The Hororata Highland Games

We arrived early, boots still damp with morning dew, the paddocks just beginning to stir. The Hororata Highland Games—held yearly in Canterbury—felt like stepping into a living tapestry of tartan, tradition, and cheeky charm.

First stop: coffee. The kind that warms your hands and sharpens your senses. We sipped slowly, watching the crowd gather near the arena for the medieval mock fights. Chainmail glinted in the sun, swords clashed with theatrical flair, and somewhere behind us, a bagpipe began its mournful wail—like a call to ancestors or a very persistent goose.

Irish dancers—some barely taller than their own socks, others seasoned and sprightly—twirled and tapped with joyful precision. Their smiles were as bright as their embroidered sashes. Around them, stalls bloomed like wildflowers: woolen cloaks, hand-carved trinkets, clan kilts in every imaginable tartan. Steam engine tractors rumbled past classic cars, both polished to a shine that could blind a Highland warrior.

And then—the woollen coffin. Yes, you read that right. A coffin. Made entirely of wool. I stood there blinking, unsure whether to admire or question reality. The mum and daughter beside me settled it:

Mum: “Would be such a shame to cremate that.”

Daughter (laughing): “What would you rather do, display it in the living room?”

I nearly snorted my coffee. That moment alone was worth the drive.

On the far side of the grounds, a lone musician played with the irreverent charm of Billy Connolly’s long-lost cousin. His tunes were half melody, half mischief. Nearby, the strong men and women heaved stones and logs with ancient pride, their grunts echoing across the field like thunder from the Highlands.

We considered the haggis burgers—curious, tempted—but in the end, succumbed to the siren call of sizzling sausages. No regrets.

The sun grew bold, the heat insistent. We left earlier than planned, cheeks flushed, hearts full. Would I go again? Absolutely. Next time, I might even bring a fan… or a tartan parasol.