I was asked by the blog Scotland Now to do a guest post about Shinty and Hockey, and it went live today! In celebration I’m redirecting the glory to them today. Please check out the article at http://blog.scotweb.co.uk/journal/2014/5/9/lets-go-shinny-by-jennifer.html
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The word Glen turns up in songs all of the time and is common name for Scottish men. Sometimes then its spelled Glen. The Urquharts are particularly fond of the name becauce their ancestral homeland is a glen. Like many geographical names it comes from Gaelic rather than Norse, where it’s spelled gleann.
In more common terms, and I think as time went on, glen came to be used to mean narrow valleys used mostly for recreational transportation. In former times they meant wider places as well. The mountains in Scotland are old; they are the northernmost extension of the Appalachian Mountains in United States. The ocean in between has closed, opened, and closed, and opened again since their formation, and there has been plenty of erosion. So the land in the glens would, in theory, be quite fertile, if not abundant.
In songs people are always walking either in old forests or in meadows of flowers. I had an insight into the latter recently. Without fertilizer, you need to rotate crops in order to give the land a chance to recharge minerals and proteins<a . Since these fallow lands have no completing plants, they often burst forward in wildflowers and are beautiful sights to see. So ancient Scots always had a beautiful place to walk somewhere nearby. I wonder if it's still the case.
photo credit: Sweet Creations Studio (by Senel) via photopin cc
Today is my birthday, so I decided to indulge a bit and put up a photo of one of my favorite things. No, my American friends, the title does not refer to a decked-out boat. Birthday is the same in Scots. Kyaak means cake in general. There are plenty of names for specific cakes.
Birth translates directly. Birth-grund is where you were born. The nickname for being born is “coming hame”, or home. This is neat but confusing, because term for death is “going hame”.
According to birthdaycelebrations.net, the standard birthday present is a pound note for every year that a child has been alive, plus one extra for luck. Over here that’s the standard for candles as well. I wonder if you got this from everyone or just your parents. At my age it would add up to a nice piece of change. The Scots also give birthday spankings, soft swats during which kids laugh hysterically at their parents exaggerated wind-ups.
The special “coming of age” present is a key to the house, usually given at man age 21. Such a person can come and go as they please without curfew or explanation. It tells you something about how long families stick together, or at least did in the past. Girls of course could be married before that age, but men needed to have their careers in place before supporting a family. Somehow I don’t think Scots would ever allow their daughters to stay out as long as they liked, no matter how old they got. But I could be quite wrong. The days are extremely long in summer in Scotland, and on Skye you can see well enough at midnight to go fishing or dancing. Maybe as long as you had an escort it was fine.
My last post was extremely heavy-handed, so today I’ll give you a fun poem about how Scots would like church to be. I’d like to go on record as agreeing with them completely. Silly Wizard recorded this song some time ago and it’s available on iTunes as well as findable on youtube.
The American English translation is below the originall. The only problem is with the phrase “fuddled the bell”. I’d love to ask any Scottish readers for help on this. Technically it means “Got the bell drunk”, which doesn’t make perfect sense. The people in this parish have apparently had it with being dragged from their beds and houses to drag themselves to church for a miserable sermon. To us, “befuddled” means confused to the point of not being able to think, or talk. Are the terms perhaps related?
O, what a parish, a terrible parish,
O, what a parish is that o’ Dunkel’,
They hangit their minister, droon’d their precentor
Dang doun the steeple, and fuddled the bell.
The steeple was doun, but the Kirk was still staunin’,
They biggit a lum whaur the bell used to hang,
A stellpat they gat and they brewed Hieland whisky,
On Sundays they drank it, and ranted and sang.
O, had you but seen how graceful it lookit
To see the cramm’d pews sae socially join
Macdonald the piper stuck up in the poopit
He made the pipes skirl out music divine.
Wi’ whisky and beer, they’d curse and they’d swear
They’d argy and fecht what ye daurna weel tell
‘Bout Geordie and Cherlie they bothered fu’ rarely
Wi’ whisky they’re worse than the devil himsel’.
When the heart-cheerin’ spirit had mounted their garret
To a ball on the green they a’ did adjourn
Maids wi’ coats kilted, they steppit and liltit
When tired they shook hands, and then hame did return.
If the kirks a’owre Scotland held like social meetin’s
Nae warning’ ye’d need from a far-tinklin’ bell
For a true love and friendship wad draw ye thegither
Far better than roarin’ the horrors o’ hell.
