A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 29. DINNER TIME. Pb 27.11.2009
Today I believe that meals taken as a family are now few and far between. No doubt Christmas will be celebrated round the table, maybe birthdays, but when we were young meals were not a case of snatching something out of the fridge on the way to watch the Tele. We had neither. If we had I have no doubt such practice would not have been allowed by our mother. Eating in the kitchen was the province of the bothy boys and the servant girls as they were called, and for occasional workers such as harvest hands.
At Whitehall our meals were always in the dining room, even on school days, proper sit down meals at proper times. Whatever ploy we had on outdoors, teatime was teatime. Or dinner as we called the midday meal which no one now recognizes save maybe as lunch.
Big solid dining table, horse hair padded chairs, massive sideboard, big mirror on the wall behind it, with a pair of ornate brass candlesticks. A standard oil lamp in the corner. Our in her eighties grandmother, whom we called Ma, ate with us as the dining room was also her day room with a good coal fire going. Above the fire was an ornate mantlepiece with World War 1 odds and ends, a British pomegranate hand grenade, heavy, some brass shell and cartridge cases, empty of course. A few small photos of her two doctor sons in uniform from WW1. Two deep armchairs either side, one for her and one for any visitor. A green-glass-bowl oil wick lamp sat on a small table beside her chair.
Meal times were meal times. Hands washed, hair combed, though we boys hair was short enough with but a fringe in front, a dossan we called it, and into the dining room. Many a boy was gripped by the dossan by an irate schoolmaster in those days. Not allowed now I fear. Did not do us any harm. Rather like a Red Indian getting ready for a scalping, little more indeed than a scalp lock.
We usually had three “girls” of various ages at Whitehall. Such were the times that it was normal for most houses to have some household staff, however great or small they were. A girl would leave school at 14 years old in my early days and go into service as it was called. There was no other work to be had in a small island though many would work at home, absorbed into the work of the farms and crofts. And when they married no change in that either.
Some work might be got in Kirkwall, getting into a shop or as an apprentice to a dressmaker, some girls had an aunt in the Toon and would go there to try to get a job. Sometimes it was as a servant girl in some house. Many others of course went in from Stronsay to Kirkwall to the Grammar School to get their Highers and in due course go on to University or to Murray House in Edinburgh to train as a teacher. Some bursaries helped with poorer families, and there was also a competitive Bursary Competition.
Going into service was the norm for many girls as soon as they left school and until such time as they got married. They got a bed, they got their food, good company, hard work, precious little money. Today we would have been accused of being filthy rich to be able to have such a thing, but it was just normal practice in those days, even for poor tenant farmers such as ourselves. Few houses did not have some indoor help.
The dining table was set by one of the “girls”. White linen tablecloth, napkins in their rings, our initials on some of them. Still got mine, along with my silver christening mug and the gold half sovereign I got as a present from Mrs Chalmers in the Village when I was born!!! Actually found both when moving out of Isauld House and clearing out so very much after over 53 years in that house. Scary.
Water jug and chrystal tumblers, the water cold from a bucket just drawn from a well down the road which tasted so much better than the piped supply. That piped supply was from the water supply for the Village, drawn from the Ayre of the Mires next the sea, well named. It was fed uphill by a red painted windmill, not todays huge three bladed turbines but the old small multi bladed ones you will still see spinning away in old photographs of the Australian Outback. It turned as the wind dictated, kept facing the right way by a large steering vane at the back, pumping water up the hill to the Reservoir. The Reservoir was covered with an also red painted corrugated iron roof, so too the sides where we used to take a stick and run along making a dreadful clatter. Once we did it while someone was inside doing some maintenance. Not popular but forgiven. He said he had done the same when he was young, made us laugh after scaring us speechless. Did not last, the speechless part!! !
.
The day to day work of the Reservoir which fed Whitehall Village by gravity was looked after by our father on his way to the Village. If the levels were down he went to the windmill at the Ayre of the Myres and set it going, then on to the Village, stopping the windmill on his way home. Sometimes he got a man to do that for him. It did not pump a huge amount ot water but working steadily with even a small breeze it did the job. When the herring season was on a lot of water was needed, running almost constantly. The herring steam drifters needed a daily top up and a pipe down each of the two piers gave them the needed supply. A full time job for someone to look after the water at the Harbour and get payment from the drifters.
After Grace said by our father, dinner. Soup, often cock-a-leekie as we had plenty old fat hens. Or potato soup. Real potato soup that your spoon would stand up in!! Then the meat course with father carving the joint, or the hen, or whatever, ostentatiously sharpening the carving knife with the steel which you can still see your butcher doing, but I have not seen one used in a house for a long time. Showing off a bit I guess, but the table was always set with the sharpening steel sitting right beside the carving knife. Vegetables in big tureens with lids in the middle of the table, boiled tatties, whole with early tatties but mashed later in the year, cabbage, neeps. All home grown of course. Gravy, lots of it.
Pudding. I remember rice pudding with raisins or bread pudding with currants. Bread pudding was easy, the baker usually had some loaves past their best but still useful, so father took a few throw-away ones home from the village from time to time, not believing in waste. Made good bread and butter puddings.
Curds and whey. Tapioca. Macaroni but with sugar and sometimes raisins, never with cheese. Stewed rhubarb with some tapioca in it and sweet new cream. A big jug of fresh milk. None of your pasteurized attenuated modern watered down or thinned out rubbish, just a good jug of fresh milk straight from the cow with sometimes a layer of cream settling on the surface. Clean up your plates, no excuses. And everything carried through from the kitchen by one of the girls.
We were always on edge to leave the table when finished but not allowed. I fear I have no memory of helping to clear the table, or carrying anything through to the kitchen, but I do remember sometimes helping to dry the dishes for one or other of the girls at washing up time. Sometimes!!!!!
Friday, 27 November 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
No 27. Farmyard Aromas pb 13.11.2009
A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
NO 27. FARMYARD AROMAS or THE FLAVOUR OF FARMING.
The very smells of farming long ago seem to have vanished, or at least changed. An odd subject perhaps but so many smells are now different. Sitting in a sound proof tractor cab with at best the smell of diesel even the workers are insulated from the smells of yesterday, some of them still around. They are missing a lot.
We cannot pass the very first I remember, the days when the horsemen were carting dung from the farm-yard middens to either build into field middens to rot down further - now called composting - or to haul off the carts into small heaps in lines across the fields to eventually spread with graips and hard work. That is still the smell most people associate with farming. Many city-to-country dwellers do their best to stop the practice anywhere near their lovely retreats. And some win, particularly regarding pig and poultry slurry. Can’t really blame them either come to think on it. It was important then, and still is, to know from where the wind is blowing.
The wind had much to do with savouring the smell of farmyard dung, now called organic fertilizer and very much in favour with the organic farming brigade. The smell would carry a long way, so you knew what your neighbour was doing. There were three different middens at Whitehall, the horse midden, the cattle middens, the pig midden, each with its own aroma, if I can use that word. And each with it’s very own delightful odour, quite impossible to convey in writing. The hen houses did not have a midden as such but still were cleaned out from time to time. Even in the farm house with doors and windows closed we knew which midden was being carted to the land, to add it’s organic flavour to the soil.
