Hogmanay

Hogmanay in Scotland, where we live, is a big thing. More important than Christmas as a celebration, and with stronger traditions.

My father was a Scotsman from Edinburgh and his birthday was today, Hogmanay. A double whammy of a celebration, and I often wonder how it was marked when he was a child growing up in post-war Edinburgh. Sadly he’s no longer with us to ask. Why do we never think to ask these questions whilst they’re still with us, I wonder.

He made very sure that we knew our roots when we were growing up, despite the fact that we moved from Scotland when I was four years of age. Wherever we lived the routine was always the same. My mother would scrub the house from top to bottom and empty the laundry bin in the days running up to Hogmanay so that we saw the new year in as we meant to go on, with everything clean. It was considered bad luck if we entered the new year otherwise.

My father would dutifully stand outside in the cold on the stroke of midnight with a piece of bread and a lump of coal, if he could find one. If we couldn’t find a tall, dark stranger to undertake the first footing, which often perplexed our English neighbours, he would do it himself.

On the stroke of midnight he’d pour a glass of Drambuie for my mother and himself to toast in the new year. It was the only time he drank spirits in the house and our bottle of Drambuie lasted for many years and many house moves! Being an army family it followed us around in our packing boxes for what seemed an eternity.

We will be spending New Years Eve quietly with a couple of friends, a glass or two of wine and some supper. I often don’t make it to midnight, and I certainly haven’t cleaned the house especially. Maybe a traditional steak pie for New Year’s Day. We all make our own traditions.

I wish you all a happy and healthy new year. May 2025 be everything you wish it to be. May your hearth always be warm and as they say in these parts with affection, “lang may yer lum reek!”