The symmetry of enjoying your birthday one day and being lamented the next is terrible. Andrew Ure’s Hogmanay trip in the Highlands took a deadly turn because of this. He was 41 years old, energetic, and apparently eager to try out the new equipment he had only acquired the day before. However, the trail did not lead him home.
Andrew was not merely a performer. He was a connector who seamlessly and meaningfully brought business, community, and sound together. The Ray Summers, his band, had that recognizable edge—they were rooted, lighthearted, and almost retro in their preference for live performances over algorithms. They backed artists such as Paolo Nutini and Doves, although they felt most at home in local settings. More than renown, Ure seemed to be a part of Falkirk.
Not all he did was play music. He built other people’s stages. Falkirk Fest and Vibration Festival were more than simply events; they were grassroots movements driven by unwavering optimism and a willingness to put in the unglamorous labor. The type of effort that brings pride to a community.
That year’s last day, Ure went for a solitary stroll in the Arrochar Alps. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. Sometimes he walked with his dog, although he was familiar with the terrain. The alarm was immediately raised when he failed to return. Rescue personnel were sent out. There were no suspicious circumstances mentioned when his body was later found. Remarkably, the dog lived and was reunited with his family, a very endearing result that tempered the ordinarily harsh edges of loss.
Key Information – Andrew Ure
| Detail | Information |
|---|---|
| Name | Andrew Ure |
| Age at Time of Death | 41 |
| Date of Death | December 31, 2025 (Hogmanay) |
| Cause | Hillwalking incident in Scottish Highlands |
| Band | The Ray Summers |
| Other Roles | Director of Wee Whisky Shop, founder of Vibration and Falkirk Fest music festivals |
| Family | Survived by partner Linsey Waddell and two sons |
| Reference | Edinburgh Live – Andrew Ure’s Hillwalking Tragedy |
Not even his brother David could hide the destruction. He stated, “I’ve lost my little brother, my best friend, my business partner, my sounding board, and the reason I used my phone every day.” The type of grief that doesn’t require embellishment. Because it is so obvious, that sentence hits home. It circles the absence with a shape.
Ray Summers also published a tribute. It’s succinct, sincere, and unpretentious: “Andy was the rock in our lives, not just the rock in our band.” Numerous variations of the statement may be found in shop notes, social media posts, and recollections from those who never forgot it yet happened to meet contact with him.
What I kept thinking about, quite quietly and surprisingly, was how many people ended up attending the music festivals he helped create without ever knowing who booked the artists, pulled the permits, or set up the restrooms. Behind the scenes, rolling up his sleeves, is where Andrew’s true legacy resides.
He was a director at the Wee Whisky Shop in Linlithgow, where they put up their own message of grief. The honesty and simplicity of it was stunning. They remarked, “The pain of this loss is beyond words.” It was like writing after hours on a paper bag. pure and sincere.
Andrew’s partner Linsey Waddell provided what may be the most beautiful line: “You wanted to look at the stars with me on your birthday.” You would be one of those stars the next day, and I had no idea. She didn’t write with an audience in mind. They read as if it had been muttered rather than written; it was unedited, raw, and private.
According to Scottish music culture, Andrew Ure was never preoccupied with statistics or press coverage. His frontman style made music seem like a form of camaraderie. The fact that his death is more than just a celebrity tragedy is one reason it has struck such a deep chord. For those who saw him in lines, meetings, phone conversations, and Friday night arrangements, it’s the loss of someone who truly meant something to them.
Through the utilization of local spirit and community work, he transformed modest goals into cultural events that significantly enhanced Falkirk. There is something quite novel about that strategy—consistent care without any fanfare or fireworks. Although it creates legacies, it doesn’t sell tabloids.
It says volumes about his hillwalking just by the way people have described it. They haven’t conjectured or exaggerated. They have recollections of the peace, tranquility, and introspection that probably accompanied him on that climb. Imagining him stopping to gaze out across a valley, content but alone, has a serene quality.
Reflection becomes more about realignment and less about grief at times like these. What did it matter to him? How did he pass the time? Who was he there for? These are especially helpful questions to ask with intention rather than in grief.
Not just a musician was lost in Falkirk. An anchor went missing. A man who was adept at using presence rather than loudness to occupy a space. Someone who remembered birthdays, responded to emails late, and transported equipment when it wasn’t necessary.
However, the way people are speaking seems to be looking forward. His teachings are just as important as what they have lost. Regarding the upcoming festivals. On stores that will remain open. He helped wire the stages, which is one reason they will remain illuminated.
