Caledonian Cider Co.

Let’s be honest: January in the Highlands is usually an exercise in survival. It is a time for huddling by the woodburner, eating things that contain mostly carbohydrates, and viewing the front door with deep suspicion.

However, here at Caley Cider HQ, we have a very good reason to abandon the central heating and go shout at some frozen sticks in the dark.

It’s time to Wassail.

For those of you who know us, you know that our family—much like our cider—is a blend. I hail from the West Country, the spiritual mothership of cider culture. My wife is from the Highlands, where the roots maybe need to be a bit tougher to grip the soil. Our children are a loud, frankly chaotic mixture of both.

This fusion runs through everything we do, but it gets particularly interesting in January when our cultures combine—quite loudly—in the orchard.

West Country Roots in Highland Soil

Where I grew up, January meant Wassailing.

For the uninitiated, this is an ancient custom where we march into the orchards at night, bang pots and pans to scare away evil spirits, sing to the oldest tree, pour cider on its roots, and hang cider-soaked toast in the branches (to attract robins, the guardians of the orchard). The goal is to “wake up” the trees from their winter sleep and ensure a strong harvest.

When I first tried to explain this to my pragmatic Highland friends, they looked at me like I’d suggested we try farming moonbeams. “You want to go out in the freezing dark… to hang toast in a tree?”

It did sound, on reflection, a bit eccentric. I realized that if I wanted to keep my beloved West Country tradition alive up here, it needed a serious Highland makeover.

Enter the Bard

The answer, i decided, lay with Rabbie Burns.

Wassailing happens around “Old Twelfth Night” (mid-January), which is suspiciously close to Burns Night. I realized both traditions share the same DNA: deep winter darkness, good company, excellent booze, and a healthy respect for things that go bump in the night.

In the West Country, we bang pots to scare away nameless evil spirits. In Scotland, the supernatural feels a bit more personal. Burns populated the Scottish night with witches, warlocks, and the Devil himself. He understood that the best way to handle the darkness wasn’t to hide from it, but to roar right back at it.

Suddenly, it clicked. The orchard wasn’t just a field of sleeping trees; it was the perfect stage for a bit of supernatural drama.

The “Address to the Apple Tree”

So, we created our own ritual. A fusion.

We gather in the warmth first, perhaps having a dram or two to steel the nerves against the “biting Boreas” winds. Then, we head out into the dark orchard to find the biggest, oldest tree.

In the West Country, the custom calls for a simple spoken rhyme. But since we are in the land of the Bard, we felt the tree deserved a proper “Address”—think Address to a Haggis, but with somewhat less stabbing. We took the ancient verses, gave them a Highland passport, and raised the volume. We lift our cups and shout:

That is the cue. The children unleash absolute chaos. We bang baking trays, we cheer, and we make enough noise to scare away any lurking ghouls, and probably every badger within a three-mile radius.

The Cleansing Fire

No Burnsian celebration is complete without warmth. The poet often wrote of the “bleezing” hearth, but we prefer a literal blaze in the open air.

Once the shouting stops, we light a bonfire. It serves a dual purpose: it keeps our toes from falling off, and it completes the cycle of the year.

We burn the season’s prunings—sacrificing the old wood to make way for the new growth. And, perhaps less poetically but very satisfyingly, we also burn the ghosts of Christmas Past: the mountain of cardboard packaging and wrapping paper that inevitably wouldn’t fit in the recycling bin.

The Drink: The “Maggie’s Tail”

Of course, it wouldn’t be a fusion without the drink.

In the West Country, we drink hot cider. In the Highlands, we drink whisky. On Wassail night, we combine them. We call this cocktail “Maggie’s Tail”—a nod to the poor horse in Tam o’ Shanter who lost her tail to a pursuing witch.

It is liquid courage—orchard sunshine and Highland fire.

The Feast: Cider Stovies

By this point, shouting at ghosts and drinking whisky-laced cider has usually worked up an appetite. And since this is a Highland Wassail, there is only one dish that fits the bill: Stovies.

Stovies are the ultimate Scottish comfort food—potatoes stewed with onions and meat until they collapse into a delicious, savoury heap. It’s exactly the sort of hearty fare Burns would have enjoyed.

We use the classic Highland ingredient—Corned Beef—but we give it an orchard twist. Instead of using just water, we swap half the liquid for Dry Cider. It adds a sweetness that cuts right through the saltiness of the bully beef.

No Orchard? No Problem.

You might be thinking, “That sounds lovely, but I live in a second-floor flat in Glasgow and my only tree is a bonsai.”

Do not let that stop you. The spirit of the Wassail—waking up the year and scaring off the gloom—applies everywhere. If you want to join us from afar, here is how to do it:

• The Tree: A big tree in your garden or a nearby park. Even a supermarket basil plant on the windowsill, if you’re desperate.
• The Noise: You aren’t warding off pests. You are scaring away the “January Blues.” Bang a pot, cheer, and tell the darkness it’s time to beat it.
• The Toast: Raise a glass of cider (or a Maggie’s Tail) and wish for good health and growth, whatever that looks like for you this year.

It’s a mad tradition, but it’s our tradition. It brings together the cider culture of the south-west and the storytelling soul of the north. So, if you hear a racket coming from our direction this month, don’t worry. We haven’t lost our minds.

We’re just waking up the apples, Highland style.

Slàinte!