The horse midden was, if I can use the word, sweeter, much straw incorporated into it as the horses were straw bedded every night. Some horses would not lie down unless well bedded, a very occasional one would not lie down in the stable stalls at all, sleeping all night standing. We had one at Whitehall but a good horse all the same and he did lie down out in the grass field when off duty. There was always a bit of loose grain in the stable midden so rats made it their first choice. On a frosty morning steam rose high, even if not being carted, always quite hot compared to the cattle middens.
The cattle middens were sharper in smell, much less straw, much more of you know what! They were usually kept quite tidy and sometimes the men just spent a morning squaring off the heap, dressing the midden it was called. Possibly for the benefit of visitors so you got the reputation of keeping a tidy farm. Looked good anyway. Middens were carted out from the steading ones to be remade out in the fields to rot or to compost a bit more, but also to be handily ready for later in the farming year when turnips were being sown and work was pressing. They were even turned over with forks in the field and remade, using up a day when nothing much else was doing. Even a goodly way off from the farm steading the smell could still drift homewards if the wind was right. Did that at Isauld once on the Links Field and it did help the process of rotting down. Quite mad.
The pig midden was also quite another smell, but thankfully it was much smaller. Not that that made much difference if the wind was wrong.
Then the hen-house, another smell altogether. Usually it was just shoveled off the hen house floor into a cart standing outside with a patient horse, but sometimes it was heaped outside the door to await a suitable time for removal. Not so large in quantity but still needing doing. Shell sand was usually put down in a thick layer on the new-cleaned floor, kept the hen droppings the sweeter as the lime content partly dissolved the ammonia in the droppings. While still clean the hens would eat some for themselves, scratching around, grit for their gizzards. There would be a heap of shell sand outside the hen house anyway. Free range then, now very fashionable but there was no other system.
Dung was a very precious fertilizer, almost the only one available in bygone days other than the sea weed we had easy access to in Stronsay. And that sea weed could really smell too. Just park your car with the windows open on a good day in the lay-by just past Gills Ferry Terminal towards Groats and you will, if the wind is from the North and on-shore, get the drift, if that is the right word!! Well rotted, we called it “yiper”, which word also described the very wet sludgy dung out of the byre or midden.
Wrack (sea weed) off the beaches is still much in use in Jersey in the Channel Isles for their Jersey Royal early potatoes, the word lingering on from the old Vikings that took over Normandy, cousins of the Orkneymen. The word is still with us in Rackwick in Hoy and Rackwick in Westray. To keep their beaches clean in Jersey we saw on one visit tractors with trailers being filled with sea weed by Council loaders, free of charge if you wanted it, and also keeping the beaches sweet for visitors. Probably still doing it.
In the fields we could get the smell of new ploughed earth, sharp. Nearer sowing time the drier smell of just harrowed ground. The smell of early morning air outside the back door when it was ready for sowing, a lift in the wind good enough to fill your lungs. That was often accompanied with the sea gulls flying by and saying “Get up, get up, it’s time to get the seed in the ground”. They knew.
Growing crops had their peculiar smells, changing as the seasons grew. When the ears of grain came out the smell changed, and a field of bere or barley and a field of oats had quite different aromas. Oats were sweeter. As the season wore on and the crop ripened even that smell changed, a blind man could tell you when the crop was ready for cutting.
In the stackyard a stack of oats and a stack of bere had different scents, quite recognizable. Thrashed straw in the barn, again bere straw and oat straw were different. And a heating stack in the yard was often detected by the smell, sometimes pulling out a sheaf and confirming the ominous sweetish aroma of incipient heating. It had a noxious smell when threshed, but it had to be done.
So too potatoes growing in the field with many different varieties and the smells of each, wildly different at times according to variety. Quite pleasant. And turnips, yellow turnips and swede turnips being quite different. Cabbages too, with different kinds. And marrow stem kale which our father grew for feeding lambs in Autumn. All had different aromas.
Hay I have mentioned before, but still worth another sniff. Clover rich, curly doddies we called the flower heads, a wondrously sweet smell when new cut, indeed we still can use the phrase “as sweet as new cut hay”. How many today have ever enjoyed it, indeed we ourselves no longer keep the grass growing long enough to mature to that stage with seed heads. How can we get clover honey if we do not let the grass grow long enough? Flowering clover looked just right, red and white both, and bumble bees in their thousands as busy as only bees can be, a chorus of humming surrounding them and us. Thankfully today there is a trend to sow more clover-rich pastures with less fertilizer used so our honey may still be safe.
.
NO 27. FARMYARD AROMAS or THE FLAVOUR OF FARMING.
The very smells of farming long ago seem to have vanished, or at least changed. An odd subject perhaps but so many smells are now different. Sitting in a sound proof tractor cab with at best the smell of diesel even the workers are insulated from the smells of yesterday, some of them still around. They are missing a lot.
We cannot pass the very first I remember, the days when the horsemen were carting dung from the farm-yard middens to either build into field middens to rot down further - now called composting - or to haul off the carts into small heaps in lines across the fields to eventually spread with graips and hard work. That is still the smell most people associate with farming. Many city-to-country dwellers do their best to stop the practice anywhere near their lovely retreats. And some win, particularly regarding pig and poultry slurry. Can’t really blame them either come to think on it. It was important then, and still is, to know from where the wind is blowing.
The wind had much to do with savouring the smell of farmyard dung, now called organic fertilizer and very much in favour with the organic farming brigade. The smell would carry a long way, so you knew what your neighbour was doing. There were three different middens at Whitehall, the horse midden, the cattle middens, the pig midden, each with its own aroma, if I can use that word. And each with it’s very own delightful odour, quite impossible to convey in writing. The hen houses did not have a midden as such but still were cleaned out from time to time. Even in the farm house with doors and windows closed we knew which midden was being carted to the land, to add it’s organic flavour to the soil.
The horse midden was, if I can use the word, sweeter, much straw incorporated into it as the horses were straw bedded every night. Some horses would not lie down unless well bedded, a very occasional one would not lie down in the stable stalls at all, sleeping all night standing. We had one at Whitehall but a good horse all the same and he did lie down out in the grass field when off duty. There was always a bit of loose grain in the stable midden so rats made it their first choice. On a frosty morning steam rose high, even if not being carted, always quite hot compared to the cattle middens.
The cattle middens were sharper in smell, much less straw, much more of you know what! They were usually kept quite tidy and sometimes the men just spent a morning squaring off the heap, dressing the midden it was called. Possibly for the benefit of visitors so you got the reputation of keeping a tidy farm. Looked good anyway. Middens were carted out from the steading ones to be remade out in the fields to rot or to compost a bit more, but also to be handily ready for later in the farming year when turnips were being sown and work was pressing. They were even turned over with forks in the field and remade, using up a day when nothing much else was doing. Even a goodly way off from the farm steading the smell could still drift homewards if the wind was right. Did that at Isauld once on the Links Field and it did help the process of rotting down. Quite mad.
The pig midden was also quite another smell, but thankfully it was much smaller. Not that that made much difference if the wind was wrong.
