Exclusive Excerpt From The Long Road To Flin Flon: The Portable House

Lothian & Borders Police Pipe Band, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, 1986. (Middle row second from left)

Introduction by Megan Routledge

There is a unique kind of magic that lives within traditional music, a realization that the melodies and languages we carry are far more resilient than the borders we draw on maps. In this deeply moving chapter from his upcoming memoir, The Long Road to Flin Flon, master piper and storyteller Stevie Connor takes us back to 1986, into the heart of a chaotic, high-energy tour with The Lothian and Borders Police Pipe Band.

What begins as a classic, raucous road story through the summer heat of Nova Scotia, complete with a legendary inventory of empty beer cans, gently pivots into a breathtaking moment of quiet clarity inside a Cape Breton Legion hall. Through a chance encounter with an 86-year-old Gaelic speaker, Connor beautifully illustrates how art and heritage cross oceans, survive migrations, and ultimately build "portable houses" inside our souls.

Pour a dram, sit back, and step into a masterclass on why culture belongs to the people who keep it alive.

Lothian and Borders Police Pipe Band, White Horse Close, Edinburgh, Scotland. (Top of steps, far left)

1986 feels like a lifetime ago, but the memories of that first tour with The Lothian and Borders Police Pipe Band remain etched in my mind, each moment painted with a nostalgic hue. We were a tight-knit group of musicians, bound by a shared passion for our craft and the unique camaraderie that only comes from countless hours of practice, performance, and the open road.

To wear that uniform was to step into a century-old lineage of musical giants. Based in Edinburgh, the band could trace its roots all the way back to 1882, when the city first suggested forming a police musical unit. By 1900, the Edinburgh City Police Pipe Band was officially born. Decades of elite excellence followed. Under Pipe Major Hugh Calder, the band captured the Argyll Shield at the 1919 Cowal Games, the equivalent of today’s World Championship. Later, under the legendary Pipe Major Iain McLeod, the band became an absolute competitive powerhouse, capturing five Grade 1 World Championship titles between 1963 and 1975 under the renamed banner, the Lothian and Borders Police.

We weren't just a competitive engine; we were cultural ambassadors. The band had marched down Princes Street daily during the Edinburgh International Festival, appeared in Hollywood films like Casino Royale, and even traveled to Russia at the absolute height of the Cold War in 1966 to promote British trade alongside Prime Minister Harold Wilson.

By the time 1986 rolled around, that monumental history was settled deep into the fabric of the band. The journey that summer began with an invitation to play at the Halifax Military Tattoo, an honour that felt like a validation of everything we had worked for, and a continuation of the global legacy our predecessors had built.

But Nova Scotia welcomed us with far more than just a formal arena. From the historic streets of Halifax to the enchanting, rugged beauty of Cape Breton Island, the province offered a landscape that felt less like a tour route and more like a dance with destiny.

The Halifax Military Tattoo was a spectacle of military precision and musical prowess. As the skirl of our bagpipes filled the air, the applause and cheers echoed in our ears, a roaring symphony of appreciation that fuelled our passion. But the true spirit of the band was forged after the stadium lights went down, as we embarked on a tour of the province that blurred the lines between reality and reverie.

The Antigonish Highland Games marked the pivotal crescendo of our journey. The competition was fierce, but we played with a fire in our hearts, the notes soaring through the summer air with collective determination. When the announcement came that we had taken first place in Grade 1, the explosion of euphoria set the tone for everything that followed.

We had always embraced a fierce "work hard, play hard" culture, and victory only sharpened our appetite for the latter. Knowing the storm that was brewing, our wise and seasoned tour guide orchestrated a pre-emptive strike, clearing out the beer tent ahead of our four-hour journey to Baddeck on Cape Breton Island.

Our guide’s preparation proved to be a necessary mercy. On that single four-hour bus trip, the band enthusiastically consumed:

3 bottles of Dewar's Whisky

1 carafe of wine

286 cans of Alexander Keith's beer

Our guide was completely astonished. She had proudly secured an amount of alcohol she assumed would last us a week. In those hazy, laughing hours, she was beginning to truly understand the relentless engine of a Scottish pipe band.

