Thursday 13th November 2025
In the fading light of Thursday, the Thirteenth Day of November in the Year Two-and-Twenty and Five-and-Twice-a-Thousand, a notable tale unfolded in the quiet coastal haven of Cruden Bay. For on that evening, beneath the carved timbers and ancient banners of Lodge St. Olaf, George Paterson, known throughout the village as keeper of the Newsagent’s door and bearer of tidings to many households, was passed into the Second Degree – the Fellowship of the Craft.
The hall was hushed, its lamps burning softly like watchful stars, as George stepped forth. By his side walked Past Master Bill Murray, seasoned in lore and ceremony, who guided him with a steady hand as a ranger leads the traveller through ancient roads. And it was said by all who witnessed it that Bill’s counsel was sure, and his bearing noble.
Yet the night held more than this alone, for it was also the Annual Visitation of the Provincial Grand Lodge of Aberdeenshire East. From afar they came—a great company, cloaked and dignified—led by Bro. Johnny Elrick, Substitute Provincial Grand Master, whose presence lent a solemn majesty to the gathering, like that of a captain returning to a trusted stronghold. A large deputation followed him, their regalia gleaming like the armour of old.
Thus was George examined and guided, and thus did he pass through the mysteries of the Craft with exemplary grace. When the final words were spoken and the rite was sealed, he was warmly hailed by all, for his conduct shone as a newly kindled flame.
When the formalities were ended, the brethren descended to The Level, the fair and welcoming hall of fellowship beneath St. Olaf’s roof. There, a grand feast had been set forth, and the tenders of the St. Olaf bar, stalwart and ever watchful, ensured that no horn, glass, nor goblet remained unfilled. Laughter rose in golden clouds, drifting like smoke above the bar.
Glyn Jones, master of merriment and chance, brought forth a raffle so laden with prizes that the calling of them became an event of its own – long as the reading of a dwarven inventory and twice as merry. Many departed with arms full, and among the most fortunate were Andy Phipps, Vern Nathan, and Bill Murray, whose luck that night was the envy of even the boldest hobbit.
Outside, a cold breath of early winter swept over Cruden Bay, whispering of snows to come. But within those walls, warmth and camaraderie held fast. Tales were shared – some old as the stones, some new as the tide – and the bonds of brotherhood glowed brighter than the hearthfire.
And so it was that George Paterson, newly passed to the rank of Fellow Craft, found himself among a company whose spirit was as steadfast as any in the North. Lodge St. Olaf stood that night not merely as a house of ritual, but as a beacon of friendship, honour, and shared endeavour.
The Lodge now looks forward with eager heart to George’s next steps, whenever the road may call him onward. For the tale has only begun, and many chapters lie yet unwritten.