Mister Glenn, 1960
Updated: 2 days ago
Elizabeth did not doubt Mr Glenn’s kindness for a moment. The reporter, who worked for an English broadsheet, had travelled to Scotland for a feature on Scottish weaving, which she was to learn about from a master in the art. The man’s name was Mr Glenn, and he was a gracious host.
“No, thank you, I can’t drink whisky at this hour of the day,” Elizabeth said politely.
“Now that’s a shame. This dram’s from the new distillery. It’s our national beverage, up here,” he said with pride. “So, what brings you as far as Inverness?”
“The beautiful landscapes, mostly. All these lovely mountains wooded with Scots pines. I miss the scent of the forest.”
“So is this your first time in the Highlands?”
“No, I come quite regularly,” Elizabeth responded politely.
Mr Glenn lived in Inverness. He loved weaving second only to the Almighty, as he put it so well. His passion and pride was weaving tartans in traditional colours, which were then sold to the London elites. The Scottish weather was always ill-tempered; the air was wet and the sky was grey, but the pride in their wool was deep-rooted in the people of Inverness. Indeed, Scotland had more sheep than any other country on the continent. “What continent do you mean?” asked Elizabeth. “We are on an island here… Great Britain.” “And in the Highlands we’re on a dozen islands,” Mr Glenn went on, working his shuttle. He worked devotedly, relentless in his effort to complete the tartan. Tartan is a wool fabric featuring colourful square patterns. More precisely, the pattern is made up of criss-crossing horizontal and vertical lines in many hues. In technical terms, tartan is made with alternating bands of pre-dyed threads woven in matching warp and weft; the bands of colour are repeated vertically and horizontally, to form a pattern of squares and lines known as the sett.
“Every clan has its own sett: green and blue for the MacKenzies, bright red for the MacGregors, yellow and black for the MacLeods of Lewis,” Mr Glenn explained. “Be careful, though. Nowadays tartan means a fabric woven in the Highlands, but originally it just meant the way threads were woven to make the fabric. Will that help you for your article?”
“Thank you indeed! I work for the Morning Sun. My editor will certainly be happy with your explanations.”
“Well then, have a glass of whisky. Let’s not beat about the bush!” laughed Mr Glenn, setting down his shuttle and picking up his glass.
For Mr Glenn, weaving was an eternal act of starting over. Londoners were obsessed with their fashions; once they’d worn their tartan all through autumn and winter, they bought more for the year ahead. He concentrated. Weaving was man’s work, after all. His threads were always perfectly straight and parallel, in both warp and weft. “By contrast, the thread of a knitted fabric follows a meandering path, forming symmetrical loops or links successively above and below the middle line. These meandering links can easily be pulled in any direction,” he explained.
“Do you think of yourself as British?” Elizabeth asked him.
“No, my heart will always be Scottish.”
“And are you proud of that?”
“For many reasons. Our wool, our whisky. And our poet.”
“Your poet?” Elizabeth asked, curious.
“Rabbie Burns, one of the greatest of all time,” grinned Mr Glenn. “He was a great, strong man. A man of simple country ways, not some foppish clown, and he wrote odes to the joys of a simpler life. You should talk to your editor about Robert Burns. I’m sure he’ll have heard of him.”
“Do you know any of his verses by heart? I don’t suppose you could recite one for me?”
“I know this one, but I advise you to take your time and read it yourself one day.”
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,Frae morning sun till dine;But seas between us braid hae roar’dSin’ auld lang syne,
the old man intoned.
“How very pretty!” the journalist exclaimed.
Alan Alfredo Geday