Saturday 17th January 2026
In the turning of the year, when winter still held the lands of Buchan in a firm and glittering grasp, there came a night long spoken of in hope and quiet planning, and afterwards remembered with warmth by all who were there. It was on Saturday, the seventeenth day of January in the year 2026, that the Brethren of St. Olaf No. 1188 gathered not in secrecy nor in shadowed chambers, but in open fellowship, to hold a banquet worthy of song and story, in honour of Robert Burns, whose words endure as runes cut deep into the stone of time.
Long had Lodge St. Olaf been renowned among its neighbours for the keeping of Burns Night. In years now passing into legend, these feasts were held within the Lodge Rooms and the Temple, solemn and proud, yet bounded by tradition and the customs of old, where only men might sit at table. But the world, like a great river, does not stand still; and it was the will and vision of the younger Brethren, keen of mind and generous of heart, to widen the circle and raise the celebration to a higher plain. They resolved that wives and girlfriends, mothers and daughters, and friends of all genders should share in the joy, and that the feast should be set in a hall worthy of such a gathering. Thus Port Erroll Public Hall was chosen, a place of opulent grandeur, its wide space and lofty stage fit for music, laughter, and the telling of great tales.
And so it was that by half past seven, the hall was filled to its very borders. Guests arrived in splendid number, a sold-out assembly, their voices mingling like the first stirrings of a feast in some ancient city of Men. Anticipation lay upon the room like a bright enchantment. Upon the stage, fashioned as a high altar, stood the Right Worshipful Master, Gordon Daly the Worshipful, who took up his charge as croupier of the evening. With words both gracious and commanding, he welcomed all who had come, setting forth a programme so rich in variety and meaning that even before the first note was played, the night already seemed destined for delight.
Then, as in the halls of kings of old, the skirl of the pipes rang out. Cory Sutherland, friend of the Lodge and steadfast companion of many a St. Olaf Burns Supper, strode forth with confident grace. Given room at last to roam, he circumnavigated the hall not once but thrice, the sound of his pipes echoing from wall to wall, while behind him came the Haggis Bearer, bearing the dish as one might bear a relic of ancient power. Laughter and applause followed them like a wake. When all was set, Past Master Gordon Mackay rose to give the Address to the Haggis. A veteran of Burns recitation, he spoke with fire and mastery, enthralling the company with the tale that forever opens a Burns Supper, and his words were met with hearty acclaim.
After this, the banquet was laid before them. Plates were filled, glasses raised, and soon harmony and cheer flowed as freely as the beer and wine. The clink of glass and burst of laughter told that the bonds of fellowship were being reforged, and the hall glowed with the warmth of shared delight as the evening moved toward its heart.
First among the speakers of the programme proper was the Right Worshipful Master himself, whose honour it was to give the Toast to the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns. With careful craft and evident love for the poet, he held the audience in thrall, weaving enlightenment and entertainment together as a skilled minstrel weaves melody and word. It was a speech that did not merely recall Burns, but summoned his spirit into the hall.
Next was Andy Phipps, called upon to deliver the Toast to the Lassies. With wit keen as a polished blade and a reverence deep as old roots, he struck the perfect balance, honouring Burns, yet more especially the Lassies themselves, whose presence gave new life and meaning to the night.
A song followed, lifted high by the soaring voice of Peter Hawkey, flautist of the ceilidh band yet to come. His singing carried the room forward, a fair bridge into the showpiece of the evening: Tam o’ Shanter. Once more Gordon Mackay took the floor, delivering the epic poem in his own distinctive manner. The audience listened in hushed decorum, as if under spell, and that silence, broken only by the rise and fall of his voice, lent the performance a power that lingered long after the final lines were spoken.
Then came the Raffle, heavy with prizes donated by generous hands. So many gifts were won that tables soon groaned beneath the bounty, and cheers rang out for each new victor, the joy of giving and receiving shared alike.
