When the Pipes Play in the Rain: Why Highland Games Matter More Than Ever

There are few sounds in this world that can stop me in my tracks quite like the skirl of the pipes.

It doesn't matter whether I'm standing in a Scottish glen, walking through a Canadian fairground, or hearing them drift across a parking lot on a windy afternoon. The moment those notes rise into the air, something ancient stirs. It reaches beyond memory and beyond geography. It calls to something deeper.

Recently, I had the pleasure of attending the Moncton Highland Games.

Now, if you were there, you'll know one thing immediately.

It was wet.

Not Scottish misty.

Not "a wee drizzle."

Proper rain.

The sort of rain that settles in for the day and seems determined to test everyone's commitment to being outdoors.

Yet despite the weather, the event itself was wonderfully organized. The volunteers worked tirelessly, the competitors showed incredible dedication, the musicians performed brilliantly, and the organizers created a gathering that should make the Scottish community proud.

What surprised me wasn't the rain. It was the attendance. Or rather, the lack of it. Standing there watching the games unfold, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself.

"These Canadian Scots are afraid of a wee bit of rain."

Any Scotsman knows that if we stayed indoors every time it rained, we'd never leave the house.

Rain is practically part of our national identity.

But beneath the humour, I found myself reflecting on something much larger.

As generations pass, we are slowly losing our connection to our heritage.

Not just Scottish heritage. All heritage.

And if we're not careful, traditions that have survived centuries may quietly fade away not through hostility or prohibition, but through simple neglect.

Not because people reject them.

Because people forget them.

More Than Games

For many people, Highland Games are viewed as entertainment.

A fun day out.

A chance to see cabers tossed, hear bagpipes, watch Highland dancing, eat some Scottish food, and perhaps purchase a tartan scarf they'll wear twice before forgetting about it.

And certainly, there is entertainment. The games should be fun. They should be lively. They should bring communities together.

But they are also something much more significant.

Highland Games are living history. They are cultural memory made visible.

Every pipe tune played.

Every kilt worn.

Every dancer stepping across the platform.

Every athlete throwing a hammer.

Every clan tent standing proudly in the field.

Each of these things carries a story.

Not merely a performance.

A story.

And stories matter.

As a storyteller, perhaps I am biased.

Actually, no. I am definitely biased.

I have spent much of my life exploring stories, preserving stories, sharing stories, and helping people reconnect with stories that might otherwise be forgotten.

The thing about stories is that they are how cultures survive.

Long before books became common, before television, before social media, before podcasts and streaming services, cultures survived because people gathered and shared stories.

Stories carried values.

Stories carried warnings.

Stories carried history.

Stories taught people who they were.

The Highland Games do exactly the same thing.

They tell us where we came from.

The Roots Beneath Our Feet

Many Canadians can trace their ancestry back to Scotland.

Some arrived generations ago. Some arrived recently. Some know exactly which clan their family belonged to.

Others simply know that somewhere in their family tree there was a MacDonald, a Fraser, a Campbell, a Stewart, a MacKenzie, or a Gordon.

For some, Scotland is a living connection. For others, it is little more than a distant footnote.

Yet even those distant connections matter.

Our heritage provides context. It helps explain how our families became who they are.

It helps us understand traditions, values, beliefs, and customs that may have travelled across oceans and survived for generations.

The fascinating thing about heritage is that it often influences us even when we don't realize it.

Family sayings.

Recipes.

Music.

Celebrations.

Attitudes.

Humour.

Many of these things are echoes from generations long gone. We inherit far more than eye colour and surnames. We inherit stories.

But inheritance only lasts if someone chooses to keep it.

The Great Disconnect

Modern life is busy. We all know it.

Work.

School.

Sports.

Activities.

Appointments.

Endless notifications.

The world has never been more connected digitally.

Yet in many ways, we have become disconnected culturally. Many young people can name dozens of online influencers. Yet they may know very little about their own family history. Many of us can instantly access information from around the globe. Yet we know almost nothing about the people who came before us.

This isn't a criticism.

It's simply the reality of modern life. Our attention is constantly being pulled toward the next thing.

The newest thing.

The trending thing.

Heritage asks us to do something different.

It asks us to pause.

To look backward.

To listen.

To remember.

And that can feel difficult in a world moving at incredible speed.

The challenge isn't that people don't care. Often, they simply haven't been given opportunities to connect.

That's why events like Highland Games matter so much.

They create those opportunities.

Heritage Is Not About Living in the Past

One misconception I encounter occasionally is the idea that preserving tradition somehow means resisting progress.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Keeping traditions alive doesn't mean pretending it's still the eighteenth century.

Nobody is suggesting we abandon modern life and return to living in stone cottages while arguing about cattle.

Traditions are not museums. At least they shouldn't be.

A healthy tradition evolves.

It adapts.

It welcomes new generations.

It finds ways to remain relevant while remaining authentic.

The goal is not to preserve culture in amber.

The goal is to keep culture alive.

