Back to the Basics.

GO NORTH FROM the industrial city of Glasgow, home of the Royal Scottish Ballet, and then head west, out to far-flung Atlantic islands that have played a role in Scotland's bloody history far greater than their diminutive size might suggest. Scotland's Hebrides support sheep, fishing, tourists and lively traditions of language, music, crafts--and dance. Harris and Lewis, for example, are really one long island divided by a range of inhospitable, boulder-strewn mountains, but they produce the world-renowned Harris tweed, still made by hand on looms in islanders' homes. And where there are long, dark winter days of work indoors, you can bet there will be informal community gatherings in the evening to lift the spirits, to restore human perspective and health. This kind of friendly gathering is called, in the native Gaelic tongue that is spoken by 90 percent of the inhabitants, a Ceilidh, pronounced kay-lee. In addition to telling stories, singing songs, and playing bagpipes and (these days) electric guitars, the Ceilidh is an occasion for dancing. And, some islanders would insist, a very specific Hebridean dancing at that. The Ceilidh is attended by people of all ages--very much like casual gatherings during the holiday season that is upon us again this month.

Within hours of my arrival this fall on the Hebridean Isle of Skye, I had an invitation to my first Ceilidh. Traditionally, these were held around the smoking peat fires in crofters' "black houses" (no chimneys to carry away the thick peat smoke, which was allowed to seep out through chinks in the thatched roof). Today, Ceilidhs are sometimes held outdoors in clear weather or, as in this case, on a postage-stamp-size stage raised barely higher than the full house of about forty enthralled people in the village hall of Portree. There was no fire in the center of the room, no hole in the roof for smoke, and the dancing took place on a wooden floor instead of hard-tamped earth. One other concession to modern times: no smoking. I was also told that this year's award-winning dancers (yes, they compete regularly, and fiercely) had to return to mainland schools. Still, with some imagination, you got the picture.

The evening's host, local historian Donnie MacKinnon, dressed in his family plaid kilt, played interlocutor. He sat directly in front of his performers, introducing each, giving a brief history of family connections and urging them on to do what one supposes they do best. Audience participation was also heartily encouraged, but we were shy and a bit intimidated by some of the very vigorous performers. For example, one man, who worked at the ferry company in Uig, announced that he was looking for a wife and any interested parties could meet him out back afterward for dinner. And then he sang, a cappella, a Scottish ballad with ten verses, in Gaelic.

Because of the traditionally small size of the room, I soon understood why dancing indoors evolved over generations into limited use of arms, torsos and legs. The desire is for containment and safety. Hebridean dances were first recorded during the nineteenth century by a Barra Island man, Ewan MacLachlan, who had lived in France and chose to use French classical terms, in Gaelic. And his notation remains the primary source for other, far more ancient forms dating back to the late Iron Age or earlier. "Authentic" Hebridean dances, I learned, could be seen up until World War I, after which influences from the newly connected outside world began to creep in. Hebridean dancing, however, remains distinctly different from other Scottish forms, in that the knees are more bent than you find in Highland forms, and the presentation is more relaxed, following softer rhythmic lines. Local people can point to these distinctive qualities right away, and do.

The tunes to which the dancers perform are such old favorites as "Dornoch Links," "The Twa Bonnie Maidens" and "The Wee Man at the Loom." The dances tend to commemorate island events, such as the circling of roosters before combat, the heated protests against the closing and consolidation of small island schools, or hopping about from island to island during the second Jacobite Rebellion (1745) in order to catch up with Bonnie Prince Charles, who fled for his life in a rowboat, dressed as the national heroine Flora Macdonald's Irish maid.

One of the dances I saw had its origins in the nearby Highlands and depicted a deer leaping over rocky hills, thus becoming a "Highland fling." Hebridean dancing, however, has a distinct quality of loose control that is evident in the distribution of weight, the speed and direction of traveling, the tight elbows, even the straight spine and forward presentation. The names of the sets and steps are taken from such familiar forms as the hornpipe or the soft shoe or even tap dance. (Their tap dance seems to have preceded American-style tapping by centuries, although I am told the two forms are quite different.) In one of the performances I was fortunate enough to see, however, the young dancer seemed to have had some ballet training, which suggested another twentieth-century incursion.

Donnie MacKinnon was careful to point out, however, that the dancing here, on these islands, was more authentic than elsewhere in Scotland, and especially in Ireland where, he said, "they have gone all commercial." The reference was to Riverdance and its spinoffs, sensationally successful touring companies of Irish-style performers.

When fortunate, the dancers might be accompanied by a local brigade of bagpipes, fiddles and concertinas. Barring that, however, a single energetic piper can achieve the same effect, particularly indoors. I was fortunate to hear a very talented young piper, Hector MacKenzie, back from Gaelic studies at a nearby university. He accompanied one of the dances, and his repertoire of bagpipe tunes is extensive.

These islands have never been generous to the inhabitants, but the Scots who inhabit them are, in my experience, an exceptionally generous people, willing to share what they have with the world beyond. Both Donnie and Hector have a keen interest in local traditions and, with the help of local talent, want to keep as many of the old ways perking as possible. The fear that these will be lost as we progress into the twenty-first century is a very valid concern. As with many such things, we should value them. While we can.