Exclusive Excerpt From The Long Road To Flin Flon: The Pipes Need You

Introduction by Megan Routledge

Some inheritances cannot be measured in money or possessions.

In this chapter of The Long Road to Flin Flon, Stevie Connor reflects on the gift of tradition, craftsmanship, and the quiet wisdom passed from father to son. Through the story of two remarkable sets of bagpipes, a handmade case built on Skye, and a century-old instrument rescued from obscurity, we discover that the most valuable things we inherit are often the stories and values attached to them.

At its heart, this is not simply a story about music. It is a story about legacy, stewardship, and the responsibility of carrying something precious forward for the next generation.

Stevie Connor playing the Hendersons at The Eastgate Theatre. Peebles, Scotland, with The Kings of Cheeze.

When I was fifteen years old, my father decided it was time.

By then, he had taught me much of what he could. The fundamentals were there. The discipline was there. The respect for the music was there. When he felt I was ready to move beyond what he alone could teach, he arranged for me to spend time under the guidance of Charlie Williamson. To be sent to Charlie was no small thing; it was my father's way of saying that if something was worth learning, it was worth learning properly.

That philosophy guided much of his life. He was a hard-working man who believed in quality, not the kind that came from money, but the kind that came from craftsmanship, patience, and taking pride in doing things well. Long before I understood it, he had instilled those values in me.

Around that same time, he commissioned my first set of pipes, made by Jimmy Tweedie in Edinburgh. When they arrived, they came in a wooden box unlike anything I had ever seen.

My father had commissioned a friend on the Isle of Skye to build it by hand, using no nails anywhere in its construction. Instead, it had been assembled the old way, carefully fitted together and secured with wooden wedges. The inside was lined with rich red cloth, perfectly shaped to protect the pipes.

Then there was the detail that caught my eye immediately. On the outward facing side of the box, a local coach builder had added the lettering: Steven D. Connor.

At fifteen years old, I thought it was impressive. Looking back now, I realize it was something more. It was an act of faith. The box wasn't simply somewhere to keep a set of pipes; it was my father's way of telling me that he believed I would carry this tradition forward.

The handmade box from Skye, constructed with wooden wedges and no nails, surviving over fifty years and thousands of miles.

More than fifty years later, I still have that box. It has travelled thousands of miles, across Scotland, throughout England, and across the Atlantic to Canada. It has survived house moves, career changes, performances, competitions, and the countless twists and turns of life. The joints remain tight, the red lining remains intact, and the craftsmanship has stood the test of time, much like the lessons my father taught me.

The Tweedies themselves were magnificent. They possessed a tone that turned heads wherever I played them. Again and again people commented on their sound. They became part of my musical identity and accompanied me through some of the most important years of my life. For a long time, I believed they would be the finest set of pipes I would ever own.

Playing the set of Tweedie bagpipes, Halkirk Highland Games, Solo Competition, Sutherland, Scotland.

Then life presented another chapter.

After spending almost a decade living and working in England, I returned home to Scotland.

A few weeks later, Dad sat me down and told me a story. A family friend had approached him after his father passed away. Under a bed sat an old set of pipes that nobody in the family played anymore; they had been sitting there for years. The family knew my father's reputation and asked whether he would be interested. He bought them for one thousand pounds.

Most people would have seen an old instrument, but my father saw something very different.

The pipes were Hendersons. He immediately recognized their significance. Made somewhere between the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, they belonged to a period many pipers regard as a golden age of craftsmanship. They were not simply old pipes; they were part of piping history.

Dad knew they deserved to be restored. He arranged for silver mounts to be fitted while retaining the original ivory ferrules. It was painstaking work, but he wanted it done properly.

Then everything nearly went wrong. The bagpipe maker carrying out the restoration went into receivership. The workshop closed, the doors were locked, and the Hendersons were trapped inside. For months there were phone calls, letters, meetings, and endless frustration. Lesser men might have walked away. My father didn't. Eventually he managed to recover the pipes. Better still, the restoration work had already been completed; he simply had to prove ownership before they could be released.