Living things grow.

Living traditions grow too.

The Highland Games of today are not identical to the Highland Games of centuries ago.

Nor should they be.

Yet they still carry the spirit of those earlier gatherings.

That spirit is what matters.

The Danger of Overcorrecting

There is another challenge that emerges whenever we talk about cultural heritage.

How do we preserve traditions without forcing them upon people?

Because there is a balance to be found.

Culture should be shared.

Not imposed.

Invited.

Not demanded.

If we spend our time telling younger generations that they must care about heritage, we may achieve the opposite effect.

People rarely embrace something because they are lectured into it.

They embrace it because they discover meaning within it.

The answer isn't to ram cultural identity down people's throats.

The answer is to make it accessible.

Make it welcoming.

Make it engaging.

Tell the stories.

Share the music.

Invite participation.

Create experiences worth remembering.

If people discover genuine value in their heritage, they'll carry it forward themselves.

That is infinitely more powerful than obligation.

Why Storytelling Matters

This is one of the reasons I believe storytelling remains so important.

Stories create bridges.

A young person may not immediately connect with a history book filled with dates.

But tell them about a Jacobite messenger crossing the Highlands at night.

Tell them about a clan gathering before battle.

Tell them about a piper whose music carried across a glen.

Tell them about a family forced to leave Scotland and build a new life across the Atlantic.

Now you've captured attention.

Now history becomes human.

Now heritage becomes personal.

Stories transform facts into experiences.

And experiences stay with us.

At every cultural event I attend, whether it's a Highland Games, a festival, a medieval faire, or a community celebration, I see the same thing happen.

People lean closer.

They listen.

For a moment, the past becomes present.

That connection matters.

Rain and Resilience

As I stood at the Moncton Highland Games watching rain fall steadily across the grounds, I couldn't help but admire the people who had come.

The dancers danced.

The athletes competed.

The pipers played.

The organizers persevered.

The volunteers smiled.

Everyone simply got on with it.

There is something wonderfully Scottish about that.

Not because Scots are uniquely stubborn.

Though we certainly have a reputation for it.

But because resilience is woven deeply into many cultural traditions.

Our ancestors endured hardship, uncertainty, migration, loss, and change.

They adapted.

They survived.

They carried their stories with them.

Those stories crossed oceans.

Eventually they reached places like New Brunswick.

Places where descendants now gather to celebrate the culture that travelled so far.

When viewed through that lens, a rainy afternoon feels relatively insignificant.

Perhaps next year we'll see more people willing to brave the weather.

After all, if the ancestors could cross the Atlantic in wooden ships, surely we can manage a damp parking lot.

What We Stand to Lose

When traditions disappear, we lose more than events.

We lose perspective.

We lose identity.

We lose understanding.

We lose connections between generations.

We lose stories.

And once enough stories are lost, rebuilding those connections becomes increasingly difficult.

Heritage provides roots.

Roots do not prevent growth.

They make growth possible.

A tree without roots cannot flourish.

Neither can a culture.

The stronger our understanding of where we come from, the better equipped we are to decide where we are going.

That applies whether your heritage is Scottish, Irish, Acadian, Indigenous, African, Ukrainian, Chinese, Lebanese, or any other cultural tradition that helped shape our communities.

Every culture carries wisdom.

Every culture carries stories worth preserving.

Every culture deserves opportunities to celebrate itself.

Looking Forward

The future of Highland Games, and indeed all cultural traditions, will depend upon participation.

Not perfection.

Participation.

Bring your children.

Bring your grandchildren.

Bring your friends.

Attend the events.

Listen to the music.

Visit the clan tents.

Watch the competitions.

Ask questions.

Learn stories.

Support organizers.

Support performers.

Support volunteers.

Most importantly, share what you learn.

Culture survives when it is shared.

The responsibility doesn't belong solely to committees, historians, storytellers, or event organizers.

It belongs to all of us.

Each generation becomes a temporary steward of the traditions it inherits.

Our task is not merely to preserve them.

Our task is to pass them on.

The Last Tune

As the day drew on in Moncton and the rain continued to fall, the pipes still played.

The dancers still danced.

The athletes still competed.

The traditions endured.

And perhaps that is the lesson.

Heritage doesn't survive because conditions are perfect.

It survives because people care enough to continue.

One generation teaches the next.

One story leads to another.

One gathering becomes a tradition.

Then another.

Then another.

Before long, centuries have passed.

The Highland Games are not merely celebrations of the past.

They are investments in the future.

They remind us who we are.

They remind us where we came from.

And perhaps most importantly, they remind us that identity is not something we inherit once and keep forever.

It is something we nurture.

Something we participate in.

Something we choose.

So whether the skies are blue or the rain is coming sideways—as it often does in Scotland—I hope more people will step through the gates next time.

Come hear the pipes.

Come watch the dancers.

Come cheer the athletes.

Come listen to the stories.

Because traditions do not stay alive on their own.

They stay alive when people show up.

Even in the rain.