Delightful mismatch in country of contradictions

IF SCOTLAND aims to be a world leader in the art of contradiction, the nation surpassed itself this diaspora weekend. The sky over the revellers in Holyrood Park – about 30,000 of them on Saturday alone – mimicked the mood of contrast and extremes: one moment grey with rain, the next blue with blinding sunshine.

The stadium crowd swivelled its collective gaze from the well-built physiques of (mostly) American heavyweights tossing cabers and swinging hammers, to the stooped figures of Scottish clan chiefs using the stilted language of post-Culloden defeat to swear in a new set of Clan Council members. The air swirled with a cacophonous mixture of drums from an ad hoc band of bare-chested, long-haired clansmen, formal pipe songs from traditional marching bands in the main arena and amplified electronic melodies of Dougie MacLean and the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on the music stage.

All the time, a question was niggling away: whose gig is this anyway? Is The Gathering a modest Scottish event with American, Canadian and Australian visitors, or are we hosting an OTT event tailored to suit our more emotional overseas cousins?

Standing among the fluorescent plaids, mini-kilts and XXL tartan breeks, it was like discovering a long-lost second family whose members share your habits, songs, dress and "family history", but remain strangers.

The uncertainty of "ownership" permeated the crowd, with Americans and Canadians asking puzzled Scots when the singing was scheduled to start, where each clan would gather and when the procession up the Royal Mile was due to begin. Since the Big Walk cost money, few Scots knew the details; without timings on display, there was an air of not entirely unpleasant ambiguity and confusion.

Meanwhile, at the Diaspora Forum in Holyrood's Debating Chamber, Tom Devine was attempting to de-mythologise the creation of the Scottish diaspora. The historian observed that – compared with other migrations – the Scottish exodus is distinguished by its lengthy duration (800 years and still continuing), its early European focus (the first 19 rectors of the University of Paris were Scots), its scale (half of those born here between 1815 and 1939 left) and latterly its non-Gaelic composition (by 1860, only a tenth of emigrants were Gaels).

All this raised the question: why were Victorian Scots – skilled and educated people – queuing to leave the second richest country in the world? In short, because they were robbed.

Not just by a generation of clan chiefs, but by industrialists paying slave wages to intelligent people with the ambition and confidence to know they deserved better. Or, as Devine put it: "Scots left because of the mal-distribution of the advantages of empire and industrialisation."

Has anything changed? Louise Richardson, the principal of St Andrews University and an Irish-American herself, supported the subtle redrawing of the classic Scottish "victim" of emigration. Scots arriving in America latterly, she said, were driven by ambition, whereas the Irish were driven by desperation.

The Irish experience of being coerced to leave their homes encouraged the creation of support networks in America and a fierce attachment to the old country and old ways. The Scottish experience of largely voluntary repatriation encouraged immediate integration.

So, did the best leave? Is Scotland saddled with the under-performing progeny of people too lacking in ambition to head west, east or south several centuries ago? Not a bit of it, insists Devine. Our experience of migration, assimilation and the current struggle for identity at a sub-national level all make Scots ideally suited to cope with the era of globalisation, just as early experience of European cultures once predisposed Scots to create their Enlightenment.

Back on the streets, the Clan Procession up the Royal Mile was almost humbling. Diaspora Scots – average age 50 – were using used wheelchairs, sticks and Shanks's Pony to make their way up the cobbles. Above St Giles' Cathedral, the road was lined on both sides and banter was flying thick and fast between the onlooking Scots and the participating Americans.

Chants of "Go home ye bums" was taken in good spirit by the Campbells; "Aren't you from the Isle of Man?" was greeted with laughter by the Douglas clan; and "Whaur's your toothpaste" went over the heads of cheerful, waving MacLeans. It took fully two hours for the clan members to pass into the Castle Esplanade and take their places on the scaffolded seating for the performance of Aisling's Children.

I fear I was not alone in feeling disappointed at the fist-waving emphasis on historical minutiae, loss, battle, conflict, confrontation and blood in the play, featuring historical figures and fictional characters from Scottish clan history. As surrounding Canadians put it: "What's this all about?" And one senior SNP parliamentarian said: "Great stagecraft, but too Nuremberg-y for my liking."

People were leaving throughout, although temperatures plummeting on the exposed Esplanade may have been to blame. The exodus stopped abruptly, however, when the "movement specialists" left and the massed pipe bands finally arrived. At last the assembled "Scots" got what they wanted: music.

It gave the chance to celebrate – the chance for a secular, summer version of that Christmas watch-night service – and the feeling (however fleeting and contrived) that we are one family, singing the same songs, recognising the same rhythms, swaying to the same beat.

The weekend was a delightful mismatch. Real Scots were busy doing what we do best – analysing ourselves and trying to rework our past. Diasporic Scots were busy doing what they do best – celebrating, dressing up, waving banners, enjoying the (limited) spectacle on offer, and valuing its epic location.

Ultimately, it has been their event – driven by their passion, curiosity, patience and cash. They came, they saw and they got what they wanted: us. Weird.