Under The Kilt
I have memories of weaving through the sharp, grassy dunes of the Scottish coast, a hot, heavy mist mixing with the grey of the sky. I’m holding a bucket which is clattering against my leg as I run but I’m too excited to notice the scratches forming. I try to spot a Sandworm leave its gritty home. I search for ‘Mermaid’s Purses’, little egg cases of certain breeds of small shark. My toes squidge in the gloopy sand as I trudge back to the car, salt stinging the graze on my knee.
The quintessential British ‘beach day’ is quite different from a day by the sea in most other countries. Living in the land of sharp winds and arctic waves doesn’t allow for a tropical day out. This coldness runs deep in the veins of the Scots in more ways than one. I remember my golden-brown, Southern cousins being shocked by me and my sisters’ pale, almost bluish Scottish complexion. Skin that was always hidden by scratchy, woollen jumpers and slathered in factor 50 the second a sunbeam poked out behind a cloud. I had no clue that people could get a ‘tan’. I had never questioned my ghostly paleness seeing as I very rarely had my body on show.
As a child I was very uncomfortable with nakedness and would avert my eyes from the old ladies stripping in the pool showers. I couldn’t believe that they just didn’t care? I thought they must not realise others can see them.
As I got older, these feelings of confused modesty became insecurity. I convinced myself that I was flawed and alone in my feelings, surely every other girl was perfect? I had never really seen other girls’ bodies, only behind the filters of social media. This belief followed me throughout my life and became reality. For if you convince yourself of something enough then eventually it is fact.
A while ago, I went swimming with a friend, and this 10-year belief vanished from my brain like a parasite flushed from a fish. Was I cured? As I looked around at the swarms of beautiful girls jumping off the pier or licking ice creams on the grass, I realised it had all been a deep-rooted delusion. If I had walked past these women in the street, I would have subconsciously undressed them in my mind and pictured them as having perfect, child-like bodies. But this wasn’t true. Everyone had stretch marks, cellulite, scars, and bruises from their last night out. It sounds ridiculous, but I had little concept that most people look normal, human, and no less beautiful than before. If anything, nothing is more attractive and animal than being totally comfortable and strong in your nakedness.
I was thinking about how growing up in Scotland, nakedness is not something you ever saw or became comfortable with. The closest you saw to someone in a swimming costume was the crazy man who swam in the frozen sea every morning at 6am. Even he was wearing a wetsuit.
I’ve heard many Brits who make the move to Australia are quite taken aback by the amount of skin on show at all times—tanned, muscular bodies in tiny bikinis every day, without a care in the world. This is quite a culture shock for the stiff-upper-lip Brits. It just comes down to never really seeing yourself undressed, only on holiday. Never being in a public place without sporting jeans and a puffer jacket.
Living in a hot country desensitises you to shame surrounding nudity; your body is no longer a secret vessel, but just you. Once you learn that a body is just a body and not something that defines your character those insecurities don’t eat away at you.
One interesting observation about the connection between prudish culture and the cold is that the Scandinavians don’t seem to have this problem at all. Just like the Scots, they thrive in a predominantly cold habitat, with warm summers that creep up on you. Yet the Scandi’s are very comfortable with nakedness. Reclining in towel-less saunas and cooking breakfast in the nude. Perhaps their more laidback attitude to life mimics their attitudes to their bodies also. Why didn’t the Vikings bring this mentality over when they very kindly invaded us? The British self-hatred is so powerful it somehow outlives invasion and continues on.
Last week, I was swimming with a friend when a lady came and sat next to us. She took off her bikini top and dove into the water. She floated topless on her back, her breasts pointing out of the water and toward the sky. Everyone around us stared in slight horror, and I definitely found it a bit difficult to continue my conversation without giggling. Some things never change.
Eventually, she climbed back onto the dock and walked away, breasts still on display. I looked around and tried to gauge the vibe of the Dutch people surrounding me, catching everybody side-eyeing each other. This intrigued me, as clearly, opinions about public displays of nudity differ here compared to other European countries where nobody would bat an eyelid. I guess you could say the same about being topless on a French beach versus strolling around half-naked in Cambridge.
There is an ancient Scottish tradition where men are supposed to be completely nude under their kilts. A Highland military custom to display strength and fearlessness, the bravest of warriors bared it all (and risked losing it all too…) There is an air of mystery at a wedding, whispers and jokes about whether the groom is sticking to tradition. However, one gust of wind will show you nobody has taken the leap, everyone is secure and within their comfort zone in their Calvin’s. God forbid.