Then the hen-house, another smell altogether. Usually it was just shoveled off the hen house floor into a cart standing outside with a patient horse, but sometimes it was heaped outside the door to await a suitable time for removal. Not so large in quantity but still needing doing. Shell sand was usually put down in a thick layer on the new-cleaned floor, kept the hen droppings the sweeter as the lime content partly dissolved the ammonia in the droppings. While still clean the hens would eat some for themselves, scratching around, grit for their gizzards. There would be a heap of shell sand outside the hen house anyway. Free range then, now very fashionable but there was no other system.
Dung was a very precious fertilizer, almost the only one available in bygone days other than the sea weed we had easy access to in Stronsay. And that sea weed could really smell too. Just park your car with the windows open on a good day in the lay-by just past Gills Ferry Terminal towards Groats and you will, if the wind is from the North and on-shore, get the drift, if that is the right word!! Well rotted, we called it “yiper”, which word also described the very wet sludgy dung out of the byre or midden.
Wrack (sea weed) off the beaches is still much in use in Jersey in the Channel Isles for their Jersey Royal early potatoes, the word lingering on from the old Vikings that took over Normandy, cousins of the Orkneymen. The word is still with us in Rackwick in Hoy and Rackwick in Westray. To keep their beaches clean in Jersey we saw on one visit tractors with trailers being filled with sea weed by Council loaders, free of charge if you wanted it, and also keeping the beaches sweet for visitors. Probably still doing it.
In the fields we could get the smell of new ploughed earth, sharp. Nearer sowing time the drier smell of just harrowed ground. The smell of early morning air outside the back door when it was ready for sowing, a lift in the wind good enough to fill your lungs. That was often accompanied with the sea gulls flying by and saying “Get up, get up, it’s time to get the seed in the ground”. They knew.
Growing crops had their peculiar smells, changing as the seasons grew. When the ears of grain came out the smell changed, and a field of bere or barley and a field of oats had quite different aromas. Oats were sweeter. As the season wore on and the crop ripened even that smell changed, a blind man could tell you when the crop was ready for cutting.
In the stackyard a stack of oats and a stack of bere had different scents, quite recognizable. Thrashed straw in the barn, again bere straw and oat straw were different. And a heating stack in the yard was often detected by the smell, sometimes pulling out a sheaf and confirming the ominous sweetish aroma of incipient heating. It had a noxious smell when threshed, but it had to be done.
So too potatoes growing in the field with many different varieties and the smells of each, wildly different at times according to variety. Quite pleasant. And turnips, yellow turnips and swede turnips being quite different. Cabbages too, with different kinds. And marrow stem kale which our father grew for feeding lambs in Autumn. All had different aromas.
Hay I have mentioned before, but still worth another sniff. Clover rich, curly doddies we called the flower heads, a wondrously sweet smell when new cut, indeed we still can use the phrase “as sweet as new cut hay”. How many today have ever enjoyed it, indeed we ourselves no longer keep the grass growing long enough to mature to that stage with seed heads. How can we get clover honey if we do not let the grass grow long enough? Flowering clover looked just right, red and white both, and bumble bees in their thousands as busy as only bees can be, a chorus of humming surrounding them and us. Thankfully today there is a trend to sow more clover-rich pastures with less fertilizer used so our honey may still be safe.
.
Friday, 30 October 2009
No 58. Tackety Boots, pb 30.10.2009
A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 58. Tackety Boots.
It was in an article back in May 2008 that I touched on the subject of “Tackety Boots”. Well worth another look. Of all the articles of clothing worn by the men in my early days, Tackety Boots was the most worthy of mention. And the most important. Every day and all day the farm men walked at their work, be it in the field with the horses or in the buildings looking after their cattle or the shepherd walking his sheep. A well fitting pair of tackety boots was an absolute necessity, there was no room for “nearlies” about it. Worn they may be, have seen their best days as many a pair had, but functional as only an old friend can be.
Every village had it’s shoemaker. In Castletown after we came to Caithness in 1944 it was John Gunn, in Stronsay it was, among others, Peter Lennie, but I do not know if Peter was a proper shoemaker as such, more of a very good man at repairs. A neat old man when I knew him, he was certainly a good carter for our father during the herring season and a carter in his own right for the whole Island. A warm house along the beach just west from Norton’s Pier, Maggie with the kettle always singing gently at the back of the fire, ready for an instant cup of tea. One of our father’s very regular stops.
I remember father getting a pair made for him by John Gunn after we came to Caithness. Took many days to make in between repairs of a more pressing nature for others.
The niceties of boot making are not in my memory except now and again watching some aspect of the shoemakers art. It all looked so easy, but a well made and well fitted pair was an exquisite bit of work. Left foot and right foot could vary a bit, the shoemaker carefully measuring each foot for a new customer. In most cases he just remembered.
Made of the best usually imported horse hide, thick and tough. Take a piece of leather, cut the separate parts out to a pattern, a few iron sprigs and tacks, toe and heel plates and a length of strong linen waxed twine. To make a pair of boots out of that was a miracle in itself. Slightly thinner tanned leather for the uppers, thicker leather for the soles and heels. Metal eyes for the long leather strip laces to run through. A thin leather loop tab at the top of the heel to facilitate pulling them on in the morning!! Every shoemaker had his own idea of the pattern of hobnails to be kept on the soles, out of sight no doubt but often identifiable as his hallmark. A final polish in black.
The boots today might well look odd, but do not believe your eyes. The curved soles, rising to the turned up toes. The uppers came well up the ankle giving good protection and support. The leather tongue was well sewn in, good enough to be watertight, quite important when walking through wet grass or puddles or pouring rain. Indeed the whole boot was watertight. They were definitely NOT town boots.
Simple tools, sharp knife, patterns, a cobblers last of which he would have many sizes, an awl to drill the holes, a tap hammer, a strong needle to pass the thread, indeed two at a time sewing double, which is one thread each way. And that wonderful smell of new leather always around which today’s plastic cannot copy. . A pair would last for so long, looked after and treasured by the men.
The new boots would be admired for a time, then the process of looking after them for many years ahead. A tin of waterproof dubbin, warm the boots at the fire and rub in a layer both on the uppers and the soles. Hard work too, especially on the seams. The long leather laces would be dubbined and run through the hand. Leave a few days to absorb the dubbin, then another coat. Sometimes a gentle warming with a blow lamp turned well down, a near singeing perhaps, just enough to warm the leather. Helped the dubbin to soak in. Sometimes warm a spoon at the fire, handle held in a bit of rag, and smooth the back of the spoon on the leather for a final polish. An Army trick too. The new boots would be put on by the worker for the evening, going nowhere but getting them gently broken in, getting to know each other. Sometimes a gentle joke or two about wearing them in bed. Maybe they did !!!
Most if not every house had a shoe-last in the shed, taken into the kitchen in front of the fire to work on a pair of boots. I can never forget seeing Sincy Shearer our Whitehall foreman with the shoe last stood on the floor and supported between his knees, a tackety boot on it, his specks on his nose, a few hobnails or tacks kept handily ready between his lips, the tap tap as he hammered them home. Why the name “hobnails” I do not know, it must go back in history a long time. Clover leaf head and just so long that they did not penetrate the soles. Spare heel and toe plates as well.
Keeping Tackety Boots healthy was an every day task. Running repairs normally were to check on the toe and heel plates to see if they were firmly nailed on, any loose or missing nails being instantly replaced from the precious tack tin. A lost toe or heel plate had to be replaced right away, or a worn one as soon as possible.
