Confessions of a Travelling Storyteller (Part 1)
The Glamorous Life of a Travelling Storyteller
(And Other Outright Lies)
There is a rather romantic notion about the life of a travelling storyteller.
I suspect it involves picturesque landscapes, ancient castles, roaring fires, appreciative audiences, and perhaps a handsome Scottish gentleman standing magnificently upon a windswept hill, his kilt fluttering heroically in the breeze as he recites tales of long-forgotten heroes.
And occasionally, very occasionally, that is exactly what it looks like.
Although I should point out that a kilt fluttering heroically in the breeze is not always a desirable occurrence, particularly if the wind has decided to become a little too enthusiastic.
But I digress.
You see, when people discover what I do for a living, there is often a particular expression that crosses their faces. A mixture of curiosity, admiration, and just a wee touch of envy.
"Oh, that must be wonderful! Travelling all over the place, meeting people, telling stories. What an amazing life!"
And they're right.
It is an amazing life.
It is also exhausting, uncomfortable, occasionally terrifying, frequently ridiculous, and held together by a combination of stubbornness, questionable dietary decisions, and the increasingly desperate hope that the next hotel might have a decent mattress.
There are days when I stand before hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people, commanding their attention with nothing more than my voice, a story, and the ability to convince a crowd that something extraordinary is about to happen.
And there are nights when I sit alone in a trailer, surrounded by mosquitoes, contemplating whether a stale bread roll constitutes a nutritionally balanced evening meal.
I have come to the conclusion that the difference between glamour and misery is largely determined by whether somebody has remembered to provide a kettle.
So, dear reader, welcome to the first confession in what I hope will become an ongoing collection of tales from the road.
Confessions of a Travelling Storyteller.
The stories behind the stories. The adventures nobody sees. The strange, wonderful, occasionally miserable existence of a man who decided that standing in front of strangers and telling them tales was a perfectly reasonable way to earn a living.
And we shall begin with the glamour.
Or, more accurately, the complete and utter absence of it.
The Hotel Carpet That Tried to Keep Me
In the early days of my travelling career, accommodation was something of a lottery.
And I do not mean the sort of lottery where you might win a holiday to the Caribbean.
No.
I mean the sort where you open the door to your room and immediately wonder whether you have accidentally entered a crime scene that nobody has quite finished cleaning.
There were hotels, motels, guesthouses, and establishments that described themselves as hotels with a degree of optimism I found genuinely inspiring.
One particular memory that remains firmly lodged in my mind is the sensation of walking across a hotel room carpet and discovering that my boots were sticking to it.
Not catching on loose threads.
Not sinking into luxurious deep-pile carpeting.
Sticking.
There was a distinctive tackiness to the floor, a gentle resistance every time I attempted to lift a foot.
Schluck.
Schluck.
Schluck.
I stood there for a moment, considering the situation.
Was this some unusual cleaning product? Had somebody spilled an industrial quantity of sugary liquid? Had the carpet developed an independent consciousness and decided that I was not permitted to leave?
I never discovered the answer.
And I can assure you, dear reader, I had absolutely no intention of investigating.
There are some mysteries in life best left unsolved.
You become remarkably philosophical about accommodation when you spend enough time travelling. Your standards gradually evolve from wanting somewhere pleasant and comfortable to simply hoping the door locks, the shower works, and nothing in the room appears to be moving independently.
A clean bed becomes a luxury.
A working kettle becomes a triumph.
A room where your boots do not adhere to the carpet becomes the sort of experience that deserves a glowing five-star review.
Of course, things have improved over the years, and I have been fortunate enough to stay in some genuinely lovely places.
But those early establishments taught me an important lesson.
Never walk barefoot in a hotel room until you have established diplomatic relations with the carpet.
The Art of Packing an Entire Life into a Carry-On
Now, before you can experience the delights of questionable accommodation, you must first undertake one of the greatest challenges known to the travelling performer.
Packing.
And not ordinary packing.
No, this is a very particular form of logistical madness.
You see, airlines have developed a fascinating relationship with luggage. They are perfectly happy to transport you thousands of kilometres through the sky in a magnificent feat of human engineering, but should your bag exceed an arbitrary measurement by approximately the thickness of a sandwich, they will look at you as though you have attempted to smuggle a grand piano aboard.
