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“They shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree, and none shall make them afraid”

Micah 4:4

There's Something About a Tree

Yesterday in Glasgow, I met a man from Gambia. We stood talking for a while, and as usual, I find writing inspiration in the people I meet. In most cases the language of their homeland can be culturally revealing in a wholesome way. Although English is the national tongue, Bantaba, in the Mandinka language also spoken in Gambia means a large tree, often a silk-cotton tree under whose shade the community gathers. There they talk, share news, resolve disputes, or simply rest together in the cool of the day. It is a place and an act, a shared ritual that says: we belong to one another.

The image stayed with me as I wandered into sleep last night. Many years ago, I had read a book about Danish housing planners who designed neighbourhoods to encourage social interaction—doorsteps that faced each other, small courtyards that drew neighbours into conversation, benches placed just so, where a passer-by might pause and become a friend. Their aim was to make spaces that nourished human connection.

I thought of how the Bantaba needs no architect, no government policy, no concrete poured in tidy lines. It is as old as the land itself, a tree in the village square, a gift of shade and shelter, patient through seasons of rain and harmattan dust. Its roots hold the earth together; its branches hold the community together.

There is something deeply becoming about the custom. In an age where connection often flickers through pixels on a screen, the Bantaba reminds us that fellowship is best experienced in the flesh; our voices mingling in the open air, our faces visible in the changing light.

It suggested the words of the prophet Micah, speaking of the future peace to come: “They shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree, and none shall make them afraid” (Micah 4:4). The imagery is rich, each person in the safety of their own shade, yet part of a larger, harmonious whole. No one left out. No one threatened. A life where conversation flows as naturally as water in a stream.

Perhaps the Bantaba is a glimpse of that promise, a fragment of the way things were always meant to be. A world where we gather under something living, and in its shelter, we find shelter in one another.

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"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?"

Robert Burns

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Unless you hail from the Baby Boomer generation or earlier, the Hogmanay traditions of yore may seem like quaint relics of a bygone era. Those times left indelible marks on me, filled with vibrant customs that welcomed the New Year with open arms and open doors. In our home, New Year's Eve was an occasion for a grand preparation that transformed the ordinary into the extraordinary.

As the evening unfurled towards midnight, our household would buzz with activity—my mother taking the lead in what we fondly referred to as the "Redding the house." This was no mere tidying up. It was a cleansing ritual, out with the old and in with the new, scrubbing every nook and cranny to a sparkle. The dining table would soon groan under the weight of festive offerings: plates of buttery shortbread, the spicy tang of ginger wine, frothy beers, and the inevitable bottles of whisky.

As the clock's hands edged closer to twelve, a palpable excitement filled the air, akin to the charged moments before a storm breaks. Then, as if on cue, midnight would arrive with a cacophony of sounds—the fireworks bursting in the sky above, the ships moored along the Govan and Partick stretches of the River Clyde blaring their horns in a symphony of celebration.

The tradition of First Footing then took centre stage. It was considered a harbinger of good fortune if the first person to cross your threshold after the bells rang was a tall, dark-haired man. Bearing gifts of coal, shortbread, salt, black bun, and whisky, the first footer was a welcomed guest, embodying warmth, flavour, sustenance, and cheer for the year ahead.

Another integral part of the celebration was the Bells at Midnight. The old church bells, including the Govan Gaelic Church which was across the street on Copeland Road where I lived, would ring out the old year and chime in the new, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within the soul. We would gather to sing "Auld Lang Syne," voices mingling in the crisp night air, hands joined in unity and hearts swelling with hope for the future.

What I miss most about those Hogmanay nights is the element of surprise and community—never knowing who might appear at your door to first foot. It could be uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbours, or friends. This was an era untouched by the immediacy of phones or the internet. Each visitor was a mystery until they stepped into the light of your entryway.

In those days, no one had to be alone during Hogmanay. Whether you were the widow in the next close or the old bachelor next door, you were part of a larger family. The community ensured that everyone had a place to celebrate, a stark contrast to the more solitary celebrations that have crept into modern life.

Reflecting on these traditions, I'm struck by the stark simplicity and the profound sense of belonging they fostered. Today, as the world races towards ever more digital and disconnected interactions, the Hogmanay of my youth serves as a poignant reminder of the power of personal connection and tradition.

Gosh! I miss  those days, though they are now just echoes of the past, preserved in the memories of those who lived them, and, in the stories, we pass down to inspire a new generation seeking the same warmth and community in their own celebratory rituals.

What was your experience ? Drop a note in the comments