When the Roads Begin Calling

The season is upon us.

I know this because my email inbox has transformed from a reasonably civilized place into a battlefield. Flights are being confirmed. Accommodation details are arriving. Contracts are being signed. Event schedules are appearing with alarming regularity. Somewhere in the house there is a kilt demanding to know why it is still hanging in a wardrobe instead of billowing dramatically in the summer breeze.

The bags are not yet packed, but they are staring at me.

Judging.

Waiting.

Knowing.

Because they know what is coming.

The busy season.

That glorious, exhausting, chaotic, wonderful stretch of the year where weekends cease to exist, calendars become works of fantasy fiction, and I spend more time in airports, hotel rooms, fairgrounds, tents, pubs, campfires, and festival grounds than I do in my own living room.

And honestly?

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Many people imagine festival season begins when the gates open. When the public arrive.

When the first sword fight erupts. When the pipes begin to play. When someone purchases an outrageously large turkey leg and decides they have become a medieval noble for the afternoon.

But that is merely the visible part. The performance. The final chapter.

The season truly begins months before a single visitor walks through the gates. It begins with research.

Now I know that may sound terribly boring. Research does not carry the same romance as standing before a crowd sharing tales of heroes, rogues, monsters, ghosts, and kings.

Yet research is where the magic truly begins. Every event has its own character. Its own audience. Its own atmosphere.

A Highland Games crowd is very different from a medieval faire audience.

A storytelling walk through historic streets requires something entirely different from an evening ceilidh.

Families attending a daytime festival are looking for different stories than the adults gathered around a fire after dark.

The storyteller's task is not merely to tell stories. The storyteller's task is to tell the right story.

And that means digging.

Reading.

Listening.

Learning.

Falling down historical rabbit holes at two o'clock in the morning and emerging three hours later knowing far more about medieval sanitation than any human being should.

Trust me.

There are things you discover during research that can never be forgotten.

No matter how hard you try.

The medieval fairs are often the first great beast of the season. I have long argued that people misunderstand these events. Too many dismiss them as simply an excuse to wear costumes, swing swords, and consume suspicious quantities of roasted meat.

Now don't get me wrong. Those things absolutely happen. Frequently. Sometimes simultaneously. But there is something far deeper taking place. A medieval faire is one of the few places where imagination is given permission to run wild. For a weekend, people step outside the ordinary.

The accountant becomes a knight.

The teacher becomes a Viking.

The office worker becomes a pirate.

Children become heroes.

Adults remember what it felt like to play.

And somewhere amongst the clash of steel, the music, the laughter, the merchants, and the performers, stories find fertile ground.

Because stories have always belonged in places like these.

Long before books. Long before films. Long before streaming services convinced us that sitting alone on a sofa was a social activity.

Stories were shared Eye to eye. Heart to heart. Mind to Mind

A living thing exchanged between people.

That is what I love most about the faire world.

Not the costumes.

Not the spectacle.

Not even the turkey legs.

The connection.

That moment when a crowd falls silent. When hundreds of minds are suddenly travelling together. When strangers become companions on a journey that exists nowhere except in imagination. Those moments are why I keep coming back.

Then there are the Highland events.

Ah yes. My people.

Or at least people who are willing to tolerate a Scotsman shouting enthusiastically about history for prolonged periods.

The Highland gatherings carry a different energy.

There is pride there.

Heritage.

Identity.

Music that seems to emerge from somewhere ancient. You hear the pipes and suddenly centuries collapse. The old stories rise to the surface. The clan tales. The battles. The heroes. The rogues. The impossible fools who somehow survived through equal measures of bravery and sheer stubbornness.

Being able to share those stories remains one of the greatest privileges of my career.

Because they are not merely stories. They are connections. Threads reaching backwards through generations. Little reminders that none of us arrived here alone. We are all part of stories that began long before we took our first breath.

Of course, festival season is not all stages and crowds.

Some of my favourite performances happen while walking. There is something magical about storytelling walks. Perhaps it is because stories belong to places.