I have therefore become something of an expert in the ancient art of attempting to fit five days of living into a carry-on bag.
Five days.
With a great kilt.
Now, for those unfamiliar with the great kilt, this is not a small, delicate garment that can be folded neatly into a corner.
It is an enormous quantity of fabric, the sort of thing that, when unfolded, could reasonably be mistaken for a picnic blanket intended for an entire Highland regiment.
And that is merely the beginning.
There is the waistcoat, the boots, the shirts, the socks, the underwear, the shorts, the toiletries, and perhaps, if the gods are feeling generous, something to sleep in.
Then there are the clothes you actually travel in.
Because despite the remarkable things human beings have achieved, we have yet to develop a socially acceptable method of spending six hours in an aircraft without clothing.
And nobody wants to be the smelly one on the flight.
Nobody.
You know the person I mean. The unfortunate soul who has apparently spent the previous forty-eight hours wrestling livestock in an enclosed barn before deciding that a crowded aircraft would be the ideal location to dry out.
I have no desire to become that person.
So everything must fit.
I roll clothing. I fold clothing. I compress clothing. I sit on the suitcase with the determination of a man attempting to subdue an unruly sheep.
Eventually, the zip closes.
There is a moment of triumph.
A small victory for humanity.
Then I remember the toiletries.
And the whole bloody process begins again.
Of course, the real problem is not getting everything into the bag.
It is getting everything back into the bag at the end of the event.
Because by that point the clothes have apparently expanded, the kilt has acquired the density of a collapsed star, and the boots are carrying enough mud to establish a small agricultural holding.
Somehow, I always manage.
Although I suspect my luggage has developed a deep personal resentment towards me.
Four Hours to the Airport, Six Hours in the Air, Two Hours More to Go
People often ask how far I travel for events.
The answer is usually some variation of "farther than any sensible person would consider reasonable."
Imagine, if you will, an early morning flight.
Not a civilised early morning, where one rises at seven, enjoys breakfast, reads the newspaper, and wanders casually towards the airport.
No.
The sort of early morning where you are questioning whether it is technically still yesterday.
You have a four-hour drive to the airport.
Four hours.
And because the flight is early, you must leave at an hour when even the local wildlife has the good sense to remain asleep.
You load the car, check your bags, check your passport, check your wallet, check your bags again, and then begin driving through the darkness.
The roads stretch ahead.
The world is quiet.
And your mind is already at the event.
Have I remembered everything?
Have I confirmed the schedule?
Do I have the correct contact details?
Will the performers arrive on time?
Have I packed enough socks?
Why am I doing this again?
Four hours later, you reach the airport, abandon your vehicle to the financial mercy of long-term parking, navigate security, and finally board a plane.
Six hours in the air.
Six hours of sitting in a seat designed, apparently, for a person whose legs end somewhere around their knees.
You arrive at your destination, collect whatever remains of your dignity, and discover that the event is another two hours away.
So into another vehicle you go.
Two more hours.
By the time you arrive, you have spent the better part of a day travelling, your body is stiff, your mind is buzzing, and you have consumed enough coffee to frighten a cardiologist.
And then comes the truly peculiar part.
The event does not begin until tomorrow.
The Strange Limbo of Arriving Early
Now, bringing a performer in a day early makes perfect sense.
Flights are delayed. Roads close. Weather changes. The universe occasionally decides to amuse itself by throwing a spanner into carefully constructed travel arrangements.
Arriving early is sensible.
Professional.
Responsible.
And psychologically infuriating.
Because your body is ready.
Your mind is ready.
You have spent hours, perhaps days, preparing yourself for the event.
You have rehearsed stories, considered the schedule, thought about the audience, and mentally walked through everything that needs to happen.
You are ready to go.
Except there is nowhere to go.
Nothing to perform.
Nobody to entertain.
You have been deposited into a hotel room or trailer and informed that you can now relax.
Relax?
What an extraordinary suggestion.
I have no idea what that word means in these circumstances.
Do I sleep?
I probably should.
Do I eat?
Almost certainly.
Do I go for a walk?
Perhaps.
