Quips, sips and nips

I'm heading off across country later back to home territory for my brother's annual get together in honour of Scotland's national bard. Although a bit less formal than many Burns Night Suppers we do follow the traditional elements and in addition each of  us recites a poem. This is the one I'll be doing tonight. Haggis, neeps and tatties and more than a few drams - here I come!

If you would struggle with the words here's what it sounds like.

Scotch Drink

Let other poets raise a fracas 
"Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, 
An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us, 
An' grate our lug: 
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, 
In glass or jug. 

O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink! 
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 
In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, 
To sing thy name! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
An' aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn, 
Perfume the plain: 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 
Thou king o' grain! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o'food! 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 
Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 
There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; 
But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 
Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o'doited Lear; 
Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 
At's weary toil; 
Though even brightens dark Despair 
Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet, humbly kind in time o' need, 
The poor man's wine; 
His weep drap parritch, or his bread, 
Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 
By thee inspired, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 
Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! 
Or reekin on a New-year mornin 
In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 
An' gusty sucker! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath 
I' th' luggit caup! 
Then Burnewin comes on like death 
At every chap. 

Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; 
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 
The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an reel, 
Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirling weanies see the light, 
Though maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight; 
Wae worth the name! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 
Or plack frae them. 

When neibors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley brie 
Cement the quarrel! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 
To taste the barrel. 

Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! 
But mony daily weet their weason 
Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter season, 
E'er Spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! 
Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash! 
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, 
O' half his days; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor, plackless devils like mysel'! 
It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, 
What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 
O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch 
Wi' honest men! 

O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! 
Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses! 
Thou comes - they rattle in their ranks, 
At ither's arses! 

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast 
May kill us a'; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast 
Is ta'en awa? 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise, 
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! 
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! 
There, seize the blinkers! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 
For poor damn'd drinkers. 

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 
Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 
Directs thee best.

See you later.

Of Malt and Music.......

Hullo ma wee blog,

Kitchen. Computer. Cat at my feet. Whisky by my hand.

Malt.
Music.
Memory.

Will you sit a while perhaps?












see you later.......

The Silence Of The Drams........

Greenan Castle, Ayr.

Hullo ma wee blog,

It seems I've been abandoned to a rare night of solitude with the lovely G being off to see The Noisettes in concert in Edinburghs fair toon with a bunch of colleagues from work. I was given the chance to go but don't really fancy them for some reason. {taste probably}

So here I am all alone in Robertson Towers, the servants have the night off and the drawbridge is set to auto for when the lovely G's carriage approaches. { I hope she makes it before midnight, that whole pumpkin and mouse things is so frightfully passe don't you think.....} Night is drawing near with cold promise on her lips and may arrive bedecked with coat tails of softest white {according to the BBC weather report that is.}

I have set some logs upon the fire and descended to the kitchen in the bowels of chez nous to rustle up some notably creative dish suitable for a man with a taste for fine wine and time to spare in the making. A solitary dinner awaits. I have a notion for some liver perhaps. I have an excellent Chianti breathing softly as it gently comes to life in the corner .

Not so sure about the fava beans though.....


It would be a good night too for an old horror film and a wee Singleton of Dufftown or a Dalwhinnie single malt. Perhaps Boris Karloff as 'The Mummy' or Bela Lugosi as 'Dracula'. A memory of 'Friday night is horror night' late night TV as a youngster. Luckily, I have an extensive DVD collection too.

Don't worry about rushing home my love.

Unless of course the music you hear is from the children of the night........

{now where did I put that insurance policy?}

see you later

Listening to Chopin 'Nocturne in C minor'

Connections, Coincidence and Claret.

Wood panelling, Barns Ness Hotel.

Hullo there ma wee blog,

I don't have a clue what to call this post as it feels like it might be a bit of a ramble due to it being a late night - currently nearly 2am - and, sitting at my usual place at the kitchen table, I have a wee Singleton of Dufftown single malt whisky by my side. Don't worry though, like me its old enough to be out on its own at this time of night.........almost.

Ah, actually I know now where this is going and why..........

On Monday past we were invited out for a quiet informal meal and get together by some friends in Dunbar. We went to a hotel called "The Barns Ness". In the hotel is a small plaque explaining that the wood on the walls of the dining room came from a ship called the 'Mauretania' which was the sister ship of the 'Luisitania', which was torpedoed at the start of WW1 with horrendous loss of life. The beautifully carved wood was recovered from the ship when it was broken up at the end of its working life.