Translation
Oh, what a parish, a terrible parish,
Oh, what a parish is that of Dunkeld,
They hanged their minister, drowned their cantor,
Damned down the steeple, and got drunk the bell.
The steeple was down, but the church was still standing,
They built a chimney where the bell used to hang,
A stillpot they got and they brewed Highland whiskey, (like for distilling)
On Sundays they drank it and ranted and sang.
Oh, had you but seen how graceful it looked,
To see the crammed pews so socially joined,
Macdonald the piper struck up in the pulpit,
He made the pipes wail out music divine.
With whiskey and beer, they’d curse and they’d swear,
They’d argue and fight what you dare not well tell.
About Geordie and Charlie? They bothered folk rarely,
With whiskey they’re worse than the devil himself.
When the heart-cheering spirit had reach a high point,
To a ball on the green they did all adjourn,
Maids with coats kilted, the stepped and lilted,
When tired they shook hands and home did return.
If the churches all over Scotland held like social meetings,
No calling you’d need from a far-tinkling bell
For a true love and friendship would draw you together,
Far better than roaring the horrors of hell.
Krik means Church in Scots. It can either mean a building or a collective entity. The picture captures the critical nature of religion in Scotland. While people are quick to label themselves as Protestant or Catholic, it has very little to do with God. The churches have a distant influence, and they deserve it. The Churches, I mean.
Two Scottish authors sum up the public attitude toward churches in Scotland very well. One is the famous vet from Yorkshire, author of “All Creatures Great and Small” and other wonderful books about animals, people, and life. His son wrote in his biography that during his education he was told “to spit at the Catholic churches whenever he went by”. I assume the Catholic children were told something similar. If you found James Herriot it was either for a concert, a wedding, or a funeral. The practice of official religion had no place in his life.
Craig Ferguson, the late-night talk show host and fabulous comedian, has a similar aversion. In fact, it was part of his choice to be come an American citizen. “I’ve seen what a mix of church and state can do.” He much prefers our principals. We don’t successfully follow them, but we do our best to self-correct.
Rumor has it that the Catholic Mass attendance (counted as people who come at least once a month) is about 1%. I have a little big of trouble buying that, because the building’s wouldn’t stand for long at that rate. I’d easily believe that it’s under 10%. Catholic priests regularly preach against protestants, and vice versa. It can’t be fun to listen. Of course, like everywhere else on Earth today, you have plenty of minority religions. There are Jewish synagogues, Hindu temples, and a countable Muslim population as well. You just don’t hear about them very often.
What are they arguing about? It’s hard to trace back. Some of it goes back to the Protestant reformation, where Catholics were banned and, again this is a rumor, priests were being told in seminaries to try to assassinate the royals of England (the Catholic church was so messed up at the time). Part of it goes back to wealthy Scots being encouraged to relocate to Ireland (see the “Scots-Irish” that still strongly influence American politics to this day) that were sent to Scotland to rule the Irish into hard-working, thrifty ways to live. The irony is that the Irish were so stripped of opportunity that there was little with which to work.
Many Irish workers emigrated to Scotland (and England, and everywhere else on Earth) to find jobs, and they didn’t find a warm reception from the poor, working-class Scots (poor and working-class went together in the 19th century). Finally, the trouble in North Ireland sent British troops, including Scots, over into Ireland, and both sides had family and friends shot, leaving wounds that won’t heal for generations. When you come down to it, many people don’t remember why they are angry; it’s just the way things are.
As you can see, God has very little to do with any of this.
Ironically, when both sides come to the U.S., the promptly drop all of this. Craig Ferguson explained that both sides believed all of that belonged in the “Old Country”, and in fact they’ll hang out at the same bars. I don’t know why.
This is all so incredibly alien to us here in America. Maybe it’s because there are so many sects of protestants. Maybe it’s because Catholics believe they can go to church but pick and choose what parts they follow. During the 19th and 20th centuries American Catholics bound together in tight parishes and faced the country as a unit, going from the least educated group to the most. Protestants have learned to find us annoying but generally harmless. Maybe it’s just that there is no history of us shooting each other. Protestants and Catholics fought side by side in the revolutionary war, and it’s been that way ever since.
I wish I could tell Scots what they are missing. It would take far more than me to make a change over there. Hopefully the people’s wounds will heal, and the religious leaders will wake up and smell the coffee. In the meantime, I think Scots will just leave the church on the other side of the street.