The clover leaf headed tacks or hob nails set in their regulation pattern along the soles and heels of the boots were likeways taken care of. The boots really walked on iron, the men walking behind the horses shod also with their own iron horseshoes. When one thinks on it, leather however good could not stand up to the constant walking of farm work. Hence tackety boots.
Consider that the horsemen walked mile after long mile every day all year round following their horses. To plough an acre was a good days work with a pair of horses and a 7 inch wide furrow plough. That meant 15 miles of walking for one acre. Allow for going out to the field and home again twice in the day, going round the ends between bouts, and you are pretty near to twenty miles, Wick to Thurso in a straight line. EVERY DAY SAVE SUNDAY. All on tackety boots.
Holding the stilts of the plough and keeping the line of a straight furrow, looking after your horses though a well trained pair were pretty good themselves at keeping the furrow, and you will recognise why there were very few over-weight ploughmen in old photographs. I remember none at all.
Or the shepherd herding his sheep, the cattleman walking up and down the byres. No farm work was done sitting on ones **** as now we do. Boots were the foundation of their day. Tackety boots.
Looking after boots, new or old, was very important. Last thing at night after work was to clean them, wash if need be at the tap or sink or pond using a wisp of straw or a bit of an old sack, dry well at the fire but not too near. On a fine evening set them out on the window ledge or at the back door to dry. I remember one tragedy when a pair were set just too close to the fire, did not do the leather much good. Then a rub with dubbin, especially into the sewn seams. Black boot polish was sometimes used for that final shine. Dubbin was a khaki coloured wax like thick vaseline but could be bought black dyed already.
Tackety boots were every day and all day wear for farm work. Normally the men would have a good pair of lighter boots for Sunday and social events. The tackety boots may have looked odd with their upward curved toes but don’t you believe they were clumsy. Stronsay went to neighbouring Sanday for a football match, the complement (COMPLIMENT ) returned in due course. Tackety Boots did the job just as well as the super brands you see over-advertised today. Trousers tucked into socks, shirt sleeves rolled up, trousers held in place by suspender braces and an Army Surplus belt from the Army and Navy Stores. The men were as good as you could get, some very pretty players indeed. Sanday usually won.
Long years later after I went to Lower Dounreay and looking at old records, I found that the farms of Lower Dounreay and Upper Dounreay had enough men on each farm pre First World War to each form a team, perhaps not eleven men but enough. They played one farm against the other, needle matches. Tackety boots at their best no doubt!!
No 58. Tackety Boots.
It was in an article back in May 2008 that I touched on the subject of “Tackety Boots”. Well worth another look. Of all the articles of clothing worn by the men in my early days, Tackety Boots was the most worthy of mention. And the most important. Every day and all day the farm men walked at their work, be it in the field with the horses or in the buildings looking after their cattle or the shepherd walking his sheep. A well fitting pair of tackety boots was an absolute necessity, there was no room for “nearlies” about it. Worn they may be, have seen their best days as many a pair had, but functional as only an old friend can be.
Every village had it’s shoemaker. In Castletown after we came to Caithness in 1944 it was John Gunn, in Stronsay it was, among others, Peter Lennie, but I do not know if Peter was a proper shoemaker as such, more of a very good man at repairs. A neat old man when I knew him, he was certainly a good carter for our father during the herring season and a carter in his own right for the whole Island. A warm house along the beach just west from Norton’s Pier, Maggie with the kettle always singing gently at the back of the fire, ready for an instant cup of tea. One of our father’s very regular stops.
I remember father getting a pair made for him by John Gunn after we came to Caithness. Took many days to make in between repairs of a more pressing nature for others.
The niceties of boot making are not in my memory except now and again watching some aspect of the shoemakers art. It all looked so easy, but a well made and well fitted pair was an exquisite bit of work. Left foot and right foot could vary a bit, the shoemaker carefully measuring each foot for a new customer. In most cases he just remembered.
Made of the best usually imported horse hide, thick and tough. Take a piece of leather, cut the separate parts out to a pattern, a few iron sprigs and tacks, toe and heel plates and a length of strong linen waxed twine. To make a pair of boots out of that was a miracle in itself. Slightly thinner tanned leather for the uppers, thicker leather for the soles and heels. Metal eyes for the long leather strip laces to run through. A thin leather loop tab at the top of the heel to facilitate pulling them on in the morning!! Every shoemaker had his own idea of the pattern of hobnails to be kept on the soles, out of sight no doubt but often identifiable as his hallmark. A final polish in black.
The boots today might well look odd, but do not believe your eyes. The curved soles, rising to the turned up toes. The uppers came well up the ankle giving good protection and support. The leather tongue was well sewn in, good enough to be watertight, quite important when walking through wet grass or puddles or pouring rain. Indeed the whole boot was watertight. They were definitely NOT town boots.
Simple tools, sharp knife, patterns, a cobblers last of which he would have many sizes, an awl to drill the holes, a tap hammer, a strong needle to pass the thread, indeed two at a time sewing double, which is one thread each way. And that wonderful smell of new leather always around which today’s plastic cannot copy. . A pair would last for so long, looked after and treasured by the men.
The new boots would be admired for a time, then the process of looking after them for many years ahead. A tin of waterproof dubbin, warm the boots at the fire and rub in a layer both on the uppers and the soles. Hard work too, especially on the seams. The long leather laces would be dubbined and run through the hand. Leave a few days to absorb the dubbin, then another coat. Sometimes a gentle warming with a blow lamp turned well down, a near singeing perhaps, just enough to warm the leather. Helped the dubbin to soak in. Sometimes warm a spoon at the fire, handle held in a bit of rag, and smooth the back of the spoon on the leather for a final polish. An Army trick too. The new boots would be put on by the worker for the evening, going nowhere but getting them gently broken in, getting to know each other. Sometimes a gentle joke or two about wearing them in bed. Maybe they did !!!
Most if not every house had a shoe-last in the shed, taken into the kitchen in front of the fire to work on a pair of boots. I can never forget seeing Sincy Shearer our Whitehall foreman with the shoe last stood on the floor and supported between his knees, a tackety boot on it, his specks on his nose, a few hobnails or tacks kept handily ready between his lips, the tap tap as he hammered them home. Why the name “hobnails” I do not know, it must go back in history a long time. Clover leaf head and just so long that they did not penetrate the soles. Spare heel and toe plates as well.
Keeping Tackety Boots healthy was an every day task. Running repairs normally were to check on the toe and heel plates to see if they were firmly nailed on, any loose or missing nails being instantly replaced from the precious tack tin. A lost toe or heel plate had to be replaced right away, or a worn one as soon as possible.
The clover leaf headed tacks or hob nails set in their regulation pattern along the soles and heels of the boots were likeways taken care of. The boots really walked on iron, the men walking behind the horses shod also with their own iron horseshoes. When one thinks on it, leather however good could not stand up to the constant walking of farm work. Hence tackety boots.
Consider that the horsemen walked mile after long mile every day all year round following their horses. To plough an acre was a good days work with a pair of horses and a 7 inch wide furrow plough. That meant 15 miles of walking for one acre. Allow for going out to the field and home again twice in the day, going round the ends between bouts, and you are pretty near to twenty miles, Wick to Thurso in a straight line. EVERY DAY SAVE SUNDAY. All on tackety boots.