Do I turn on the television and watch some mundane programme about people renovating houses, solving crimes, or arguing over whose turn it is to bake a cake?
I might try.
But the mind refuses to cooperate.
Because somewhere in the background, a small and deeply irritating committee has convened.
Have all the entertainers confirmed their arrival?
Does everyone know where they are supposed to be?
Will the schedule run correctly?
Has the sound system been checked?
Will somebody miss their cue?
Will someone decide, entirely of their own accord, that their twenty-minute performance should actually last forty-five minutes?
And, perhaps most importantly, will somebody do something spectacularly stupid that I will then be expected to resolve?
When I am working as a storyteller and Master of Ceremonies, I am not simply responsible for standing on a stage and making agreeable noises.
I am often the person helping to hold the whole performance schedule together.
The voice of the event.
The person introducing the acts, keeping things moving, filling unexpected gaps, adapting when something goes wrong, and occasionally smiling warmly while internally calculating how to rescue a timetable that has just been enthusiastically murdered by an overexcited entertainer.
It is wonderful work.
But it is work that follows you into the hotel room.
Into the shower.
Into bed.
And occasionally into your dreams, where you find yourself attempting to introduce a jousting tournament only to discover that the horses have been replaced by confused accountants.
So there you sit.
Alone.
Somewhere far from home.
Too tired to do anything useful and too mentally engaged to properly rest.
A peculiar little purgatory between travelling and performing.
And tomorrow, the madness begins.
The Six-Hour Sleep Club
There is a particular kind of tiredness that comes with travelling performances.
It is not simply the exhaustion of physical labour, although there is plenty of that.
It is the cumulative exhaustion of movement, preparation, performance, travel, and the constant need to remain switched on.
Late nights.
Ridiculously early mornings.
Unfamiliar beds.
Unpredictable meals.
And sometimes surviving on fewer than six hours of sleep.
I would love to tell you that I have mastered the art of healthy rest while travelling.
I have not.
I am, however, remarkably accomplished at lying in a hotel bed calculating precisely how much sleep I will get if I fall unconscious within the next fourteen seconds.
Which, naturally, guarantees that I remain awake for another hour.
And when morning finally arrives, there is the kilt.
Ah, the kilt.
That magnificent symbol of Scottish heritage, pride, tradition, and an almost supernatural ability to retain moisture.
You rise at some ungodly hour, reach for the great kilt that you carefully folded the previous evening, and discover that it is still damp.
Not soaking.
Not dripping.
Just unpleasantly, stubbornly damp.
The sort of dampness that makes you question whether the fabric has been secretly absorbing moisture directly from the atmosphere.
Perhaps yesterday was particularly hot.
Perhaps it rained.
Perhaps you spent twelve hours moving between performances beneath a sun that appeared determined to cook you from the inside out.
Whatever the reason, your magnificent traditional attire now feels like a slightly chilled dishcloth.
And you have to put it on.
There is a special moment when damp fabric first touches your skin.
A moment of profound spiritual reflection.
A moment when you consider every decision that has brought you to this particular point in your existence.
Then you fold the kilt, fasten everything into place, pull on your boots, and prepare to face the world.
Because the audience does not care whether your clothing is damp.
They have come for stories.
And stories they shall have.
Breakfast: A Feast or a Crime Against Humanity
Breakfast while travelling is another adventure entirely.
Occasionally, you find yourself in a lovely hotel with a wonderful breakfast spread.
Fresh fruit.
Hot food.
Decent coffee.
Perhaps even somebody who knows how to cook an egg without turning it into a rubber-based building material.
These mornings are glorious.
You sit, you eat, you enjoy a few moments of civilisation before the day begins.
Other mornings, breakfast consists of coffee that tastes as though it was brewed during the previous administration and left to contemplate its failures overnight.
There may be a bread roll.
Possibly a banana.
A mysterious little packet of something that claims to be jam.
And, if you are truly fortunate, a toaster that actually toasts both sides of the bread.
A technological achievement that continues to elude a surprising number of establishments.
Sometimes there is no breakfast at all.
You wake too early.
You leave before the kitchen opens.
Or the accommodation simply does not provide anything resembling food.
And so you begin another long day fuelled by caffeine, optimism, and whatever remains in your stomach from the previous evening.
