LANARK LANIMER DAY
An ancient celebration held within the Royal Burgh of Lanark on the Thursday between the Sixth and Twelfth days of June annually since the year 1140.
 

Lanarkian's Corner - From Another Corner

"A time to cheer ...'

Ten years ago I saw my First Lanimer procession.

The crowd are silent, foot-stamping, swaying, slightly blue at the edges in the cold wind. They could, given a few costumes, do excellently as the Paris citizenry in a French Revolution film. There is the same grim expectancy, the same air of awaiting the victims. It is time the tumbrils rattled down to Madam Guillotine at the Cross. The V.I.Ps in the front benches are about to whip out their knitting and start counting. Sullen muttering eddies from the mob.

Something is coming. Two steps behind their music appears a brass band, red cheeks extended, corporations firmly belted, playing with massive determination. Behind them trot, says my programme, the Lord Cornet and his supporters (A bodyguard against popular attack? On horseback for a quick getaway?).

Now is this Birnam Wood approaching? No, it is "The Birks". Does this refer to foliage or men? But I do know their purpose. They form a screen behind which the Town Council approach, bobbing and smiling in eager propitiation to their peers. Will the hostile mob attack now ? Or will the dignitaries safely make it out of town?

My eyes are caught. A pagoda sways forward. In clear blue and yellow, it is perfectly proportioned, beautiful, remote, startlingly realistic. Its tiny occupants are convincingly Chinese, kimonoed, almond eyed, clinging to projectiles, perched on ledges, peeping through slits. It's marvellous! Breathtakingly beautiful.

And here's the Old Woman's Shoe. Lovely! Who could think up and plan it ? Look at the lace of the shoe. And the eyelets. The windows open. There's a garden behind it. Even smoke from the chimney.

A swarm of bees. What perfect costuming! The wings are transparent and shimmering. And what a hive! How does it move? It must have a car under it. but it glides and pauses seemingly of its own volition.

Roman soldiers, slaves, weapons, banners; fairies galore; a perfect mediaeval castle complete with a moat; a group of young men with slit skirts, sausage bosoms and hair curlers in a steamie scene, doing slap-stick stuff with the crowd; a rainbow with its pot of gold; a giant Christmas card. What a display! What versatility! What ingenuity! I can respond only in superlatives.

But where is the outburst of spontaneous cheering at the sight of each masterpiece ? Where the gasp of delight, the huzza and hurrah? Open hostility has perhaps gone, but stoic numbness and dumbness reign where I expect joviality and bonhomie.

Monte Carlo shouts "Vive! Oh-la-la!" at its flower festival; Lanark emits a grudging "No' bad". New York snows down ticker tape; Lanark drops the casual ice lolly paper. The Rio male at the Mardi Gras seizes the nearest senorita and flings into instant flamenco; the Lanarkian shifts weight from one sore foot to the other, nudges his wife and demands a sweetie.

How can the ladies flanking each float keep the enamelled perfection of their smiles and studied nonchalance without the encouragement of appreciation ? How can the hundreds of children suffer the lack of visible and audible praise?

But they do.

All that was ten years ago. I am now a naturalised citizen, as civically proud and partisan as a seventh generation native, resenting any criticism from the unenlightened outsider. Lanimers is Lanimers is Lanimers. It is every proud child and fond Mama, and new rig-out, and beautiful car, and glamorous courtier, and street hawker, and patient policeman, and tramped-on toe, and skirl of the pipes and moment of sentiment—and dour-Scot onlooker with his Right to Refrain from Showing Emotion. VIVE LANIMERS!