A castle is not simply stone.

A harbour is not merely water.

A forest is not just a collection of trees.

Every location carries echoes.

Memories.

Legends.

Whispers.

The storyteller simply helps people hear them.

During a storytelling walk, the landscape becomes part of the performance. A dark alley suddenly feels older. A ruined wall becomes significant. A forgotten corner acquires meaning.

History stops being something trapped in books and becomes something alive beneath your feet. I love watching people experience that transformation. You can see it happen. The moment they stop looking and start seeing. The moment a location becomes a story.

And then there are the ceilidhs.

Those glorious evenings where music, laughter, dancing, storytelling, and community collide.

A good ceilidh possesses a kind of joyful chaos. No two are ever the same. No amount of planning can fully prepare you. Something unexpected always happens.

Someone forgets the dance.

Someone invents a new dance.

Someone discovers muscles they have not used since secondary school.

Someone inevitably decides they are twenty years younger than reality suggests.

And through it all runs that wonderful sense of community.

Stories and songs have always lived together. One feeds the other. One inspires the other. Both remind us that life is richer when shared.

I have witnessed complete strangers become friends before the evening is over.

I have watched people laugh until tears ran down their faces.

I have seen rooms transformed through nothing more than stories, music, and a willingness to join in.

In a world that often feels increasingly disconnected, those evenings matter. They matter a great deal.

Of course, behind all this lies preparation. So much preparation. People often imagine storytellers simply arrive and begin talking.

I wish. That would be lovely.

Instead, there are scripts to refine.

Stories to revisit.

Historical details to verify.

Travel plans to coordinate.

Costumes to repair.

Props to locate.

Schedules to navigate.

Equipment to test.

Research notes scattered across desks like the aftermath of an academic hurricane.

There is always one story that needs adjusting. One section that needs tightening. One performance that requires a little more work.

The audience never sees that side. Nor should they. The audience deserves the finished experience. The polished performance. The adventure.

But behind every successful event stands a mountain of preparation. And every year I find myself climbing it once again.

Usually with coffee. Large amounts of coffee. Sometimes ridiculous amounts of coffee.

As the season approaches, I can already feel that familiar mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. Because every event is a new adventure. Every audience is different. Every performance is unique.

No matter how many years I have been doing this, there remains an element of uncertainty.

Will the story land?

Will the audience connect?

Will that new piece work the way I hope it will?

Those questions never completely disappear. And perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps a storyteller should always remain a little nervous. A little uncertain. A little hungry.

Because certainty is the enemy of curiosity. And curiosity is where great storytelling begins.

Soon enough the flights will be boarded.

The bags will be packed.

The roads will stretch ahead.

The festival gates will open.

The stages will come alive.

The pipes will play.

The dancers will dance.

The warriors will clash.

The merchants will trade.

The storytellers will gather.

And somewhere in the midst of it all I will once again find myself standing before a crowd.

Perhaps beneath a tent.

Perhaps beside a fire.

Perhaps in a field.

Perhaps in a hall filled with music and laughter.

And I will do what storytellers have always done. I will invite people on a journey.

Not with swords.

Not with ships.

Not with magic portals.

Though admittedly those things occasionally appear in the stories.

No.

I will invite them with words.

Simple words.

Ancient words.

Powerful words.

The same tools storytellers have carried for thousands of years.

And for a little while we will travel together.

Through history.

Through legend.

Through laughter.

Through imagination.

That is what awaits.

The season is coming.

The research continues.

The flights are booked.

The bags await their fate.

The stories are stirring.

And somewhere out there, across medieval fairs, Highland gatherings, storytelling walks, and ceilidhs, audiences are gathering without yet knowing that soon we shall meet.

Until then, there is work to be done.

Stories to polish.

History to uncover.

Kilts to prepare.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the occasional turkey leg to avoid.

After all, as I have said before, there is always far more to these events than the turkey leg.

There are stories.

And the stories are waiting.