To me, ceilidhs are an essential part of the University of Edinburgh experience.
The mere suggestion of an upcoming ceilidh is enough to send my group chat into a frenzy, sparking a scramble for society memberships, tickets, and the careful coordination of an even-numbered group.
My very first ceilidh was a night to remember. It was at Lendrick Muir during the first night of a Christian Union weekend away and I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. My equally clueless friend and I made such a spectacle of ourselves that the photographer followed us around hoping to capture the chaos. We were so uncoordinated that we posed a real threat to the groups around us, with whom we had to spend the rest of the weekend. It was mildly traumatising but also exhilarating and I haven’t been able to stay away since.
I remember feeling genuine confusion when talking to a second year who told me he had never been to a ceilidh and wondered whether it was due to a lack of opportunity, or a deliberate choice
For the easily embarrassed, I understand that there is something daunting about the skipping and twirling of ceilidh dancing, and perhaps that explains why most of the ones I’ve been to tend to be heavily female dominated. The possibility of tripping and losing footwear is very real (trust me, I would know!), but so is the possibility of laughing until your stomach hurts, meeting new people, and having a wonderful time.
And yet, despite my enthusiasm for them, I’ve come to realise that the ceilidhs I know and love are all of a very specific type. Reading Carol McKay’s poem Ceilidh which conveys frustration at the formalisation and dilution of ceilidhs over time made the limits of my experience clear. The ceilidhs I’ve been to are always led by an external band, always filled with University of Edinburgh students, many of whom are learning the steps for the first time.
McKay’s poem recalls a more immediate and instinctive energy: the ceilidhs of her childhood, where a spontaneous shout from across the room was enough to start the dancing. No hired band, no caller, no ticket required.
Her account recalls the atmosphere of the very first ceilidhs. The word ‘céilidh’ comes from Gaelic, meaning simply “visit” or “gathering.” Originally, ceilidhs were organic evenings of storytelling, music, poetry, and dance, with no programme and no set end time. Today’s ceilidhs, by contrast, are far more structured affairs, focused almost exclusively on dancing. The blended, spontaneous spirit of its roots has largely been lost.
However, ceilidhs have historically served a purpose greater than just socialising. In times of social and political upheaval, they were instrumental in maintaining cultural identity and keeping alive traditions under threat. After The Battle of Culloden in 1746, clandestine ceilidhs were held in defiance of British restrictions on Gaelic customs. These were small, stubborn acts of cultural preservation.
I’ve found that today’s ceilidhs still carry real cultural significance. They expose students from all over the world to traditional Scottish music, dance, and dress. The traditional ending of a ceilidh with ‘Auld Lang Syne’ is a cultural experience in itself and was my first encounter with Robert Burns.
One of the wonderful things about the University of Edinburgh and Scottish universities more generally is that ceilidhs are woven into the social fabric in a way they simply aren’t elsewhere. They appear at balls, freshers’ events, society events, and each time they create an atmosphere that a regular dancefloor cannot replicate. You may arrive with your own group, but within minutes you are mixed and matched with strangers, giggling and stumbling into organic, breathless conversation with people whose names you do not yet know. There is something surprisingly intimate about a ceilidh, and surprisingly physical. For a generation that increasingly socialises through screens, this kind of joyful and physical form of human connection feels invaluable.
Though they are centuries apart, ceilidhs in the 19th century and ceilidhs in 2026 both serve the same purpose: they preserve and share Gaelic customs with newcomers, bringing people together to dance, laugh, and lift spirits through long stretches of cold, wet Scottish weather.
“ceilidh” by cobaltfish is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.