Drinking to the glories of Burns and follies of Boris

At least in London, midwinter spring has not been entirely vanquished, and the trees are still a couple of strong winds away from losing their autumn glory. This will give the government some undeserved help. People can sit outside, and the view from windows is not too depressing. Before long, though, those indoors are likely be cursing the PM and his close associates: ‘sic a parcel of rogues in a nation’.

Burns and the onset of seasonal bleakness makes one think of the dark. In earlier times in Scotland, Hallowe’en was a characteristic festivity: an attempt to embrace the oncoming winter. Its theme was ghouls and witchcraft. Children, dressed as witches or warlocks, would go from house to house making sepulchral noises. Sometimes inventive parents would produce a hollowed-out turnip with eyeholes and a couple of candles: the sort of lantern a bogle, or evil spirit, would carry. ‘Turnip bogle’ passed into the language to mean an attempt by people who should know better to frighten people who should know better. On Hallowe’en, most grown-ups entered into the spirit and pretended to be scared, before rewarding the young revellers with fruit, sweets, a slice of cake and a little small change.

Innocent days, but Hallowe’en offers an insight into the Scottish religious psyche, which includes a strange blend of Puritan theology and pagan practice. Traditionally, the Scots were more at home with Hogmanay than Christmas: the Old Testament than the New. Hallowe’en was a long way from All Hallows’ Night. It was almost a Scottish Walpurgisnacht.

A group of expat Scots were discussing all this the other night (must have been before lockdown). We moved effortlessly from Islay to the Spey: from the glories of Burns to the follies of Boris. During the first lockdown, we had all more or less complied.