Yet, beneath the noise, the late nights, and the empty cans, a deeper momentum was building. The music was settling into our muscles, turning us into a singular, breathing entity. By the time we rolled out of the tranquil haven of Baddeck and into Sydney, that collective energy was ready to boil over.

The energy of a street parade is a physical thing. In Sydney, Cape Breton, the asphalt seemed to vibrate beneath our brogues as the full band marched through the streets. We moved straight from the parade to an open-air concert on a local bandstand, the bright summer sun glinting off cap badges and the silver of our drones. The music was loud, public, and shared with hundreds of cheering strangers, filling the afternoon air with a roaring, collective celebration. But when the concert ended, the spectacle dissolved into something much quieter, and we were invited into the local Royal Canadian Legion for food and refreshments.

Legions have a universal language of their own: the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the heavy smell of draft beer, and the immediate feeling that no matter where you come from, someone is about to make sure you are fed and looked after. The hall was full of laughter, stories, and the easy camaraderie that seems to exist wherever musicians gather.

Amid the bustle, I was guided toward a corner of the room and introduced to an elderly woman. She was eighty-six years old, small and frail in her chair, but with eyes that were sharp and completely alive. I never did catch her name, or perhaps time has simply taken it from me, but I can still see her face with absolute clarity.

Before we spoke, someone quietly mentioned that she spoke very little English. Another person told her, in Gaelic, that I knew a little of the language. I stepped forward and offered the first words, using the polite and respectful form:

"Ciamar a tha sibh an-diugh, a bhean-uasail?" "How are you today, madam?"

The moment the words left my mouth, her entire face changed. Her eyes lit up and her posture straightened. The frailty seemed to disappear as she gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward with an intensity that caught me completely by surprise. For a brief moment, the years fell away.

The Gaelic I spoke had not come from a classroom or a textbook. Years earlier, back in Scotland, an older gentleman named Findlay Morrison had taken the time to teach me. Findlay was a golf professional from the Isle of Harris, but our lessons had nothing to do with fairways or putting greens. They took place face-to-face, in conversations that unfolded slowly over months and years. Findlay spoke the rich, oral Gaelic of the Outer Hebrides.

Patiently, phrase by phrase, he passed it on to me. More than vocabulary, he taught me the rhythm of the language, its cadence, its character, and the subtle sounds that carried generations of history within them. I could never have imagined that the words Findlay gave me in Scotland would one day find their true purpose in a crowded Legion hall across the Atlantic.

As the old lady and I talked, the noise of the room gradually faded into the background. She had lived her entire life in Cape Breton. Gaelic was not something she had learned later in life or rediscovered through a cultural revival; it was simply her language, the language of her home, her family, and her community. It had been carried through generations of Cape Breton families, spoken around kitchen tables, in churches, at dances, and in everyday life.

And then something remarkable happened. She recognized the dialect. Because of the way Findlay had taught me, she immediately heard echoes of the Hebrides in my speech.

"Tha a’ Ghàidhlig agaibh bhon dùthaich," she told me. "You have the language from the homeland."

For her, home was a place she had never seen with her own eyes. Scotland existed in stories, songs, prayers, and memories handed down by parents and grandparents. Yet somehow, in that moment, a piece of it was standing right in front of her.

Hearing those words in Cape Breton, an invisible thread stretched across the Atlantic between us. She reached out and clasped my hands, her grip surprisingly firm. For a few moments, we sat together, connected by a language that had travelled thousands of miles and survived countless generations.

Standing there in that corner of the Legion, I realized something I have never forgotten.

Culture is not tied to geography. It does not belong exclusively to a particular landscape, coastline, or country. Music and language travel with people. They cross oceans. They survive migrations. They live wherever they are carried, nurtured, and shared.

Language and music are portable houses we build inside ourselves.

Years earlier, Findlay Morrison had handed me a key in Scotland. And in a Legion hall in Cape Breton, an eighty-six-year-old woman who had never left her island had quietly opened the door.

Practicing with the band (far left) on Cape Breton Island, Canada, 1986.

At The Sound Cafe we don't simply review music. We explore the stories behind the songs, the journeys behind the artists, and the moments that shape their creative lives. Our role is not to tell readers what to think, but to help them understand why the music matters.

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.