At last the band struck up, and the hall was transformed. Led by Worshipful Junior Warden Sandy Tweddle on fiddle, with Peter Hawkey on flute, Babs Hawkey on keyboard, and Kenny McKenzie on bass guitar, they unleashed a sound bright and irresistible. Tunes and airs filled the space, and dancers spun and reeled with a vigour Port Erroll had not witnessed for many a long year.
All too soon, the bells tolled half past eleven. The band struck up Auld Lang Syne, and the floor filled once more, hands joined, voices raised. Joy shone on every face: joy in the music, in the company, and in the knowledge of a night well spent.
Thus ended the Burns Night of St. Olaf No. 1188: a feast of pipe and word, of laughter and dance. In this, the Lodge did what it has ever done best—bringing people together in easy companionship, and sending them home with the rare and precious gift of time well spent among the finest of people.
Of the Wanderings of the Master, and the Dawn in the East
Thus in the annals of Lodge St. Olaf is the Burns Supper of that winter set down as one of the fairest deeds of fellowship ever wrought beneath its banner. Many believed the tale complete when the last echoes of Auld Lang Syne faded from the rafters of Port Erroll Hall, and the company went their several ways beneath the cold stars. Yet as with many a song of old, the ending was but a turning of the page, and a final chapter still lay unwritten.
For when the lamps were dimmed and the tables cleared, and the stoutest of drinking companions had taken their leave, one figure yet remained upon the road. This was our Right Worshipful Master, Daylate the Worshipful, last sentinel of the feast. He saw off the final of his men with words of good cheer, as a captain might dismiss his watch, and then set forth alone into the winter-dark, seeking at last the rest he had so long deferred.
His path led him to the house of his brother by kin, where warm hospitality had been promised and a bed made ready. Wise in foresight, Daylate had been given a key, for he had long foreseen that the hour of his return would be late indeed. Yet fate, that subtle weaver of small mischiefs, had other designs. For when he came at length to the door and set the key within the lock, it would not turn. Once, and again, and yet again he tried, but the door stood fast, as stubborn as the gates of some ancient keep.
The hour was deep, the night at its coldest and darkest. Though sorely tried, the Master would not rouse his brother from sleep, for courtesy and care yet held sway in his heart. Standing there beneath the silent stars, it became clear that sanctuary must be sought elsewhere, or not at all.
Then, though much ale and wine had passed his lips that night, clarity of purpose came upon him as a sudden light. Turning his steps with what resolve he could muster, Daylate the Worshipful made his way toward the hallowed walls of his Mother Lodge. There, he reasoned, among familiar stones and trusted shadows, he might find quiet repose and a place to lay his weary head.
And so he entered that sacred place, perhaps the first of St. Olaf’s sons to spend a night within its keeping. Wrapped in a sleeping bag as one might cloak oneself against a long vigil, he settled upon the Eastern dais itself, beneath the symbols of authority and light. There the Lodge embraced him in silence, and for some hours he slept, believing his misadventure known only to himself and the unseen spirits of St. Olaf who watch over such things.
But dawn, as ever, brings revelation.
With the morning came other Brethren, risen and refreshed from their own beds, gathering at Port Erroll Public Hall to reclaim the banners, instruments, and furnishings of the great feast. When their task was done, they returned to the Lodge, bearing the remnants of the night before—and there, to their astonishment, they beheld a sight that would live long in memory.
Upon the floor of the Eastern dais lay the Master himself, indecently accommodated, wrapped tight and still as stone. For a moment there was silence, as if the Lodge itself held its breath. Then Daylate the Worshipful stirred, and rose.
Like a corpse from the grave he emerged, blinking in the sudden light, a vision at once terrible and absurd. Those who witnessed that rising will speak of it for many a long year: of laughter scarcely held, of shock swiftly turning to mirth, and of the Master, unbowed even by such a dawn.
Thus the tale of that Burns Night found its true ending—not in song alone, nor in dance, but in a morning of legend. And so it is remembered that Lodge St. Olaf, even in its finest hours, keeps room still for humour, humility, and stories fit to be told beside any hearth.