Nice story, nice meal, nice evening out right?

Aye it was, but it was more than that too.

As I have a bit of spare time on my hands at the moment I have been doing a fair bit of reading. As usual, I don't just read one thing at a time, so currently I am reading Stephen Fry's 'Moab is my washpot', Titania Hardies 'Rose Labyrinth' and John Buchans 'History of the Royal Scots Fusiliers'.

John Buchan, who is best known for the novel 'The thirty Nine Steps' wrote this history, in memory of his brother, an officer who - like my grandfather - served in the regiment. Alastair Buchan was killed in action on the western front, April 9th 1917. This was part of the battle of Arras. 38 Scots battalions including RSF took part in the attack. In British terms, a predominately Scottish affair, with more Scots involved than at Waterloo and many times more than involved in the battle of Bannockburn.

My grandfather survived being shot on 3 separate occasions, was returned to action each time and spent the best part of three and a half years in the front line, first in Gallipoli and then in The Western Front. Family history says he finally badly twisted his ankle on duckboards in a trench and while lying alone but for a couple of others in a tin shed at a field station, suffered an artillery bombardment of several hours. My Grandmother believed it was this episode, incapacitated, cruelly exposed and incapable of finding shelter, that left him with the condition which in those days was known as 'shell shock', but is now known as PTSD or 'post traumatic stress disorder'. From the accounts I heard as a child which were heavily sanitised, he came back a changed man and although was able to function in his previous job as a local postman for a few years, had to undergo increasingly long periods of hospitalisation and ultimately, complete incapacity. All the years I knew him he was bedridden, shaking constantly. Like many others he never received any war disability pension or recognition of his condition as being war injury related.

Much loved, he died in 1967 having lived with his condition for fifty years.

I was eight  - and devastated.

Joining up in early 1915, he sailed from Liverpool on board the 'Mauretania' on 21st May and landed in Gallipoli on June 6th. His battalion of almost 900 men was part of the 52nd division which was approx 10900 strong. The 2 battalions of RSF were immediately put into the line where between July 3rd and July 13th, losses were 4800 men. Early 1916 the campaign was abandoned as a failure.

The regimental history records this episode as follows:

' The losses for the 52nd division were such that for the Scottish Lowlands it was a second Flodden. In large areas between the Tweed and Forth scarcely a household but mourned a son '

and

' Unless one has seen it there is no imagination that can picture a belt of land some four hundred yards wide converted into a seething hell of destruction. Rifle and machine gun bullets rip up the earth, ping past the ear, or whing off the loose stones; shrapnel bursts overhead and leaden bullets strike the ground with a vicious thud; the earth is rent into yawning chasms, while planks, sandbags, clods and great chunks of ragged steel hurtle through the air. The noise is an indescribable, nerve racking, continuous, deafening roar while clouds of smoke only allow intermittent view of the whole damnable inferno '

It cost Winston Churchill, whose idea it was, his post as first lord of Admiralty. {Ironically he was made Commander in Chief of the Royal Scots Fusiliers}

The 2 battalions split, some to Palestine and the rest, grandfather included, to the western front.

Grandpa's story as described to me as a child trying to understand was simply that he was hurt in the big war and that we didn't talk about it. Much later he was described to me as a very brave man who had "gone over the top" on several major engagements. Who knows in reality what his experience was. Not me for sure. But I did experience the impact of that experience. My father helped his Mum look after his Dad every day as we lived nearby.

So before work - like his dad he too was a postie at first - he would go and wash and treat his Dads bedsores. Before he came home he would again go in and take care of any needs that might be required. At least twice a week I too would go to see Gran'pa and while there I would be given the task of shaving him with an old Phillips three headed electric razor. We all had things we did with Gran'pa and shaving him became my role. Being very small, at least when I started, I would have to climb onto the bed beside him and reach around his face while I shaved him, taking great care not to move the wooden frame that held the heavy blankets off his legs. Although by that time Grandpa couldn't speak more than two or three words at a time, I remember well his voice as he ran his damaged hand over his face and found a wee bit I had missed. "Here,"  he would say and I would go back and do that bit again and he would sometimes chuckle, a rumble deep in his chest and his jaw waving back and forth showed me he smiled. Sometimes he got me to go over bits again and again as a bit of fun I think. Job complete, I would carefully dismantle and clean the razor with its special miniature brush and show it to Grandpa for approval before putting it back together with small hands and sliding it back into its case.

Shaving an adult is a highly serious thing for a wee boy you know.