It is hardly the nutritional regime of an elite athlete.
But then again, I have never claimed to be an elite athlete.
Although I suspect some of the distances I cover during a festival would qualify me for some sort of endurance event.
Preferably one with a medal and a sandwich at the finish line.
The Thousand-Kilometre Classroom
Long before some of the larger festivals and Highland events, there were the school visits.
And school visits taught me a great deal about the realities of being a travelling performer.
Not least that Canada is enormous.
Absurdly enormous.
Scotland, by comparison, is a wonderfully compact wee place.
You can travel a relatively short distance and find yourself in an entirely different landscape, town, or cultural environment.
Canada, on the other hand, seems to have been designed by someone who looked at a map and thought, "Do you know what this needs? More distance."
There were days when the kilometres seemed endless.
Long stretches of road.
School after school.
Town after town.
Driving enormous distances, sometimes thousands of kilometres over the course of a punishing run of visits, with the scenery changing slowly enough that you began to suspect the landscape was following you.
And then there was the weather.
Hail.
Snow.
Rain.
Wind.
And, on two memorable occasions, tornadoes.
Yes.
Tornadoes.
Now, I grew up in Scotland.
We are no strangers to weather.
In fact, weather is practically a national hobby.
We discuss it, complain about it, dress incorrectly for it, and then complain about it some more.
Wind is simply part of the experience.
So when I found myself driving through particularly fierce conditions in Canada, my reaction was not necessarily one of immediate concern.
"Bit windy today."
That was about the extent of my meteorological assessment.
Only to discover that I had driven past not one, but on separate occasions, two tornadoes.
Tornadoes!
Those great rotating monsters of atmospheric violence.
And there was I, trundling along, thinking it was a wee bit breezy.
Apparently, my Scottish interpretation of bad weather is not always compatible with Canadian meteorological reality.
I should point out that this is not an approach I recommend. Tornado warnings are very much something to take seriously, and these days I pay considerably more attention to the weather reports.
But looking back, I cannot help laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.
There is something wonderfully ridiculous about travelling across a continent to tell stories to children, only to discover that the sky itself has decided to provide a rather more dramatic performance.
And yet, somehow, you keep going.
Because somewhere down the road there is a school full of children waiting for a storyteller.
And they deserve the best you can give them.
Even if you have spent the previous several hours wondering whether the next gust of wind might transport your vehicle into another province.
Once the Show Begins, You Do Not Stop
People see the performance.
They see the smile, the energy, the enthusiasm, the storytelling, the introductions, the laughter, and the interaction with the audience.
What they do not always see is the relentless movement behind it.
When I am working an event, I have a rule.
I do not sit down to rest or stop for a proper meal until I return to my accommodation.
Now, before anyone writes to inform me that this is a terrible idea, I am perfectly aware that it is not an ideal approach to health and wellbeing.
But it is a habit born from years of performance, particularly at events where there is always something happening and always somewhere else I need to be.
One moment I am on stage.
The next I am speaking to an entertainer.
Then I am checking a schedule.
Then introducing another act.
Then telling a story.
Then moving across the grounds because something needs attention.
Then back to the stage.
Then another performance.
Then another conversation.
And another.
And another.
The day becomes a blur of movement.
You are constantly thinking ahead, watching the crowd, reading the atmosphere, listening to what is happening around you, and preparing to adapt.
When you are performing, you cannot simply switch off.
You must be present.
Fully present.
Even when your feet hurt, your throat is dry, your back aches, and your stomach has begun composing increasingly aggressive letters of complaint.
I have even resorted to eating little sachets of salt during particularly hot events, in the belief that it might help me retain water a little longer.
A rather desperate piece of improvised performer logic, I admit. These days I know that proper hydration, appropriate electrolyte replacement, food, and rest are considerably wiser than simply swallowing salt packets.
But it illustrates the strange decisions you make when you are determined to keep going.
Because the audience is there.
The performers are there.
The event is happening.
And you have a job to do.
So you keep moving.
And you keep smiling.
And you keep telling stories.
Until eventually the final performance ends, the last announcement is made, and you are released back into the world of ordinary human beings.
Or, more accurately, you stagger towards your accommodation like a wounded Highland warrior who has just lost an argument with a staircase.
