It was a somber yet proud occasion when Trevor the Worshipful and his loyal band of renegades assembled once more. On the crisp morning of November 10th, 2024, the village of Cruden Bay, its air tinged with salt from the nearby North Sea, played host to the annual Remembrance Day service at the historic Cruden Parish Church.
Trevor, proudly wearing the medals earned during his own military service (complete with a beard immaculately combed for the occasion), stood at the head of his fellowship, exuding both reverence and the faintest glimmer of his ever-present mischief. Beside him, as always, was his faithful wingman, Josh McLean, whose efforts to keep things organized were both valiant and futile.
From every corner of the realm, Past Masters of Lodge St. Olaf had answered the call. Bill Murray, a figure of quiet dignity, arrived early, with warm words of welcome for all who followed and an uncanny ability to make even the gravest moments slightly humorous. Gordon Mackay, the stalwart, stood ready to assist, though his glasses perpetually slid down his nose, giving him the air of a thoughtful scholar.
Jim Connor, Derek Clark, and Ewan Mackay arrived in synchronised fashion, discussing Lodge lore and “who was late last meeting.” As they greeted one another with hearty handshakes and back slaps, Trevor felt a pang of gratitude for the enduring bonds between them.
Among the newer stalwarts of the Lodge stood Phipsy, a man who never said much but always seemed to know just when to speak; Paul, the quiet but steadfast comrade; and Vern, whose quick wit kept the mood light. And then there was Michael, the young wreath carrier and aspiring renegade. Though still new to the Lodge’s ways, Michael had shown potential: he carried himself with both solemnity and just enough confusion to fit in perfectly.
With the church bells tolling, the Fellowship marched in step toward the war memorial, a solemn moment that might have been perfect—had Phipsy not accidentally stepped on Vern’s heel, causing a brief but audible muttering of, “Och, watch where yer feet are goin’, man!”
At the memorial, Trevor took his place at the front. His broad shoulders squared, his head bowed, and his ever present beard seeming to ripple slightly in the breeze, he represented the pride and history of Lodge St. Olaf. As the prayers were read and the ethereal bugle’s haunting notes of The Last Post filled the air, Trevor caught the glance of young Michael, standing tall with the wreath. A sense of passing the torch on to a younger generation stirred within him.
When the time came, Michael stepped forward, laying the wreath with a reverence that belied his years. “Well done, lad,” Trevor murmured as Michael returned to the line, his chest puffed up slightly at the praise.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Trevor gazed around at his band of renegades. They were a motley crew, to be sure—mismatched in age, temperament, and abilities—but bound by a shared sense of purpose and humor. The Lodge was more than a building; it was a living, breathing community, carried forward by those who served it, whether they were Past Masters, newcomers, or somewhere in between.
The day ended not with fanfare but with laughter and warmth, a fitting tribute to the resilience of those they honored. And as the Fellowship departed into the crisp night, Trevor looked to young Michael, thinking, Perhaps one day, lad, you’ll be leading this ragtag group yourself.
But for now, there was another curry night to plan, another fundraising scheme to hatch, and undoubtedly, another escapade just around the corner.
The End… For Now.