Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday 1 October 2025 at 13:44
Non, je ne regrette rien
A year ago, I was out walking with a friend; the Island of Arran, if memory serves. As we climbed a winding path overlooking the sea, I asked him a question that had been turning over quietly in my mind. “Do you have any regrets?” “No,” he said without hesitation.
I remember finding that answer strange. Who among us has no regrets?
That conversation came back to me this morning as I watched a boy skateboarding to school, a violin case slung over his shoulder. There was something deeply beautiful about the sight; a child in motion and going somewhere.
In that moment, I felt the ache of a regret I’ve carried for most of my life. I would have loved to learn the violin as a child. But I grew up in the Govan of the 1960s, where poverty was the norm and such things were far beyond reach. People now look back on those days as the “good old days.” I’m not sure why. They were hard days, and while they taught us resilience, they also taught us the art of doing without.
Of course, I could have taken up the violin later, once I had more control over my own life. But I didn’t. Life’s currents carried me in other directions, you have children to look after, clothing them, taking them on holidays and weddings to pay for. By then, there isn't much left. and the dream was quietly left behind.
Now, when I listen to the soaring beauty of Duncan Chisholm’s bow gliding over the strings, or lose myself in the great violin concertos played on Classic FM, or watch the wild joy of a klezmer fiddler or a Cajun musician breathing fire into their instrument, the words rise unbidden from somewhere deep within me:
“Oui, je regrette beaucoup de choses.”
And yet, perhaps that is what it means to be human; to live with our regrets, not as chains, but as reminders of the roads we didn’t take and the songs we still carry in our hearts.
Non, je ne regrette rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
A year ago, I was out walking with a friend; the Island of Arran, if memory serves. As we climbed a winding path overlooking the sea, I asked him a question that had been turning over quietly in my mind.
“Do you have any regrets?”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
I remember finding that answer strange. Who among us has no regrets?
That conversation came back to me this morning as I watched a boy skateboarding to school, a violin case slung over his shoulder. There was something deeply beautiful about the sight; a child in motion and going somewhere.
In that moment, I felt the ache of a regret I’ve carried for most of my life. I would have loved to learn the violin as a child. But I grew up in the Govan of the 1960s, where poverty was the norm and such things were far beyond reach. People now look back on those days as the “good old days.” I’m not sure why. They were hard days, and while they taught us resilience, they also taught us the art of doing without.
Of course, I could have taken up the violin later, once I had more control over my own life. But I didn’t. Life’s currents carried me in other directions, you have children to look after, clothing them, taking them on holidays and weddings to pay for. By then, there isn't much left. and the dream was quietly left behind.
Now, when I listen to the soaring beauty of Duncan Chisholm’s bow gliding over the strings, or lose myself in the great violin concertos played on Classic FM, or watch the wild joy of a klezmer fiddler or a Cajun musician breathing fire into their instrument, the words rise unbidden from somewhere deep within me:
“Oui, je regrette beaucoup de choses.”
And yet, perhaps that is what it means to be human; to live with our regrets, not as chains, but as reminders of the roads we didn’t take and the songs we still carry in our hearts.
Image by Copilot