Dinner with the Mosquitoes
There is something deeply satisfying about returning to your accommodation after a successful day.
At least, that is the theory.
In practice, the experience depends rather heavily on what is waiting for you.
Sometimes it is a lovely hotel room.
A hot shower.
A comfortable bed.
Perhaps a restaurant nearby where you can enjoy a proper meal.
Other times, it is a trailer.
A trailer in the middle of an event ground.
And the culinary offerings are somewhat limited.
I have experienced evenings where dinner consisted of stale bread rolls, bottled water, and the company of mosquitoes.
The mosquitoes, I should add, were considerably more enthusiastic about their meal than I was about mine.
There you sit.
Exhausted.
Still wearing some combination of performance clothing because removing it requires an energy expenditure you are not yet prepared to undertake.
A bread roll in one hand.
A bottle of water in the other.
And a small airborne squadron of bloodthirsty insects circling your head with the determination of medieval siege engineers.
You attempt to eat.
A mosquito lands on your arm.
You swat it.
Another appears.
You take a bite of bread.
It has the texture of something excavated from an ancient burial site.
You chew.
Slowly.
Contemplatively.
And suddenly you remember that only a few hours earlier you were standing before a cheering crowd.
People were laughing.
Applauding.
Calling your name.
Taking photographs.
Telling you how wonderful the performance had been.
And now?
Now you are sitting alone in a trailer, eating stale bread while insects attempt to drain the remaining life from your body.
The contrast is almost poetic.
Almost.
Although poetry is somewhat difficult to appreciate when something is biting your ankle.
The Loneliness Nobody Applauds
And here, dear reader, we arrive at something that is not quite so funny.
Because for all the ridiculous situations, the dreadful food, the exhausting journeys, and the questionable accommodation, there is another part of travelling that people rarely discuss.
The loneliness.
It is a strange thing, loneliness.
Particularly when your working life revolves around people.
As a storyteller, I spend my days connecting with others.
I look into their eyes.
I listen to their laughter.
I watch their expressions change as a story unfolds.
I share moments of genuine human connection, sometimes with complete strangers whom I may never see again.
At festivals, there are performers, organisers, volunteers, vendors, families, children, and enormous crowds.
There is noise everywhere.
Music.
Conversation.
Laughter.
The sounds of an entire community gathered together.
And for a while, you are right in the middle of it.
You belong to something.
You are part of the great living, breathing organism of the event.
Then it ends.
The crowds leave.
The performers disappear into their vehicles.
The vendors pack away their wares.
The music stops.
And the ground falls silent.
I have written before about the strange emotional aftermath of performance, the sudden quiet that follows the noise, and the way the body and mind struggle to adjust when the excitement disappears.
But travelling adds another layer to that experience.
Because sometimes there is nobody there when the silence arrives.
No familiar face waiting at home.
No family gathering around the dinner table.
No friend to sit beside you and say, "Well, that was a bloody good day, wasn't it?"
Just you.
A hotel room.
Or a trailer.
Or an unfamiliar town where you know absolutely nobody.
Perhaps you telephone home.
Perhaps you send a message.
Perhaps you scroll through photographs from the event, watching the happy faces and remembering the moments that made the day worthwhile.
But eventually the phone goes quiet.
And you are left with your own thoughts.
I think this is one of the great contradictions of being a travelling performer.
You can spend an entire day surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel profoundly alone when it is over.
And sometimes that loneliness catches you unexpectedly.
Not necessarily as some great dramatic wave of sadness.
Sometimes it is simply the realisation that you would quite like somebody to share a meal with.
Somebody to laugh with.
Somebody who understands why the smallest moment during a performance meant so much.
Somebody who will listen while you describe the ridiculous thing that happened backstage, or the child who asked a wonderfully unexpected question, or the elderly gentleman who thanked you for reminding him of his childhood.
Because stories are meant to be shared.
And even storytellers need somebody to tell their stories to.
The Great Performance Paradox
There is another peculiar thing about this life.
The audience sees you at your best.
Or at least, they see you doing everything in your power to be at your best.
They do not see the exhaustion.
They do not see the terrible night's sleep.
