Borrowed Passion

Kilts on - Saturday night at Fight Camp - 2025

This weekend Sarah and I spent the weekend in the exceptionally high-brow, London-adjacent town of Balsall Common. There were million-pound cars, thatched roofs and men lunching with their mistresses in the pubs, loudly discussing shareholders, Jeremy Clarkson and his tractors and how generally important they are. We were there, however, to attend a national sword fighting event where I was planning to fight nerds, drink vodka and spend time with our Scottish friends.

We have been friends with this group of Scots for 3 or 4 years. We met at sword events like this one, and over time, they took us in as their own. This group of Scots is called Saorsa, and a nicer group of humans you couldn’t wish to meet. Saorsa is run by two genuinely impressive people that I personally have a lot of time and respect for and because of this, you’re getting a full hit 1990’s gladiator style introduction.

First up, sword expert, teacher, proud Scotsman, two-time Commonwealth Games contender, flippy-spinny stunt woman, double-jointed cyborg of steel, and Shakespearean actor of the actual Globe Theatre in London… Victoria Clowe!

And next up, sword expert, teacher, fellow proud Scotsman, multi-time HEMA gold medalist, world number one ranked singlestick champion, and Scottish history powerhouse… Ben Hamilton

Jokes aside, these two have created something brilliant, authentic and welcoming. Check em out, specially if you’re in Glasgow: https://www.saorsaswords.co.uk/

This weekend, after joking about it for a long time, they did me the great honour of dressing me in a kilt. Not a cheap little kilt from Amazon or something, but like 48 square feet of tartan traditionally folded by a 100-and-something-year-old Scottish wizard, who I’m very pleased to call my friend, Iain. I stood in an old sports hall as the kilt was pleated and folded and then, rather amusingly, I was made into a huge Scottish burrito. After being kilted, we went back to camp and each of them lent me something. Gabriel lent me his sporran and belt; Stuart lent me some flashes (the little doofers that stick out from under your socks) and Jacob lent me his Sgian Dubh (the sock knife). When they were done, I looked, from the outside at least, like one of them.

Maybe it sounds a bit silly, but I was honoured. Truly. There’s something amazing in being welcomed into a tradition like that, especially one carried so proudly by so many people. Standing there in borrowed tartan, I felt fucking phenomenal. They’re amazing people, the Scottish, the music, language, land, and defiance that is hammered into who they are.

There’s a kinship I think, between the Yorkshire people and the Scottish, we understand each other, we know not to get above our station and have a natural suspicion of airs and graces. We love what’s real and reject what’s superficial. We love our hills and land and the weather that others would mistake for a miserable time makes us genuinely happy. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we all get on so well.

I love the Scots and how passionate they can be about their own history and culture, but then there’s a question that’s been bouncing around my head ever since: what is mine?

If Scotland has its kilts and pipes and passionate Highland pride, what does an Englishman like me have? I'm very proud to be from Yorkshire, but I sometimes struggle to find great pride in being English.

We don’t get the romance of rebellion or the grand tale of being conquered and clawing our way back from the jaws of defeat. English history is one of dominance, and dominance doesn’t age well in the telling of tales, and so our history is messier and much more oppressive. We did build those royal monsters down on the quay, sure, but we used them to do things we can’t undo. We dominated half the world, and in place of pride, we in modern England feel kind of quiet, apologetic and often embarrassed.

As I sit here thinking about it, I am realising my pride in England is there, and it’s strong. It doesn’t scream the national anthem or have much respect for our royalty or wave a red and white flag. For me personally, pride is in the way the stone changes from Yorkshire stone to limestone as you cross the border into Malhamdale. It’s remembering my mum and dad being in the bicycle club when I was a kid and riding a tandem. It’s the memories of May pole dancing, flag cracking and wheeling our Guy Fawkes round Silsden in a wheelbarrow. As an adult it’s our hills and land, in my wife’s Yorkshire puddings, our pubs and the way we always apologise even when we’re the ones being bumped into. We’re special the English, but we are subdued.

Maybe that’s the point. Our pride doesn’t need a drumbeat or a banner. We had that once, and we used it well enough, but now it hides in the little things, in country walks, funny little hobbies like morris dancing or HEMA, and in the green valleys we call home. Being with the Scots made me see the contrast, the big glaring difference between their burning fire and our glowing embers, between their songs shouted into the night and our quiet nod across the bar. Both are pride, just different styles of it. Different outcomes from different histories.

Anyway, ramblings aside, it was a superb weekend of swords, good food and great company.

It was a weekend to remember. I didn’t just dress up as Scottish for a day, Scotland was lent to me by friends, by brilliant, loud, proud people. I'm proud too. Proud to be an Englishman in a kilt. Proud to sit round their fire and listen to them sing. Proud to have friends who fucking love their country and try to share it with others.

Here’s to Scotland, and the Scots helping me find a little of my own passion along the way.

Slanj