequence spent many an hour learning pousette or the dreaded strathspey step instead of resting with the other beginners and drinking lukewarm tea, which our weary feet would have appreciated greatly.

At our latest class a great dance was announced. I was in the process of trying to splint my ankle with a small wooden coat hanger ill suited to the task, for we had been steady strathspewing for the better part of an hour. Wincing as I tried to stand I caught the gaze of the F-H.C.A.G. We nodded solemnly at each other. We would attend this dance, and in so doing hope to finally reach the heart of the this mystery and find the missing kilts.


To be Continued.

[cloves]

wow...I can't believe I missed this thread until now. Kepp up the good work Panache.

and so you all know (don't worry, I had no idea either)...... Syzygium aromatic is apparently the latin name for "cloves." *winks at Panache*

but for the record.....I am not the mystery woman. At least I don't think so.

[Panache]

wow...I can't believe I missed this thread until now. Kepp up the good work Panache.

and so you all know (don't worry, I had no idea either)...... Syzygium aromatic is apparently the latin name for "cloves." *winks at Panache*

but for the record.....I am not the mystery woman. At least I don't think so.

Ah but cloves, what of parasomnias? Far be it from me to suggest that you should suffer from that malady of somnambulism. But is not within the realms of possibility that this ailment could indeed take you from your normal spheres to travel in the realm of sleep to act as a catalyst to spur on kilted adventures? Perhaps one day when purusing your wardrobe you shall come across a hitherto unknown veil of black. At that moment perhaps you shall pause and wonder if indeed you are indeed a mysterious black clad lady...

Panache winks back at cloves

Cheers

[Panache]

The Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess and I had made arrangements to attend one of the monthly dances where the Scottish Country Dancers of my native city put into practice those skills they had honed in their weekly classes. My charming companion wore a simple dress of green that, when matched with her cascade of red hair created a stunning ensemble that ensured that she would find numerous gentlemen clamoring for the opportunity dance with her. I found myself fortunate in that I received in the morning post a kilt crafted for me by a noted tailor and scholar of the Northern Carolinas. The very gentleman who had caused such public outcry when he advanced his theory on the “evolution” of the modern kilt from the more ancient feileadh-mhor. Many refuted his claim, and found so shocking his thoughts on the subject that indeed many a proud Scot took to the streets in protest, shouting that “Ma kilt dinnae come from no blanket!” But I digress (which at this point I feel should come as no surprise to you the constant reader) . So clad in the proud tartan of my ancestors and wearing a large sleeved puffy shirt in the style of a brave buccaneer I escorted my lady to the dance hall.

On entering we collected a program of those dances that were to be performed throughout the course of the evening. A second page was offered that supposedly was to give shorthand instruction of the steps and their sequence of each dance. Whatever our hopes were for aid in mastering the complex maneuvers required for Scottish country Dance were dashed on casual perusal of the instructions. The first dance was listed as one appropriate to a beginner , the notation was listed as such:



“The Wicked Highlandtide”

[ RA DT] [ P * X] [T B | CC] [S & 1 2 RT ] [ X ^ @ | LA A] [P R RL P] [ DT + HSP] [ %&?LA?? #2*@A]

Ye Gods! With no key or instructions to explain the instruction the F-H.C.A.G. grew somewhat flushed... ( I should note that at this point her dainty arm shot forward and with a grip of steel she encircled my throat with her delicate fingers. Her eyes met mine and she stated very clearly that when I returned home and wrote of these experiences that I was not to describe her as “excusing herself and retreating from the foyer with a case of the vapors”. I protested that my knowledge of Victorian ailments was sadly limited. A fainting spell would not be in keeping with her station as a Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess, I also felt that reference to gout or goiters would be unbecoming to her femininity , scurvy far too nautical, and to be entirely frank I could never remember between rickets and consumption which one was tuberculosis and which was a vitamin deficiency . At this she threw up her hands and declared that “you’re impossible“ )... and excusing herself retreated from the foyer with a case of the vapors.

At last the moment arrived for us to enter into the ballroom. Approaching the massive doors of the room I wiped the perspiration from my fevered brow with the lace edge of my pocket handkerchief. Opening the portal for my lady we entered. Words failed me to describe the sense of awe and wonder I felt regarding the gallant gentlemen standing in neat rows clad in their tartan finery. Such a collection of wonderful kilts in such close proximity is a rare sight (unless one is perhaps an elegant gentleman in West Sussex regarding his closet). The mystery we had devoted our energies and resources to was solved. Here were the kilts of the Scottish Country Dancers. They were worn with proper accessories and great dignity . These fine and gentle men did not consider them as garments for the toil of everyday wear. They donned them with their Jacobite shirts but once or twice during the course of each month to present themselves in their finery and request the pleasure of a dance of lovely ladies. The rest of our night was spent in the charming company of these good people as they showed great patience and humor with a couple of youthful investigators whose skill and knowledge of Scottish Country Dance was less than could be desired for such a fine occasion.

The evening had waned and it was quite late when we returned to our home. We were a little overwhelmed, certainly more than a bit tired, but happy. The Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess retired for the evening, and I sat down at my writing desk with parchment , quill, and inkwell to record our little adventure.

I listened to the clock strike the hour of midnight and became aware of the sounds of small scurrying feet and the flap of leather wings. Ever since taking delivery of a large box containing kilts and various accessories from the sleepy hamlet of Stillwater I had on occasion noticed these sounds in our domicile, but had yet to trace their source. I found that accompanying these sounds was a peculiar occurrence. I would often find that my journals would be opened and various entries such that I am wont to set to paper, curiously missing.

So it came to be that on this midnight dreary, while I pondered ,
Weak and weary,
Over this quaint and curious tale I’d written,
Wondering if I should add more,
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there
Came a tapping
As if some small airborne rodent was scratching, scratching at
My chamber door
“Tis some dratted Flying Squirrel here” I muttered, “trying
To steal these pages of lore”
He will steal my pages …




(With apologies to Sciuropterus, Hamish, Cloves, Alan H., M.A.C. Newsome, Highlandtide, and Edgar Allen Poe),

[Livingston]

This is great. Panache, you have done an excellent job of writing here. Please be so kind as to, at some point in the future, relate to us another tale.

[starbkjrus]

This is great. Panache, you have done an excellent job of writing here. Please be so kind as to, at some point in the future, relate to us another tale.

Indeed, I too would enjoy more of your literary efforts.

[Alan H]

As the witching hours draws near, I close the leather cover on this most marvellous tome, and pause momentarily. The light from my oil lamp quivers and then fails as if shaken by a transient breeze, and at the window, the sound of wings.... The passing of Polly, the Viscose of the Moors darkens my windows, momentarily blotting out the light of the moon. Visions of the FHBCAG with the vapors flit through my mind in the translucent darkness, followed by the half-heard strains of a haunting reel, accompanied by the *thump-thump* of a splinted ankle.

In truth such was this visitation of printed imagery; nay, but so real as to evoke the sensory hallucination of lines of kilted gentry and be-sashed ladies. A vision indeed to be savoured, there alone in the half-light.

At last, thoughtfully I bent down and struck a match, lighting my oil lamp once again, to prepare myself and my surroundings for slumber.

[cloves]

Great story Panache! Thanks for involving us!
I hope you'll be scribing more of your adventures in the future.
*fingers crossed*