Scones, Seasons, and Story: How I Celebrate May Day and Beltane
There’s a quiet shift that happens at this time of year—one you can feel even before you can name it. The days stretch a little longer, the light lingers, and something in us begins to wake up again.
That’s where May Day finds its meaning.
Falling roughly halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice, Beltane, or May Eve, has long marked the turning point into the brighter half of the year. Traditionally, it signified the start of summer—though depending on where you are, the weather doesn’t always cooperate (some places still see snow well into April). More than a strict seasonal marker, Beltane represents anticipation: longer days, warmer air, and the promise that summer is just around the corner.
The roots of the holiday trace back to the ancient Celtic festival of Beltaine, widely observed in Ireland and Scotland. In Old Irish, it was called Bealtaine, and in Scottish Gaelic, Bealltainn—both derived from a word meaning “bright fire.” These fires were central to the celebration, often lit in honor of the Celtic deity Belenus, a god associated with the sun, healing, and light. Historically, Beltane marked the time when cattle were led out to pasture, moving from the safety of winter into the abundance of summer fields.
But what I love most about Beltane isn’t just the symbolism—it’s the sense of community it carried.
My great-grandmother used to tell stories about how her village would celebrate May Day. Everything paused, and everyone gathered in the village center. It was a full celebration—lively, crowded, and full of joy—with a maypole at the heart of it all. There were festivities, music, and tables filled with special foods and drinks, all shared among neighbors. It wasn’t just a gathering—it was a true celebration of the turning season, where the whole village came together to welcome what was ahead.
That kind of tradition stays with you. And for a time, I brought that spirit to life in my own way.
Every year on the farm, I would host May Day festivities—marking the transition with intention, community, and a little bit of magic. On the night of April 30th, we’d have friends and family over for a bonfire, watching the flames rise as a symbol of light returning and the season turning. On May 1st, the celebration continues into the day, just as meaningful—flower crowns made by hand, dancing around a maypole, laughter carrying through the air. I’d cook traditional Scottish recipes—bridies, bannocks , and of course, scones—simple foods that felt deeply rooted and shared.
For me, that same spirit now lives on in the kitchen.
Every May Day, I make scones. Not as a grand gesture, but as a quiet ritual—one that connects me back to her, to Scotland, and to the generations before me who marked this same seasonal shift in their own way. The process is simple: flour, cream, a gentle hand. Nothing rushed, nothing overworked.
There’s something grounding about it.
Especially here in the Arizona desert, where the landscape couldn’t look more different from the green fields my family came from. But somehow, that contrast makes the ritual feel even more important. Because it proves that heritage doesn’t disappear when you move—it adapts. It finds new ways to live.
Traditions don’t have to be loud to be lasting.
Sometimes, they look like flour on your hands, a recipe passed down, and the simple act of remembering.
And in that space—between past and present, between heritage and home—Beltane still burns bright.
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