Holding the stilts of the plough and keeping the line of a straight furrow, looking after your horses though a well trained pair were pretty good themselves at keeping the furrow, and you will recognise why there were very few over-weight ploughmen in old photographs. I remember none at all.
Or the shepherd herding his sheep, the cattleman walking up and down the byres. No farm work was done sitting on ones **** as now we do. Boots were the foundation of their day. Tackety boots.
Looking after boots, new or old, was very important. Last thing at night after work was to clean them, wash if need be at the tap or sink or pond using a wisp of straw or a bit of an old sack, dry well at the fire but not too near. On a fine evening set them out on the window ledge or at the back door to dry. I remember one tragedy when a pair were set just too close to the fire, did not do the leather much good. Then a rub with dubbin, especially into the sewn seams. Black boot polish was sometimes used for that final shine. Dubbin was a khaki coloured wax like thick vaseline but could be bought black dyed already.
Tackety boots were every day and all day wear for farm work. Normally the men would have a good pair of lighter boots for Sunday and social events. The tackety boots may have looked odd with their upward curved toes but don’t you believe they were clumsy. Stronsay went to neighbouring Sanday for a football match, the complement (COMPLIMENT ) returned in due course. Tackety Boots did the job just as well as the super brands you see over-advertised today. Trousers tucked into socks, shirt sleeves rolled up, trousers held in place by suspender braces and an Army Surplus belt from the Army and Navy Stores. The men were as good as you could get, some very pretty players indeed. Sanday usually won.
Long years later after I went to Lower Dounreay and looking at old records, I found that the farms of Lower Dounreay and Upper Dounreay had enough men on each farm pre First World War to each form a team, perhaps not eleven men but enough. They played one farm against the other, needle matches. Tackety boots at their best no doubt!!
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
THE VIKING BATTLE OF RAUDABJORG, 1045 A.D.
The Battle of Raudabjorg, 1045 A.D.,
Between Earl Thorfinn the Mighty
and his nephew Earl Rognavald Brusison.
“The Battle of Raudabjorg”, an article by Dan Mackay, was featured in the Caithness Courier of 12th August 2009. This was of particular interest to me as Castlehill Heritage Centre have been engaged since June 2008 in their Viking Heritage Project. This relates particularly to the Dunnet Area, with six weeks of field work undertaken beginning in July of that year and ending in August. Much digging was done, many samples and cores taken by a group of enthusiastic amateur archaeologist volunteers. This work was done over the Links of Dunnet by kind permission of George Campbell of Thurdistoft and Hamish Pottinger of Greenland Mains, and of Jimmy Swanson just North of the Dunnet Forest. We still await the final analysis of the samples, which can take some time.
My own contribution towards this project was to look again for clues in the Orkneyinga Saga. This had been required school reading in Stronsay with my headmaster John Drever, and on which we had to do a Bursary Competition. There have been many translations of the Saga, written originally allegedly in Iceland circa 1200 AD, translations in Latin by Torfeus in Norway, by Rev. Alexander Pope, Minister of Reay, who translated and transcribed the Latin of Torfeus. A signed copy of Pope’s work is in the Archives in Wick Library, inscribed 1774 by Pope to his friend Thomas Pennant. Other translators were Anderson in the late 1800s and Professor Pallson, Penguin Classics 1993 edition. There have been others. The late Jack Saxon in 1974 had a wide ranging article on the Battle of Raudabjorg in Caithness Field Club transactions, still attainable through Caithness.Org, and well argued.
What Dan Mackay and all the others overlooked was the furious tidal vicissitudes of the Pentland Firth. That same Pentland Firth was the same waters crossed by one of my double great great grandfathers, James Tait, eventually tenant of Inkstack from 28th May 1843 till his death in 1854. He and three of his sons, William of Quanterness, John of Campston and James of Inkstack, crossed the Pentland Firth many times with cattle bought in Orkney. One well documented trip was with 240 cattle bought in the North Isles and carried in 18 North Isles boats at 12 cattle per boat, by sail and by oars when needed. They set off from Carness near and North of Kirkwall, rounded Mull Head in Deerness, came into Scapa Flow at St Marys in Holm only to find the weather had turned nasty for the Pentland Firth crossing. So they went into the shelter of Longhope, the old Viking harbour of refuge called Asmundasvagr, and there they waited a week for better weather. Setting off again, the weather once more turned nasty. Nine boats carried on and got through, nine turned back and waited another week before a successful crossing. The cattle were then driven, first to Grotistoft in the Hill of Barrock, then, after shoeing their cloven hooves, the long walk or trek to Carlisle to Mr Thomas Morton of Brough on the Solway Firth. Took nearly four weeks droving, hard work for hard men.
Morton, classed in the Census of 1841 as a husbandman, was in Alterwall in Lyth on 15th April 1815 for the christening of Janet, daughter of James Tait and Elizabeth Nicolson then living there. James Tait was Morton’s local agent in the North for buying cattle, in this instance from Orkney. Morton being in Alterwall for the christening was fortuitous, his trip North was to see James Tait as to buying cattle that coming season, taking money North to pay for the beasts, cash on the nail when delivered by local boats to Carness.
So too with Earl Rognavald in his attempt in 1045 A.D. to defeat his uncle Earl Thorfinn the Mighty. Castlehill Heritage hope to publish later in the year a fuller version of research and views, but space requires this to be reasonably brief. Suffice that they are all out of step with “Oor Jock”, i.e. - myself. They are looking in all the silliest places for the location of the Battle, a classic example of “Hunt the Thimble”. The only place the Battle of Raudabjorg could have taken place was out of the ferocious tides of the Pentland Firth and on the quiet sea under Dwarwick Head in Dunnet Bay. It took place just off the Red Broch of Dunnet, (O.N. Raudabjorg), still there in attenuated form 120 metres to the East of the Salmon Bothy, with a triangulation point in its centre from the first Ordnance Survey of 1873. It was built with red stone taken off the beach, fallen from the red cliffs of Dwarwick Head and driven along the grey bedrock of the shore to lie conveniently below the Broch site. Hence the name Raudabjorg – Red Broch - a Norse name for a structure built by the Picts a thousand years before the Vikings arrived in Caithness.
The Old Norse did not call a cliff “bjorg”. Witness the Orkneyinga Saga the broch called Moseybjorg in Shetland, the Broch of Mousa. We do not need to conjecture that it was off Ratter, off the Kirk o’ Tang, off the mythical Roberry Head of Pallson in South Walls in Hoy which does not even exist. Look at the Map of Hoy if you doubt me. It was quite impossible for Viking Longships to sail against the wind, or to buck the violent opposing tides of the Pentland Firth, slender wooden craft driven by sail and if need be by oars
Grappled side to side, sails down and stored out of the way, oars useless, the ships could only fight in sheltered waters such as a sea loch like Loch Vatn in Ireland, or the Menai Straights between Anglesey and Wales, or a Norwegian Fyord such as the Battle of Solvidor.
Perhaps more interesting in the time of the Battle of Raudabjorg was the Norse influence over all of Britain. Raudabjorg was a local sea Battle between Earl Thorfinn Sigurdson the Mighty and his nephew Earl Rognavald, son of his brother Brusi.
