A Buddhist monk was much given to wandering the world, seeking what could be said to be Nirvana on Earth. Eventually, believe it or not, he happened upon a tiny village in the Scottish Highlands, tucked away from the worries of the world in a forgotten glen.
Such was the unworldliness of this wee collection of huts that they had no television, no electricity, they hadn’t even heard (or had mercifully forgotten) that such a thing as haggis existed.
Indeed, such was the spiritual kinship the monk found here that he decided his quest was over and he settled down. Whilst he did nothing to change the even tenor of the lives of the villagers, he thought, with his much greater experience, that his own wanderings had given him an appreciation of keeping his body in trim and gradually he introduced a degree of aerobic exercise to the clanpeople by introducing a more vigorous form of dancing than was currently in vogue. The villagers took immediately to the “hardshoe” battering style, as opposed to the “softshoe” shuffling they were wont to perform previously.
The people blossomed, and after many years the monk decided that it was time to pass into the cycle, and went and lay down on his modest cot, with his friends around him. A “wake” had been organised in his honour and the music throbbed as the dancers battered the floor. A serene smile passed over his face as he gazed at the tearful yet smiling faces. A faint whiff of heather came in on the breeze and with a final thrill of pleasure he heard the sound that he had at last come to understand – -
The sound of one clan tapping.