During my first week in Oxford, I stumbled upon a Scottish third year in the college bar. This was startling; I’d only come across one or two students from north of Newcastle so far, and none of them any older or wiser than I was. I quickly took advantage of the opportunity to ask what societies I should join at the Freshers’ fair the following day. 

“Anything but CalSoc”, he said, referring to Oxford’s Caledonian Society. “They’re not actually Scottish. Closest they get is owning an estate up there.” 

This was a sweeping and, I thought, probably inaccurate claim, but in those first few days—homesick, lonely, having my own accent parroted back at me during pre-drinks – I didn’t struggle to believe it. While I’d hoped vaguely that I might eventually be proven wrong, I found very little evidence to the contrary. Those I met who were eager for a ticket might not have been royalty, but they were invariably English, and drawn to the ball’s structure and glamour. Tickets were pricey, and seemed to come on the condition of technical ‘training sessions’. The society’s website provided a list of dances to be learned; I only recognised two. One night in Hilary, I saw a throng of kilts and tartan sashes clustered outside the Town Hall, but as I passed, I heard only the same clipped Southern accents I’d become used to in tutorials. I started to hate-watch the dance videos on their Instagram. All of this cemented in me a vehement – and, I always felt, slightly unfair – distaste for CalSoc. What was ostensibly a familiar cultural practice seemed to me somehow violated, alien. I felt worlds away from the dances of my teenage years, where I would often wake up with mysterious injuries from an over-violent Strip the Willow. Why was something ostensibly so familiar, so ‘Scottish’, so unrecognisable?

I was interested to read Nancy Robson’s recent article on reeling practice for the CalSoc ball – a fresh perspective on what has always been, for me, a very one-sided debate. Yet I was also somewhat disconcerted. The picture that emerged was of a strange fusion between English courtly balls à la Bridgerton and some kind of vaguely Scottish aesthetic (Robson makes a passing reference to ‘Braveheart’; the CalSoc website, more egregiously, to ‘ancient druidic roots’). This is a difficult one to square. The histories of ‘ceilidh’ and ‘reeling’ are intertwined, and equally culturally suspect. In his thoughtful essay on the subject, Greg Ritchie notes that both are the result of a 19th century ‘rediscovery’—and appropriation—of Highland culture, differing only in the use they make of a ‘Scottish identity’. 

But this difference is still important. Caledonian Societies remain the preserve of the South, and of the Scottish elite, while ceilidh dancing is, for better or worse, part of Scotland’s shared social history. It’s taught in every school, and is the central feature of most weddings. I used to organise ceilidhs as community fundraisers. Reeling may not entirely pretend to be a ceilidh, but it does not exist in some kind of cultural vacuum. When we dress up in tartan, and (in the words of the CalSoc website), ‘party as only the Scottish can’, what kind of mythology are we appealing to? Why is CalSoc so English? 

The answer comes in part from its connection to the glamorous ‘reeling circuit’: mainly based in London, this is a season of black and white-tie balls held in royal venues and private member’s clubs. But it’s also to do with the way Scottishness features in the English cultural imagination. As Robson’s article demonstrates, the practices are easily tangled up – and in England, ceilidh rarely comes out on top. She contrasts the formality of CalSoc rehearsals with her previous experience of ceilidh: in a stuffy basement, she found that ceilidh meant ‘descending into a hellish, slightly pagan underworld’. Here, as in reeling societies across the country, ceilidh and reeling are set up as sibling practices – equal in their Scottishness, diverging only in the etiquette they demand. But reeling tends to feel rather out of step with modern-day Scotland. It’s telling, perhaps, that it remains the preserve of lairds and Londoners; yet more telling is its insistence on propriety. The CalSoc website is strict on both dress (‘shorter dresses, jumpsuits, and skirts are not acceptable’) and training (mathematical dance diagrams are provided).While claiming to bring ‘Scotland to the South’, this codification of reeling misses what makes ceilidh so appealing – its inclusivity. CalSoc co-opts, only to gatekeep.

You absolutely should feel like you’re descending into the pits of hell. It will be very sweaty and you will probably be knocked over. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the steps: someone else will lead the way. Ideally you should wake up with bruises. You don’t have to be dressed up, you don’t have to be drunk, and you absolutely do not have to be Scottish. What’s important is that it’s an inclusive and open practice. Ceilidhs have featured in my life since childhood, and still the moment I’ve felt closest to the tradition was in fact in Oxford. My friends and I held an impromptu ceilidh in our living room: there was absolutely no space and no one knew what they were doing. Yet the genuine attempt to engage, the joy and lack of pomp (and black tie) was what made it so special. I don’t disagree with the enthusiasm the CalSoc committee seem to demonstrate; ceilidh dancing is a wonderful practice which can absolutely improve your life. But you don’t need a dance card, training sessions, or an £80 ticket to do so.