A few years later in 1066 A.D. the Norse and Danes under Harold Hardrada invaded England by way of the Orkneys and landed at Riccall near York with a force probably numbering about 10,000 men. They were badly defeated at the Battle of Stamford Bridge on 25th September 1066 by King Harold Godwinson of England. After that Battle two of Thorfinn’s sons, Earls Paul and Erland, were allowed to return to Orkney with the surviving Vikings and the attenuated remnants of the Viking Fleet.
Harold Godwinson immediately marched South to oppose William, Duke of Normandy, a direct descendant of Hrolf the Ganger of Norway, renamed Rollo, Duke of Normandy, after having Normandy ceded to him by the French Monarch. Hrolf was the oldest brother of the bastard youngest brother Torf Einar who conquered Orkney, and is reputed to have taught the Islanders to cut peats, or turf. Believe the peat story as you wish.
They met at the Battle of Hastings, too well known to require mention.
It has been suggested that if Harold had first met Duke William at Hastings before his Army was decimated at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, Harold would have defeated William. It was a close call anyway. Then a subsequent defeat of Harold at Stamford Bridge might well have ended in the Throne of England being held by a Viking Earl from Orkney. Another suggestion is that the two armies knew of each others attack on England, that the cunning Duke William allowed Stamford Bridge to take place first, giving him the main chance which he took.
So who in the tangled web of History is to tell that the Battle of Raudabjorg, fought just under the red rock shelter of Dwarwick Head, did not have some influence in the Monarchy of England.
Between Earl Thorfinn the Mighty
and his nephew Earl Rognavald Brusison.
“The Battle of Raudabjorg”, an article by Dan Mackay, was featured in the Caithness Courier of 12th August 2009. This was of particular interest to me as Castlehill Heritage Centre have been engaged since June 2008 in their Viking Heritage Project. This relates particularly to the Dunnet Area, with six weeks of field work undertaken beginning in July of that year and ending in August. Much digging was done, many samples and cores taken by a group of enthusiastic amateur archaeologist volunteers. This work was done over the Links of Dunnet by kind permission of George Campbell of Thurdistoft and Hamish Pottinger of Greenland Mains, and of Jimmy Swanson just North of the Dunnet Forest. We still await the final analysis of the samples, which can take some time.
My own contribution towards this project was to look again for clues in the Orkneyinga Saga. This had been required school reading in Stronsay with my headmaster John Drever, and on which we had to do a Bursary Competition. There have been many translations of the Saga, written originally allegedly in Iceland circa 1200 AD, translations in Latin by Torfeus in Norway, by Rev. Alexander Pope, Minister of Reay, who translated and transcribed the Latin of Torfeus. A signed copy of Pope’s work is in the Archives in Wick Library, inscribed 1774 by Pope to his friend Thomas Pennant. Other translators were Anderson in the late 1800s and Professor Pallson, Penguin Classics 1993 edition. There have been others. The late Jack Saxon in 1974 had a wide ranging article on the Battle of Raudabjorg in Caithness Field Club transactions, still attainable through Caithness.Org, and well argued.
What Dan Mackay and all the others overlooked was the furious tidal vicissitudes of the Pentland Firth. That same Pentland Firth was the same waters crossed by one of my double great great grandfathers, James Tait, eventually tenant of Inkstack from 28th May 1843 till his death in 1854. He and three of his sons, William of Quanterness, John of Campston and James of Inkstack, crossed the Pentland Firth many times with cattle bought in Orkney. One well documented trip was with 240 cattle bought in the North Isles and carried in 18 North Isles boats at 12 cattle per boat, by sail and by oars when needed. They set off from Carness near and North of Kirkwall, rounded Mull Head in Deerness, came into Scapa Flow at St Marys in Holm only to find the weather had turned nasty for the Pentland Firth crossing. So they went into the shelter of Longhope, the old Viking harbour of refuge called Asmundasvagr, and there they waited a week for better weather. Setting off again, the weather once more turned nasty. Nine boats carried on and got through, nine turned back and waited another week before a successful crossing. The cattle were then driven, first to Grotistoft in the Hill of Barrock, then, after shoeing their cloven hooves, the long walk or trek to Carlisle to Mr Thomas Morton of Brough on the Solway Firth. Took nearly four weeks droving, hard work for hard men.
Morton, classed in the Census of 1841 as a husbandman, was in Alterwall in Lyth on 15th April 1815 for the christening of Janet, daughter of James Tait and Elizabeth Nicolson then living there. James Tait was Morton’s local agent in the North for buying cattle, in this instance from Orkney. Morton being in Alterwall for the christening was fortuitous, his trip North was to see James Tait as to buying cattle that coming season, taking money North to pay for the beasts, cash on the nail when delivered by local boats to Carness.
So too with Earl Rognavald in his attempt in 1045 A.D. to defeat his uncle Earl Thorfinn the Mighty. Castlehill Heritage hope to publish later in the year a fuller version of research and views, but space requires this to be reasonably brief. Suffice that they are all out of step with “Oor Jock”, i.e. - myself. They are looking in all the silliest places for the location of the Battle, a classic example of “Hunt the Thimble”. The only place the Battle of Raudabjorg could have taken place was out of the ferocious tides of the Pentland Firth and on the quiet sea under Dwarwick Head in Dunnet Bay. It took place just off the Red Broch of Dunnet, (O.N. Raudabjorg), still there in attenuated form 120 metres to the East of the Salmon Bothy, with a triangulation point in its centre from the first Ordnance Survey of 1873. It was built with red stone taken off the beach, fallen from the red cliffs of Dwarwick Head and driven along the grey bedrock of the shore to lie conveniently below the Broch site. Hence the name Raudabjorg – Red Broch - a Norse name for a structure built by the Picts a thousand years before the Vikings arrived in Caithness.
The Old Norse did not call a cliff “bjorg”. Witness the Orkneyinga Saga the broch called Moseybjorg in Shetland, the Broch of Mousa. We do not need to conjecture that it was off Ratter, off the Kirk o’ Tang, off the mythical Roberry Head of Pallson in South Walls in Hoy which does not even exist. Look at the Map of Hoy if you doubt me. It was quite impossible for Viking Longships to sail against the wind, or to buck the violent opposing tides of the Pentland Firth, slender wooden craft driven by sail and if need be by oars
Grappled side to side, sails down and stored out of the way, oars useless, the ships could only fight in sheltered waters such as a sea loch like Loch Vatn in Ireland, or the Menai Straights between Anglesey and Wales, or a Norwegian Fyord such as the Battle of Solvidor.
Perhaps more interesting in the time of the Battle of Raudabjorg was the Norse influence over all of Britain. Raudabjorg was a local sea Battle between Earl Thorfinn Sigurdson the Mighty and his nephew Earl Rognavald, son of his brother Brusi.
A few years later in 1066 A.D. the Norse and Danes under Harold Hardrada invaded England by way of the Orkneys and landed at Riccall near York with a force probably numbering about 10,000 men. They were badly defeated at the Battle of Stamford Bridge on 25th September 1066 by King Harold Godwinson of England. After that Battle two of Thorfinn’s sons, Earls Paul and Erland, were allowed to return to Orkney with the surviving Vikings and the attenuated remnants of the Viking Fleet.