They do not know that your breakfast was a lukewarm coffee and half a bread roll.
They do not know that you have been travelling for twelve hours, or that your boots are rubbing, or that your kilt is still damp from yesterday.
They see the storyteller.
The performer.
The confident Scottish fellow who strides onto the stage, fills his lungs, and commands the attention of the crowd.
And that is exactly as it should be.
Because when somebody gives you their time, when they choose to stop and listen to your stories, you owe them your attention.
Your energy.
Your commitment.
You cannot expect an audience to care about the inconveniences of your journey.
They have their own lives.
Their own worries.
Their own struggles.
Perhaps they have travelled a long distance themselves.
Perhaps they have saved money to attend the event.
Perhaps they are simply looking for a few moments of escape from whatever difficulties await them at home.
Your job is to give them something worthwhile.
And so, no matter how tired you are, you step forward.
You smile.
You take a breath.
And you begin.
Something extraordinary often happens in that moment.
The exhaustion does not necessarily disappear, but it retreats.
The aching feet become less important.
The worries fade into the background.
The story takes over.
You become absorbed in the people before you, in their reactions, in the shared experience unfolding between you.
For those few minutes, everything makes sense.
This is why you do it.
This is why you drive those ridiculous distances.
Why you endure uncomfortable hotel rooms.
Why you wrestle enormous quantities of tartan into tiny suitcases.
Why you accept the loneliness, the uncertainty, and the exhaustion.
Because there is something profoundly beautiful about standing before another human being and creating a moment of genuine connection.
Eye to eye.
Heart to heart.
Mind to mind.
And no amount of glamorous accommodation could ever replace that.
The Things That Make It Worthwhile
I do not want you to come away from this confession believing that I dislike travelling.
Quite the opposite.
I love what I do.
I genuinely, wholeheartedly love it.
I have been fortunate enough to travel through extraordinary landscapes, meet remarkable people, and become part of communities I might otherwise never have encountered.
I have shared laughter with performers whose talents leave me in awe.
I have watched children become completely absorbed in stories that were being told long before any of us were born.
I have seen adults rediscover that wonderful sense of imagination they thought they had left behind in childhood.
I have stood at Highland Games, medieval faires, schools, festivals, and gatherings where the simple act of sharing a story brings people together.
I have made friendships on the road that mean a great deal to me.
And I have experienced acts of kindness that remind me just how wonderful people can be.
Sometimes it is something enormous.
An organiser going out of their way to make you feel welcome.
A fellow performer helping when something goes wrong.
A stranger offering assistance when you are far from home.
But often it is something very small.
A hot cup of coffee when you desperately need one.
A proper meal after a long day.
A few minutes of conversation.
Somebody asking whether you are doing all right.
Those little gestures matter.
Perhaps more than we realise.
Because when you spend so much time travelling alone, kindness has a way of becoming extraordinarily memorable.
You remember the people who made you feel welcome.
You remember the laughter.
You remember the moments when an unfamiliar place suddenly felt a little less unfamiliar.
And slowly, over the years, you begin collecting something far more valuable than photographs or souvenirs.
You collect people.
Not literally, of course.
That would raise all manner of difficult questions at airport security.
But you collect the memories of them.
Their stories.
Their kindness.
Their peculiarities.
The brief moments when your lives crossed and something meaningful happened.
And those memories travel with you.
The Cost of Doing What You Love
There is a phrase I hear occasionally that I have always found rather interesting.
"Well, at least you're doing what you love."
And yes.
I am.
But doing what you love does not mean that it is easy.
In fact, sometimes I think we have developed a rather dangerous romantic notion that if you truly love your work, the difficulties somehow cease to matter.
They do not.
Exhaustion still hurts.
Loneliness is still loneliness.
A poor night's sleep still leaves you tired.
And a stale bread roll remains a stale bread roll, regardless of how passionately you feel about your profession.
There are sacrifices.
Time away from family.
Missed moments.
Long journeys.
Uncertainty.
The constant need to find the next booking, organise the next trip, prepare the next performance, and ensure that the business behind the art continues to function.
Because that is another part of the travelling storyteller's life that rarely makes it into the romantic picture.
The business.
The emails.
The contracts.
The invoices.
The planning.
The scheduling.