Being so close physically to him so often I remember every crease, nook and cranny of that old man's face. I remember the look in his eye as he watched me shave him or give him his tea in an odd china cup with a spout on one side and a lid on   {In fact I have it still - just a magpie really!}  He seemed able to look right into a wee boys heart. I remember his skin, his hair and his smell; how his face felt as small hands patted after-shave on;  how he would try and hold me as I reached across him at the limit of my balance as I shaved him; how he would wince if I fed him tea that was too hot. I would sometimes lie on Grannies bed across the room from him and we would read silently together, him with a book on a darkwood frame, beautiful and specially made for him by one of my uncles, and me with my book propped on bare knees.

I remember spending a night, being very young and sleeping in Grannies bed, in the same room as Gran'pa, and hearing him moan and occasionally shriek during the night until Gran got out of bed and went across to murmur something to him for an unknown while before coming back to bed with a quiet but commanding "Now, now, you. Back to sleep. Nothing to worry you here. Just Gran'pa dreaming. Just a dream," as she got back into bed herself.

And thats why I found myself thinking of him and of years past on Monday night and silently raising a glass in that wood panelled dining room of the Barns Ness Hotel.


See you later.

Listening to;

A blustery day.

Been on my own today: the lovely G at work and out in the evening and the weather has been dour. Cold and wet with the rain driven across the garden by a strong wind. The skies have been sullen, dark grey and the day has seemed like one long cold evening. When I was young and living on the west coast I would have called it "dreich" and pronounced it "dreech" with the ch like in loch.
I had planned to be out in the garden almost all day. The hedges at front and back of the house have been left so long they are almost out of control and I am going to have to be ruthless when cutting them back. My fault of course, I have left them too long. My excuse was that there were several nests in the hedges, sparrows, blackbirds and a beautiful thrush with its ermine chest, and I wanted to wait until all the eggs had hatched and the chicks were properly fledged and away. I should in all honesty have done it before we went on holiday but of course I didn't and by the time we came back it had become a daunting task.
The front hedge is about 30m long and about 2m high and 1m deep, the back about half the length but almost another metre high. So I have been procastinating, prioritising other easier jobs ahead of it and now on the day I had cleared the decks to get it done I am forced to sit inside and look at them from the window, the wind pushing them to and fro as if showing me again how big the job is going to be. Its not nice to be mocked by a hedge you know. Not funny. The wind almost cracks as it whips across the patio doors in the kitchen where I am sitting just now. It sounds like thunder at times.
In an hour and a half I will be at the local station to pick up G, who has already sent me a text to say she is a bit squiffy thanks to the cocktails she and her pals have downed. It doesnt feel like a cocktail day to me though. This is a day for a whisky. Or rather this is a day for a malt, maybe a nice soft speyside to warm the mouth and stoke the inner furnace a little, or a nice salty iodine rich Islay malt like Ardbeg or Bruichladdich with the tang of the sea and echoes of cold nights kept at arms length by a good fire and a comfy chair. I'm out of my personal favourite Talisker at the moment with its peat rich scent,sharply tangy bite in the throat and its long spicy finish so I think it will be a speyside. Islay malts seem too much like a concession to winter for this time of the year, at least in my present mood this evening.
Ach, thats the phone. Back in a mo............

G has called to say she is on her way to the station in Edinburgh. She has had a couple of nice cocktails based on one of her favourite drinks. Krupnik is a Polish vodka flavoured with honey and she has just described a Krupnik and pear cocktail and another honey and cinammon concoction, so I suppose I can see at least the latter being ok for a night like this although she says that in Edinburgh even though its raining its warm and there isn't a bit of wind with the flags all hanging limp on the flagpoles. What a difference a few miles makes eh?

I haven't eaten since lunchtime when I decided to have the lamb curry I had made last night and boxed up into the fridge. It felt like the right thing for today but I didn't bother with rice, just a small supermarket naan bread that I found at the bottom of the freezer and heated in the oven to use to soak up the spicy meaty juices at the bottom of the dish. Nothing special, just lamb and loads of onions cooked slowly until it was all meltingly tender and dark with spice and heat. It certainly hit the spot but was more than I would normally have for lunch so it has been enough for the rest of the day, especially since it rendered me comatose for a snoozable post lunchtime hour and the fact that I have been a completely lazy git today.

Now though I'm looking forward to G coming home, a nice cuddle and the malt that has been teasing my tastebuds memory for the last couple of hours or so.

listening to............. Evanescence, Tourniquet

see you later..............