The Great Sabbatical of St. Olaf – A tale of fortunes lost and lessons learned!
In the summer of the Year of our Lord 2025, under skies both fair and fickle, the brethren of Lodge St. Olaf did set forth upon a journey spoken of in whispers and recorded in scroll and song — The Sabbatical. No common errand this, but a hallowed tradition marked by feasting, folly, and the forging of bonds unbreakable. What follows is the true and noble account, set down in reverence, mirth, and memory, so that it may be told beside firelight in years yet to dawn.
The Mustering at St. Olaf
From the hallowed halls of Lodge St. Olaf 1188, beneath the gaze of square and compass and the weight of years, the Company assembled. Four Past Masters, bearers of experience and wisdom, stood ready: Bill Murray the Stoic, Jim Conner the Wanderer, Gordon Mackay the Taleweaver, and Gordon Day-late the Dwarf, so named as much for height as for habit.
To these elders were joined four young Masters, newly kindled by the fires of freemasonry: Josh McLean, eager and wide-eyed; Andy Phipps, merry and bold; Ross Nyberg, silent but keen; and Andy Crawley, the Organiser, a role of honour and burden both, and his first of his time.
Two more would swell their ranks: Vern Nathan, who would be gathered like a wayward ranger en route, and Sandy Tweddle, who would arrive alone, borne on the iron steed of the railway, already seasoned by the tonic of juniper and mischief.
The Road and the Rivalry
As was custom writ in elder days, the fellowship was split: three Past Masters journeyed together in calm confidence, while Day-Late the Dwarf joined a younger company to lend both mirth and guidance. A third party swept up Vern like a ranger in waiting.
Wagers were whispered on the wind: who would be first to reach the fabled gates of Dundee? The young ones, sure of speed, bristled with pride. But the elders, wise in the way of the road, paced themselves like Aesop’s tortoise, content in quiet certainty.
And lo! It was the ancient ones who arrived first, greeted by the breeze off the Tay and the smirks of fortune. The young ones trailed in their wake, flustered with delay, not least from a detour to procure ales which now cooled like relics in the sacred tub of their lodging chamber.
Of Gin, Moonlight, and the Splitting of the Fellowship
Evening fell, and with it arrived Sandy Tweddle, alighting from the rails already three Gins deep and ready for folly. He was met by Josh and Phippsy, whose own intentions for revelry were proclaimed with the same fierce resolve as a bold king rallying his warriors before the dawn of battle — a fellowship united in mirth and mischief against the coming night.
One by one, the men of the lodge assembled, drawn from from their lodging rooms and dim-lit corners of the bar, their footsteps echoing with purpose on the carpeted halls of the Premiere Inn. There was Jim The Wanderer, bearing a flask said to have passed through seven hands and never run dry; and Andy Crawley the organiser, who laughed as though thunder itself answered to his call. Cloaked not in mail but in casual attire of every kind, they came – trainers clean, spirits high, and hearts made stout by drink and brotherhood.
With voices raised and footsteps swift, they spoke of the road to Tazas — not as a simple journey, but as a pilgrimage of jest and jubilation. And though none could say what trials might meet them there — be they errant hens, a closed bar, or the dreaded absence of Guinness, they marched nonetheless. For this was a night foretold in text chains and long plotted in the Level, the night of the Gathering, when all debts of cheer would be paid in full.
Thus they set out, not in ranks of steel, but with shoulders armed and tales half-remembered, a band of merrymakers bound for glory, or at least for whatever awaited them just beyond the glow of the last streetlamp.
A feast was held at the Tazas Emporium, a palace of spices and savour, and there the company broke bread and breathed fire. But as the ale flowed and the hour grew late, the Fellowship sundered — not in quarrel, but in the pursuit of different dreams.
The long tables groaned beneath platters of seared lamb marinated in cardamom and clove, pyramids of golden samosas, and vats of lentils that simmered like molten earth. Chutneys lined the edges like jewels: tamarind, mint, mango—each a burst of heat or honey on the tongue.
Between mouthfuls, laughter rang like steel on stone, sharp and bright. Old stories were retold with exaggerated flair, and mock duels were fought with breadsticks in place of blades.
Even the walls seemed to lean in, rich with the scent of turmeric and laughter, holding the warmth of kinship in their painted tiles. Jests flew faster than the servers could refill the goblets, and insults were traded with affection as thick as the yoghurt drizzled on spiced kebabs.
And then, like embers drifting from a dying hearth, they rose one by one—some to dance, some to dream, some to disappear into the night—leaving only echoes, and a table still warm with memory.
The elder Past Masters sought havens of peace and dim-lit corners for reflection. The younger brethren plunged into noise and nectar, wandering the wilds of Dundee’s merriest dens. Of what was seen or done, few tales may be told, but whispers speak of howls at the moon, and a certain Tweddle transformed beneath its Waxing Gibbous light – playful, wild, and largely harmless. Yet from this time forth, children will be warned in the streets of Dundee to be mindful of the Tweddle in the Waxing Gibbous moon…
The Trials of the Races
Dawn came with groans and blinking eyes. The Company assembled once more, though some, notably young Josh, were but shadows of their former selves, sipping Coca-Cola with the reverence of Elvish wine.
Day-late the Dwarf ventured in vain for a fabled Greggs of the Railway, chasing legend and returning empty-handed, mournful and meat-pie-less.
Two parties now took to the road once more: four by carriage piloted by Crawley the Organiser, and five by train to the fair city of Perth, whence they journeyed to the sacred grounds of the Races.
There, amidst trumpets and turf, a table was claimed near the holy trinity of sustenance: ale, fish and chips, and lavatory. From here the brethren beheld both the noble and the numpty — all walks of man, and woman, gathered for glory.
Wagers were placed, breath was held. Of the three great tips whispered that day, two were victorious, and one fell just short of being placed. A collective loss, yet personal triumphs abounded – except for Bill Murray the Stoic, who cast away a winning slip in error, now lost to the winds of fate. His cry of lament echoes still across the racecourse and shall be recited in future Sabbaticals as a warning and a jest.
The Twilight of the Tale
Josh, once bold and bounding, was now broken, nursing colas and coffee with a solemnity unseen since Sabbaticals of yore. Others fared better, but none remained untouched by the revels.
Returning to the Premier Inn, the brethren did feast simply at the Beefeater, no longer seeking foreign spice or daring draughts. The night closed in quiet, with reflections whispered like prayer and laughter echoing softly through the corridors.
Josh, gazing into the tub still filled with floating cans like ghosts of mischief past, understood at last the eternal lesson: no matter how invincible the spirit feels at the start, the price of indulgence must always be paid.”
Of Legends and the Laying Down of the Tale
Thus ended the Sabbatical of 2025. Riches were lost, livers were tested, and legends were born. Some mourned the absence of Greggs. Others yet speak of the werewolf of the Gibbous Moon. And all kept a watchful eye, as ever, on Jim Conner the Wanderer, whose uncanny knack for vanishing mid-step and then reappearing some time later was long suspected to be the work of a hidden talisman — a ring, perhaps, or some forgotten charm of the Elder Days — granting him the powers of vanishing at will, to the constant bafflement and mild exasperation of his brethren.
Already, there is talk of the next great journey. Maps are being drawn, ales are being brewed, and whispers stir in the Lodge once more.
And so the road goes ever on.
Written as the days approach mid-summer, beneath the Sign of the Compass and Square, by the Chronicler of the North, who was there, and remembers.