The promotional work.
The endless administrative tasks that must somehow be completed between performances, journeys, and the occasional attempt to sleep.
I am not simply a storyteller.
I am also my own booking agent, administrator, marketing department, travel coordinator, wardrobe manager, and occasionally a deeply unsuccessful catering service.
There are days when I spend more time staring at spreadsheets and emails than I do telling stories.
And yet all of it is necessary.
Because passion alone does not pay the bills.
Nor does applause.
Although I must admit, if airlines accepted applause as payment for baggage fees, I would be considerably happier.
I think this is something worth remembering when we look at people working in creative professions.
We often see the finished product.
The polished performance.
The beautiful artwork.
The published book.
The successful event.
We rarely see the countless hours of preparation, the uncertainty, the rejection, the mistakes, and the quiet determination required to make those things happen.
The glamour is visible.
The labour is not.
And sometimes I wonder whether we do a disservice to young performers by presenting the life as one endless adventure without acknowledging the very real demands that come with it.
Because there is adventure.
There is magic.
There is joy.
But there is also hard work.
An extraordinary amount of it.
Would I Do It All Again?
So, after all these years, after the endless roads, the airports, the sticky carpets, the damp kilts, the mosquitoes, the questionable meals, and the nights spent alone in unfamiliar places, I suppose there is one obvious question.
Would I do it all again?
Would I choose this peculiar life?
Would I willingly climb into another vehicle before dawn, drive for hours, board another aircraft, and arrive somewhere unfamiliar knowing that the next several days will be filled with relentless work?
Would I accept another hotel room with mysterious stains and coffee that tastes like boiled disappointment?
Would I once again spend an evening sitting alone after a magnificent event, wondering why the sudden silence feels quite so loud?
Yes.
I would.
Without hesitation.
Although I might request a better breakfast.
Because somewhere along the way, I discovered that the real reward was never the glamour.
It was never the hotels, the travel, or the applause.
It was the people.
The moments.
The connections.
The extraordinary privilege of being invited into somebody else's world, even if only for the duration of a story.
There is something humbling about that.
Something that keeps me returning to the road, even when I know exactly what awaits me.
The tiredness.
The long journeys.
The uncertainty.
And yes, the occasional mosquito.
Because tomorrow there may be another audience.
Another child hearing a story for the first time.
Another adult who has forgotten how wonderful it feels to become lost in a tale.
Another stranger who, for a few brief minutes, becomes part of a shared experience that none of us will ever quite recreate.
And perhaps, somewhere in the middle of it all, there will be another story waiting for me.
Not one from an ancient book.
Not one passed down through generations.
But one of my own.
A story about a journey, a conversation, a mistake, a moment of kindness, or some utterly ridiculous situation that could only happen to a travelling storyteller.
Those are the stories I want to begin sharing with you.
Not because my life is particularly extraordinary.
But because I suspect that beneath all the costumes, performances, journeys, and adventures, there are experiences that many of us will recognise.
The exhaustion of working towards something we believe in.
The loneliness that sometimes accompanies independence.
The strange mixture of joy and sacrifice that comes with pursuing a passion.
The importance of kindness.
And the simple human need to feel connected to one another.
We are all travelling through life in one way or another.
Some of us simply have more luggage.
And considerably larger kilts.
A Thought from the Road
I have come to believe that the most glamorous moments in life are rarely the ones we expect.
Sometimes they are not the applause, the magnificent stage, or the beautiful landscape.
Sometimes glamour is a hot shower after a long day.
A clean bed.
A proper meal.
A telephone call from somebody you love.
Or the simple kindness of another human being who notices that you are tired and asks if you are all right.
And perhaps that is the real confession.
For all the miles I travel and all the stories I tell, the things that matter most are often the smallest.
So, if you ever see me at a festival, a Highland Games, a medieval faire, or wandering through an airport looking slightly bewildered beneath an enormous quantity of tartan, do come and say hello.
I will always make time for a conversation.
And if you happen to have a decent sandwich, well...
You may just have made a friend for life.
Until the next confession, dear reader.
Keep your stories close, your boots dry, and for the love of all that is holy, never trust a hotel carpet that makes a noise when you walk across it.
— Calum Lykan Storytelling
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