Sunday 22nd February 2026 |
In the waning days of winter, upon Sunday the 22nd of February in the year 2026, when the frost still clung to the fields of Buchan and the North Sea winds whispered of ancient things, there was held within the fair and welcoming halls of Mintlaw the Annual Provincial Grand Lodge of Aberdeenshire East Bowling Tournament.
From many corners of the Province the Brethren came forth: Lodge St. James No. 256, Lodge Ugie No. 939, Lodge Dundonnie No. 1087, Lodge Leask No. 1084, and Lodge St. Olaf No. 1188. Each bore with them not sword nor shield, but woods well-polished and spirits resolute, for the contest was one not of strife, but of fellowship and honour upon the long green lanes of Mintlaw Indoor Bowling Club.
Yet this tale concerns chiefly the three who stood beneath the banner of St. Olaf.
It had been the earnest hope of the Lodge to field two companies that day. Plans were laid, names were spoken, and anticipation stirred like the first breeze before a coming tide. But as oft befalls even the best of intentions, unexpected turns of fate intervened. And so it came to pass that from what might have been two bands there was forged but one — a fellowship drawn from those first chosen, united in purpose and good cheer.
Thus rode forth:
Past Master Gordon Mackay, steady of hand and quiet of demeanour.
Past Master Jim Conner, valiant defender of traditions old and bowls older still.
Fellowcraft Phil Anderson, seasoned in the ways of the long mat and stout of heart.
They rose early, for the summons of registration was set at half past nine. Gordon and Jim journeyed together from Cruden Bay, where they are no strangers to the short mats of the Public Hall, their games played beneath familiar rafters and kindly lights. Yet the long indoor rinks of Mintlaw were another realm entirely — broader, swifter, and somewhat daunting to those unaccustomed to their measure.
Phil came separately from Ellon, travelling with the easy bearing of one who has walked such greens before. Though Gordon and Jim were old and wise in the mysteries of Freemasonry, in the craft of the long mat they were but learners still; and Phil’s experience shone among them like a lantern in dimming light, granting confidence when the woods ran long and the jack seemed distant as a far-off star.
From the first end it was clear that the standard of play throughout the hall was of no small merit. Novices and veterans alike delivered bowls of cunning line and delicate weight. Margins were narrow, fortunes shifted, and spectators leaned forward as though watching the unfolding of some quiet epic.
Over the course of four contests the Three of St. Olaf endured much:
One hard-earned draw.
One well-fought victory.
One narrow defeat that might, with a whisper of fortune, have turned the other way.
And one resounding thumping at the hands of the eventual champions, whose mastery none could deny.
In this, there was no shame. For even in Middle-earth, the greatest heroes have known both triumph and humbling.
Phil took upon himself the mantle of Skip in the first two games, guiding the line and calling the shots with calm assurance. In the latter two contests, Gordon bore that responsibility, stepping forward with measured thought and steadfast resolve. Thus they shared the burden of leadership, neither seeking glory above the other, but acting always for the good of the team.
Yet no part of the tale shall be told more often in years to come than that of Jim and his venerable bowls.
From Port Errol Hall he had brought them — brown of hue, worn smooth by years beyond counting. When first they were espied by certain more seasoned competitors, brows were raised and murmurs stirred.
“Such bowls,” some whispered, “have not been seen these many a long year.”
Others declared — perhaps in jest, perhaps not — that they were no longer lawful for formal contest.
But Jim, undeterred, stood firm.
With the loyalty of a knight defending his ancestral blade, he carried on with those ancient woods. At times they seemed to possess a will of their own, curving with mischief or lingering short when urged long. Yet Jim rebuffed all mirth and muttering, guarding their good name as if they were treasures beyond price. And whether legal or no, they rolled as faithfully as any that day.
Watching over the gathering were Past Provincial Grand Master, Bro. Ronnie Simpson, and Provincial Grand Master Bro. David Wemyss, whose presence lent dignity and warmth in equal measure. Praise was given where shots were true; consolation offered where luck proved fleeting. In their oversight, the spirit of unity shone brightly.
At the midway pause, the competitors laid aside their woods and gathered to partake of a generous buffet. Laughter rose like birdsong. Stories were shared; hands were clasped. The warmth of brotherhood proved as sustaining as the fare itself.
Throughout the afternoon, a raffle was held, generously supported and raising more than £170 for Provincial funds. Many purchased tickets and watched keenly as numbers were drawn.
But here the tale turns strange.
For when the first ticket was called, no claimant stepped forth.
Phil searched high and low for his own tickets, patting pockets and peering into hidden corners as though seeking a lost relic. None could be found. And when no other laid claim to the number drawn, it was deemed — by logic both simple and most masonic — that it must therefore be his.
Thus, it may well be recorded that Phil Anderson became the first man in living memory to win a raffle without possessing the ticket to prove it — a marvel that could perhaps occur only where brotherly love and trust reign supreme.
As the final ends were completed and the tallies reckoned, victory was awarded. Both the Buchan Gordon Trophy and the St. Olaf Trophy were claimed by Lodge St. James No. 256, whose play was composed and relentless.
Worthy runners-up were Lodge Dundonnie No. 1087, bearing home the John Marshall Trophy.
And the Wooden Spoon, newly presented, was accepted in good humour by Lodge Ugie No. 939, whose sporting spirit never faltered.
A most special blessing upon the day was the surprise attendance of PM Bro. Sandy Durno of Lodge Dundonnie, celebrating his 98th birthday — a presence as venerable and heartening as any ancient oak.
When at last the shadows lengthened and the Three of St. Olaf departed for their respective homes, weary yet content, another small trial awaited.
For upon reaching home, Jim made a discovery most inconvenient: his jacket — and within it, his house keys — had been left behind at Mintlaw.
This was not, it must be said, without precedent. Some may recall similar inquiries following the recent Burns Supper: “Has anyone seen my jacket?”
And so, like a knight compelled to retrace his steps to reclaim a forgotten helm, Jim journeyed once more to Mintlaw to recover the missing garment.
Though their campaign did not end in silverware, the Three of St. Olaf bore themselves with dignity, humour, and steadfast fellowship. They supported one another in victory and in defeat; they shared leadership; they faced ridicule with resolve and mishap with laughter.
And it is said among those who witnessed their deeds that this shall not be their final venture upon the long green of Mintlaw. For bonds such as these are not lightly forged, nor easily set aside.
Thus ends the chronicle of Gordon, Jim, and Phil — the Fellowship of St. Olaf — who proved that even in contests of humble woods and quiet halls, there may be found courage, camaraderie, and tales worthy of remembrance.