Harold Godwinson immediately marched South to oppose William, Duke of Normandy, a direct descendant of Hrolf the Ganger of Norway, renamed Rollo, Duke of Normandy, after having Normandy ceded to him by the French Monarch. Hrolf was the oldest brother of the bastard youngest brother Torf Einar who conquered Orkney, and is reputed to have taught the Islanders to cut peats, or turf. Believe the peat story as you wish.
They met at the Battle of Hastings, too well known to require mention.
It has been suggested that if Harold had first met Duke William at Hastings before his Army was decimated at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, Harold would have defeated William. It was a close call anyway. Then a subsequent defeat of Harold at Stamford Bridge might well have ended in the Throne of England being held by a Viking Earl from Orkney. Another suggestion is that the two armies knew of each others attack on England, that the cunning Duke William allowed Stamford Bridge to take place first, giving him the main chance which he took.
So who in the tangled web of History is to tell that the Battle of Raudabjorg, fought just under the red rock shelter of Dwarwick Head, did not have some influence in the Monarchy of England.
No 57. Summer Days.
A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
As we sink through Autumn into Winter I think of that old song “Summer Days are here again”. How is it that so many people tell us how good the summers were when they were young? The sun always shone, the larks sang, the water was warm. And so it was, because our memories seem to blot out the storms and the cold days, well, almost.
Summer brought out the flies, birds nesting, rabbits doing what rabbits do best. Bluebottles buzzing around the stone dykes, a spider’s web catching one and a different buzzing, higher pitched, as if a bluebottle suffered from terror, which I am sure it did. As well it might with a hungry spider coming. We watched with childhood fascination the process of nature, this small spider fastening onto the big bluebottle that soon stopped his struggles, anaesthetized and spun into a web cocoon of silk to later become a spider’s dinner. In a few days we came back to the spider’s web to see the shriveled shell of our bluebottle, its substance sucked out. We did better than that. We caught a bluebottle against a windowpane in the house and took it to the spider, cruelly popping it onto the web and watching to see the tiny hidden spider appear in response to the fly’s struggles, a message telegraphed along the slender filaments to its hidden nest. This David and Goliath struggle interested us greatly, and just sometimes the Bluebottle managed to break free, but not often. Smaller flies of course were caught too, but the Bluebottle was our delight.
The Cabbage White Butterfly featured in our Biology. Cursed by all gardeners and by farmers trying to grow cabbages in the field in the vegetable rows, the Cabbage White was Stronsay’s all too prolific butterfly. We saw a Red Admiral now and again but were not too well placed for the multiplicity of butterflies found further south.
At home we would find a chrysalis hidden in an outside corner of a wooden window frame, well camouflaged in mottled grey-green, safely cocooned and attached by slender but strong threads of silk against all the buffetings of winter storms. Gently prise it from its attachment and put it in a jam jar with a lid on it. Then wait for Spring, vaguely seeing the slow metamorphosis of the caterpillar into a butterfly through the thin skin of the chrysalis, a frequent if not every day look to see how it was getting on.
This was done at School too, our teacher asking for anyone who found a chrysalis to take it with us. Not too many to reach the number she wanted, but several to put in jam jars and watch with care. As summer approached we watched with great attention to see the first sign of the chrysalis splitting along the back and the wet new butterfly emerge stage by stage. Wings at first hardly discernable, lying flat along the slim body, but slowly they stretched and filled and became the hallmark white wings of the Cabbage White. Then we let it fly away, no doubt to find a cabbage to start all over again. Presumably it had to find a mate, and often we saw a couple locked rather too close together, mighty suspicious.
Our lesson with the Butterfly was not yet over. Now and again a chrysalis did not produce a butterfly. Instead it produced a small tiny creature leaving the empty shell. The Ichneumon Fly had beaten us. This predatory fly, or wasp as it is sometimes called, lays its eggs in a suitable caterpillar before it turns into a chrysalis, carrying the seeds of its own destruction. So over the winter the fly grub slowly eats its way through its host, the original oven-ready meal. Such is nature.
Next on our list of home made Biology was to find a rabbit’s nest. Not the proverbial burrow but the short shallow burrow a female rabbit makes to have her young, solitary and away from the warren. Not easy to find, the entrance covered over and well hidden by the mother when she leaves the nest to eat. Inside at arms length by about three feet was her nest, lined with downy fur and soft as soft is. Nestled in that would be about six or seven warm little rabbits. If we found one soon enough their eyes would not even be open. The mother rabbit - doe if you wish - did not stay long with the young, just enough time to suckle them and them off again with the nest once more safely camouflaged. There was no need to stay to keep the little ones warm, the soft fur-lined nest took care of that. We seldom ever found a nest with the doe inside, indeed I cannot recall even one. Later as the young rabbits grew the nest burrow was no longer filled in and the little ones ventured outside their home, but quick as a flash to get back in at the approach of anything.
There was the joy of turning over a flat stone, to see the forkytails and the earwigs and the cockroaches hidden there. The forkytails would small-jump their way out of sight. I think the earwigs name and reputation made us fear they would get into our ears and burrow into our tiny brains. An old wives tale, but we believed it. Evil looking things.
Centipedes too. We never were able to verify the leg count. They too could move fast, an odd scurrying twisting gait. There were other little denizens but the above were the main ones. There were small clumps of whitish eggs, what they were I do not know. Occasionally we found an earthworm sheltered there. Had a competition to find the largest one.
Birds were in their majesty. Blackbirds singing, a thrush in wonderful song in a white rose bush which grew in the garden, music I can still in memory hear, the mavis of Robert Burns. ( and his wonderful song ):-
I have heard the mavis singing,
His love song to the morn,
I have seen the dew drop clinging,
To the rose just newly born.
But a sweeter song has cheer'd me,
At the ev'ning's gentle close,
And I've seen an eye still brighter,
Than the dew drop on the rose.
'Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary,
And thine artless winning smile,
That made this world an Eden,
Bonnie Mary of Argyll.
( Karen - if above lines included might stop here )
Tho' thy voice may lose its sweetness,
And thine eye its brightness too,
Tho' thy step may lack its fleetness,
And thy hair its sunny hue.
Still to me wilt thou be dearer,
Than all the world shall own,
I have loved thee for thy beauty,
But not for that alone.
I have watched thy heart, dear Mary,
And its goodness was the wile,
That has made thee mine for ever,
Bonnie Mary of Argyll.
So many of our birds today seem so greatly reduced in numbers. Except last summer. Sharon and I went to my native Stronsay and up to Rousam Head, farmed by ourselves from 1893 to 1913. On the heather covered moor there were three wind turbines, erected quite some years ago. The area had been reseeded years ago under a Government scheme so the heather was now cleared in places, replaced with grass clumps, circular patches of white clover in wonderful scented blossom, some bare earth. The day was warm, the sky was blue, no wind, just like old times. On the ground were many small coveys of young lapwings, tiny mottled scurrying chicks herded by their mother. Lapwings have not more than four each, but some had gathered together and several mothers had a clutch of chicks shared. So many in one place took us quite by surprise. And above us sang so many larks, a heavenly chorus. The acoustics were superb. It was an effort of will for us to leave that magic spot.
