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Loch Shin Bagpipe, how the sound of pipes carry centuries of stories

  • Immagine del redattore: Riccardo Pes
    Riccardo Pes
  • 26 apr
  • Tempo di lettura: 2 min

There’s something about the sound of the pipes that feels as though it’s been pulled straight from the land itself. When I played Loch Shin Bagpipe at Lauderdale House last week, I wasn’t just performing—I was trying to bring a piece of the Scottish Highlands into the room.

The piece was inspired by my time near Lairg, where Loch Shin stretches out under vast, moody skies. It’s a place that stays with you—the way the light shifts over the water, the silence of the hills, the wind that seems to carry centuries of stories. Standing there, I understood why the pipes have always belonged to landscapes like this. Their sound is wild and untamed, but there’s a sorrow in them too, something that echoes the loneliness of the glens.


Riccardo Pes performing in Lauderdale House in London
Riccardo Pes performing in Lauderdale House in London

Playing it live, I wanted to capture that duality—the raw, soaring energy of a Highland storm, but also the quiet stillness of the loch at dawn. There’s a particular moment in the tune where the drone hums low and steady, like the deep water of Shin itself, while the melody dances above it, light and fleeting as the northern breeze. I remember closing my eyes and feeling, just for a second, as though I wasn’t in London at all.


I’ve always believed that traditional music isn’t just about notes on a page—it’s about place and memory. The pipes, especially, have a way of holding both. That night, I hoped the audience might catch a glimpse of what I’d felt beside the loch: not just a landscape, but a living, breathing thing.


This was only made possible thanks to public funding from the National Lottery through Arts Council England


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