In Slovenia, we see the Kurents three times. All my life, a small Kurent has been displayed on the top of our cabinet. I was proud to exhibit him for a primary school talk. The little Kurent, like numerous fridge magnets and tea towels, link us Scots to the European country. Far greater than a souvenir, our cousin Kaja, half-Scot, half-Slovene, is a beautiful manifestation of that bond. Though she is taller than her Scottish relatives, with dark eyes and tanned skin, her temperament is trademark Campbell. The clan returned to Slovenia on this occasion to celebrate Kaja’s eighteenth birthday. Her party timed impeccably with Kurentovanje, the Kurent festival which marks the start of spring. Off the plane, we are collected across the border from Zagreb airport. We unwind at Celan, the family restaurant. Our cousin’s relations come to greet us. Some have no English but smile widely all the same. There is cabbage, tomatoes soaked in pumpkin oil, mushroom soup and fluffy apricot doughnuts. We toast in English, Scots’ Gaelic and Slovene, clinking our glasses filled with homebrewed and bruised purple schnapps. In the morning, we bundle into a minivan. The drive is filled with memories, like the cornfields we took many walks in beside the gargantuan Labrador Sunny. We see Ptuj castle in the distance, known in our youth as the ‘Barbie Castle’. On the right, Terme Ptuj reminds us many hot summers spent in their pools and loungers. Striped green fields lie beside the backroads. The Drava river shimmers. On arrival, the parade begins on the bridge into Ptuj. Medieval Ptuj is picturesque with its red tile rooves against a clear, bright day. The onion clocktower looms, adorned with a wine-coloured bulb. The streets are cobbled. Cowbells echo as we turn the corners of quiet pastel backstreets, sweet as cakes. The Kurents themselves ‘scare the winter away’, and perhaps a few tourists. Every village has its twist, like variations of mask colours. Some have different spirit entities. We see old women fashioned from fabric on baskets, devils, and spring spirits crowned with pink and blue flowers. Undoubtedly, the traditional Kurents are the most popular. They don sheepskin in dark brown or white and have long red tongues that cascade from their masks. They wear heavy boots and bobbled red socks. Their waists are laced with cowbells that bellow on every step. Each carries a stick topped with a skinned hedgehog. Through the course of the day, the most handsome Kurent’s stick is covered with handkerchiefs from women. Though Kurents were traditionally unmarried men the rules have slacked. Some Kurents in miniature saunter by the hip of their parents. Eventually, we choose a spot behind the barriers. The Kurents run with the gait of marathon runners on their last miles. It is no wonder: the entire outfit weighs around 30kg (and costs over 1000 Euros). Like deers, they butt heads. The cowbells blare. I expect to only spectate, but soon I am dragged past the barricades by a demon. (They have a penchant for young girls). My sister is tormented all day by wooden grabbers that snap at ankles. My cousin's face is swiftly grazed over by a demon, leaving a black paint mark across her teeth and cheeks. But there is more pleasant interaction too: a couple in Bavarian waist jackets give my father a glass of wine over the blockade. The next day, tired from festivities and the clubs of Maribor, I intend to nap. In my dreams, the ringing of the cowbells descends, and I wake. My cousin yells for me. It is real. The Kurents arrive on our street. The bells are relentless. We have a personal carnival with twenty Kurents or so in my uncle’s front garden, swinging their hips. Curious, I try on a mask that stoops my neck further to the ground. Later, family celebrations continue at the Happy Scots pub. Through the speakers, we hear the jarring cowbells. On their pit-stop, they enjoy a waggle and a schnapps. It is a brief flitting trip symbolised by my keepsake. After lugging my suitcase home, my own little Kurent sits on my desk to chase Scottish winter away.