We went down to the old farmhouse of the Bu’ where our father had spent his youth and into the kitchen. Sat over coffee with Ian Stevenson at the old kitchen table where a long time ago our Uncle John, while still a medical student, in an emergency, successfully took out the appendix of his brother our Uncle Bill. We talked with Ian of the larks and the tee-icks up on Rousam Head. He told us they were so plentiful because all the predatory birds, blackbacks, hoodie crows, ravens, skuas, hawks, peregrine falcons, shy away from the slowly moving turbine blades and underneath them was a haven for these tiny birds who flourished in the safety. I have read of the same phenonomen elsewhere, and wondered.
As we sink through Autumn into Winter I think of that old song “Summer Days are here again”. How is it that so many people tell us how good the summers were when they were young? The sun always shone, the larks sang, the water was warm. And so it was, because our memories seem to blot out the storms and the cold days, well, almost.
Summer brought out the flies, birds nesting, rabbits doing what rabbits do best. Bluebottles buzzing around the stone dykes, a spider’s web catching one and a different buzzing, higher pitched, as if a bluebottle suffered from terror, which I am sure it did. As well it might with a hungry spider coming. We watched with childhood fascination the process of nature, this small spider fastening onto the big bluebottle that soon stopped his struggles, anaesthetized and spun into a web cocoon of silk to later become a spider’s dinner. In a few days we came back to the spider’s web to see the shriveled shell of our bluebottle, its substance sucked out. We did better than that. We caught a bluebottle against a windowpane in the house and took it to the spider, cruelly popping it onto the web and watching to see the tiny hidden spider appear in response to the fly’s struggles, a message telegraphed along the slender filaments to its hidden nest. This David and Goliath struggle interested us greatly, and just sometimes the Bluebottle managed to break free, but not often. Smaller flies of course were caught too, but the Bluebottle was our delight.
The Cabbage White Butterfly featured in our Biology. Cursed by all gardeners and by farmers trying to grow cabbages in the field in the vegetable rows, the Cabbage White was Stronsay’s all too prolific butterfly. We saw a Red Admiral now and again but were not too well placed for the multiplicity of butterflies found further south.
At home we would find a chrysalis hidden in an outside corner of a wooden window frame, well camouflaged in mottled grey-green, safely cocooned and attached by slender but strong threads of silk against all the buffetings of winter storms. Gently prise it from its attachment and put it in a jam jar with a lid on it. Then wait for Spring, vaguely seeing the slow metamorphosis of the caterpillar into a butterfly through the thin skin of the chrysalis, a frequent if not every day look to see how it was getting on.
This was done at School too, our teacher asking for anyone who found a chrysalis to take it with us. Not too many to reach the number she wanted, but several to put in jam jars and watch with care. As summer approached we watched with great attention to see the first sign of the chrysalis splitting along the back and the wet new butterfly emerge stage by stage. Wings at first hardly discernable, lying flat along the slim body, but slowly they stretched and filled and became the hallmark white wings of the Cabbage White. Then we let it fly away, no doubt to find a cabbage to start all over again. Presumably it had to find a mate, and often we saw a couple locked rather too close together, mighty suspicious.
Our lesson with the Butterfly was not yet over. Now and again a chrysalis did not produce a butterfly. Instead it produced a small tiny creature leaving the empty shell. The Ichneumon Fly had beaten us. This predatory fly, or wasp as it is sometimes called, lays its eggs in a suitable caterpillar before it turns into a chrysalis, carrying the seeds of its own destruction. So over the winter the fly grub slowly eats its way through its host, the original oven-ready meal. Such is nature.
Next on our list of home made Biology was to find a rabbit’s nest. Not the proverbial burrow but the short shallow burrow a female rabbit makes to have her young, solitary and away from the warren. Not easy to find, the entrance covered over and well hidden by the mother when she leaves the nest to eat. Inside at arms length by about three feet was her nest, lined with downy fur and soft as soft is. Nestled in that would be about six or seven warm little rabbits. If we found one soon enough their eyes would not even be open. The mother rabbit - doe if you wish - did not stay long with the young, just enough time to suckle them and them off again with the nest once more safely camouflaged. There was no need to stay to keep the little ones warm, the soft fur-lined nest took care of that. We seldom ever found a nest with the doe inside, indeed I cannot recall even one. Later as the young rabbits grew the nest burrow was no longer filled in and the little ones ventured outside their home, but quick as a flash to get back in at the approach of anything.
There was the joy of turning over a flat stone, to see the forkytails and the earwigs and the cockroaches hidden there. The forkytails would small-jump their way out of sight. I think the earwigs name and reputation made us fear they would get into our ears and burrow into our tiny brains. An old wives tale, but we believed it. Evil looking things.
Centipedes too. We never were able to verify the leg count. They too could move fast, an odd scurrying twisting gait. There were other little denizens but the above were the main ones. There were small clumps of whitish eggs, what they were I do not know. Occasionally we found an earthworm sheltered there. Had a competition to find the largest one.
Birds were in their majesty. Blackbirds singing, a thrush in wonderful song in a white rose bush which grew in the garden, music I can still in memory hear, the mavis of Robert Burns. ( and his wonderful song ):-
I have heard the mavis singing,
His love song to the morn,
I have seen the dew drop clinging,
To the rose just newly born.
But a sweeter song has cheer'd me,
At the ev'ning's gentle close,
And I've seen an eye still brighter,
Than the dew drop on the rose.
'Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary,
And thine artless winning smile,
That made this world an Eden,
Bonnie Mary of Argyll.
( Karen - if above lines included might stop here )
Tho' thy voice may lose its sweetness,
And thine eye its brightness too,
Tho' thy step may lack its fleetness,
And thy hair its sunny hue.
Still to me wilt thou be dearer,
Than all the world shall own,
I have loved thee for thy beauty,
But not for that alone.
I have watched thy heart, dear Mary,
And its goodness was the wile,
That has made thee mine for ever,
Bonnie Mary of Argyll.
So many of our birds today seem so greatly reduced in numbers. Except last summer. Sharon and I went to my native Stronsay and up to Rousam Head, farmed by ourselves from 1893 to 1913. On the heather covered moor there were three wind turbines, erected quite some years ago. The area had been reseeded years ago under a Government scheme so the heather was now cleared in places, replaced with grass clumps, circular patches of white clover in wonderful scented blossom, some bare earth. The day was warm, the sky was blue, no wind, just like old times. On the ground were many small coveys of young lapwings, tiny mottled scurrying chicks herded by their mother. Lapwings have not more than four each, but some had gathered together and several mothers had a clutch of chicks shared. So many in one place took us quite by surprise. And above us sang so many larks, a heavenly chorus. The acoustics were superb. It was an effort of will for us to leave that magic spot.
We went down to the old farmhouse of the Bu’ where our father had spent his youth and into the kitchen. Sat over coffee with Ian Stevenson at the old kitchen table where a long time ago our Uncle John, while still a medical student, in an emergency, successfully took out the appendix of his brother our Uncle Bill. We talked with Ian of the larks and the tee-icks up on Rousam Head. He told us they were so plentiful because all the predatory birds, blackbacks, hoodie crows, ravens, skuas, hawks, peregrine falcons, shy away from the slowly moving turbine blades and underneath them was a haven for these tiny birds who flourished in the safety. I have read of the same phenonomen elsewhere, and wondered.
Friday, 2 October 2009
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