In northern Scotland they dance on the hillsides. Outside of every village. It’s cold, even in summer, and the wind always blows, but you can see them there every evening. Even when it’s spitting snow. The old and young in kilts and gowns green and blue; unfazed by the modern world, by modern life. Dancing on the ground that their ancestors won and that they no longer have to win. Sometimes the music is serious and slow, but often it is of a sort that calls the dancers to skip and shout.