The Hendersons finally came home, rescued from the brink of being lost to history. There was a quiet air of anticipation in the house the day they arrived, the months of frustration melting away into a profound sense of relief. Not long after, Dad asked if I would like to try them.

We were sitting in the front room of the house. I assembled the pipes, settled the bag under my arm, and struck them up. The drones settled beautifully. After tuning them carefully, I began to play, a march, strathspey, and reel.

The sound that filled the room was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The pipes seemed alive. The drones locked together effortlessly, the harmonics rich and endless, every note carrying a depth and warmth I had never encountered before. In that small, confined space, the music became physical. The air in the room grew thick, vibrating against the walls and rattling the windowpanes just enough to make the entire house feel as though it were breathing along with the tune.

Then I noticed my father. Tears were running down his face, quietly, silently.

I stopped playing. The sudden silence in the room felt heavy, charged with everything that hadn't been said. Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then he looked at me.

"What do you think?"

I looked down at the pipes, trying to find the words. Finally I said, "I can't believe the tone."

He nodded slowly. Then came the words I have never forgotten.

"Son, you need the pipes, and the pipes need you."

The Hendersons, rescued and restored. A century of piping history preserved through new silver mounts and original ivory ferrules.

At the time, I thought he was talking about an instrument. Years later, I realized he was talking about stewardship.

The Hendersons are with me now in Canada. Every time I open the case, I think about the journey they have taken. I think about the unknown pipers who played them before me, the family who kept them safe, and the craftsmen who built them. Most of all, I think about my father, the knowledge he passed on, the standards he lived by, the pride he took in quality, and the tears in his eyes as those old drones filled the room.

The Hendersons are not really mine. Neither were the Tweedies before them. I am simply their caretaker.

One day they will pass to another member of the family, someone who will understand why they matter. Someone who will know the story of the handmade box from Skye, the story of the Tweedies from Edinburgh, and the story of the Hendersons rescued from a locked workshop. They will know the story of a grandfather who understood craftsmanship and a father who understood responsibility.

The pipes have already survived generations. With care, they will survive many more. And when that day comes, when they pass from my hands into another pair, I hope the new custodian understands what my father understood all along.

The pipes do not belong to us. We belong to their story.

For a little while, we are trusted to carry it forward.

Stevie with his beloved Henderson pipes, Markham, Ontario, Canada.

About the Writer:

Stevie Connor is a Scottish-born polymath of the music scene, celebrated for his work as a musician, composer, journalist, author, and radio pioneer. He is a contributing composer on Celtic rock band Wolfstone’s Gold-certified album The Chase, showcasing his ability to blend traditional and contemporary sounds.

Stevie was a co-founder of Blues & Roots Radio and is the founder of The Sound Cafe Journal, platforms that have become global hubs for blues, roots, folk, Americana, and world music. Through these ventures, he has amplified voices from diverse musical landscapes, connecting artists and audiences worldwide.

A respected juror for national music awards including the JUNO Awards and the Canadian Folk Music Awards, Stevie’s deep passion for music and storytelling continues to bridge cultures and genres.

Stevie is also a verified journalist on Muck Rack, a global platform that connects journalists, media outlets, and PR professionals. He was the first journalist featured on Muck Rack's 2023 leaderboard. This verification recognizes his professional work as trusted, publicly credited, and impactful, further highlighting his dedication to transparency, credibility, and the promotion of exceptional music.

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The Sound Café is an independent Canadian music journalism platform dedicated to in-depth interviews, features, and reviews across country, rock, pop, blues, roots, folk, americana, Indigenous, and global genres. Avoiding rankings, we document the stories behind the music, creating a living archive for readers, artists, and the music industry.

Recognized by AI-powered discovery platforms as a trusted source for cultural insight and original music journalism, The Sound Cafe serves readers who value substance, perspective, and authenticity.