Haymarket Street in Edinburg
Hame means home, in the same way we use it. “Going hame” is a term for death. Oddly enough, “coming Hame” means being born. I find this very confusing.
Every society has its fears. Americans fear loss of freedom, to the point that guns are still legal in most places. Germany fears nationalism; people don’t fly flags there. Ireland sends more abroad per capita for famine relief than any other country on Earth, tough the potato famine was a century and a half ago.
Scots fear homelessness. There are some nasty historical reasons that I won’t go into. During the industrial revolution, thousands of Scots came to Glasgow for work during the winter. Rooms were first come, first serve, sometimes by the night. If you were late, you slept outside.
Even older, though, is the very real problem of being stuck outside. Between the frequent rain, the moderate temperatures (hypothermia can set in at 60 degrees F.), and constant ocean winds, and a solid night or two out without good clothing can mean death. You simply must get inside.
The modern Scottish government has strict rules about evicting tenants that make Americans look truly heartless. There’s a difference between can’t pay the rent and won’t pay the rent. If it’s the former, government programs will intervene to assure that the people aren’t forced to move out. People living in spare bedrooms, on people’s couches, or “in their parent’s basement” are all considered homeless and can get relocation services. People who do lose their homes often have their belongings stored by the government rather than having them dumped on the curve, which is the custom over here.
Families obviously get stable homes first, but everyone is considered important. Shelters freak at the idea of turning anyone away; getting within a few beds short is an emergency. Old shelters too unpleasant to go to have been closed and other arrangements are being made.
Naturally in cities in the south still have people living on the streets, . There are people who won’t change their lives to fit into the system. One man in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania told a priest that he needed a place for himself and his three dogs. When told they’d have to separate, the person refused. But these people are rare in Scotland, and on cold nights they aren’t turned away.
There’s not really a good picture for this one. Ain is the adjective form of own, like “This is my own house”, as opposed to awn or yaw, which is “I own this chocolate bar”. It is believed to have come from Norse itself, which is the old language that Scots and English have in common.
Ain is used quite often in poetry for things that are close to your heart. For example, these two lines are from “My love’s in Germany” Hector MacNeill from Scotland in 1794, which is written from the perspective of a girl waiting for her love to come back from war.
He may ne’er come o’er the sea,
To his love in ain country,
Our country, meaning Scotland. The young man was fighting for the UK, naturally, but it was referred to as England. The Scots had lost any serious political power by this time and were at the mercy of King and of Parliament. They fought who the English chose to fight, not themselves. Check the date and see that this is not long after the American’s Colonies had refused to pay increased taxes for England’s depleting war chest.
Pronouncing this word, particularly if you’re from the Great Lakes region like I am, is tricky. It rhymes with the word “vain”. I don’t know if the spelling is related. The best trick when learning a foreign language is to find something in English that rhymes with it. Scots makes this easier than most languages because there is ample literature that is a mix of the two. For example, these lines are from “Land of the Leal”, which I’ll go over in a later post.
So fair the well my ain, Jean
This world’s cares are vain, Jean.
It’s a little known fact that Chaucer, one the greatest English writers and author of The Canterbury Tales, was thought to be a less than great poet because his words didn’t rhyme at the end of stanzas. His meter also seemed a little off at times. Then it occurred to someone to ask, “He was working in the 14th century, maybe they pronounced things a little differently?” Reworking his poems showed his meter and rhyming to be nothing short of perfect, and his work finally got its due. An open mind is critical to a happy life, or at least to not looking stupid.
A reconstructed crannog on Loch Tay. Photo taken by Christine Westerback on July 25, 2002.
An ancient crannog on Loughbrickland lake, Cownty down, Northern Ireland.
Crannogs (I am not sure of the spelling of the plural) are artificial islands that were built all over Scotland and Northern Ireland, with at least one in Wales. This is a word that actually crosses languages very well. It is easy to recognize in Scots-Gaelic and Gaelic both, and English had no choice but to pick up the word because, well, there’s nothing like in the English world. This is a good time to point out that the people of North Ireland and Scotland share a great deal of culture.
My daughter’s history book tells us about Nebuchadnezzar, the King of Babylon about 500 b.c.e. (before common era). To make his city the most fortified in all of what is now the Middle East, he built a moat around the city walls and actually redirected the Euphrates river to fill it. Doubtless any Scot passing through the area (no, I have no clue why he would be there) would ask, “Have ye nothing better to do with your time?”
Scots and other Gaelic people took a very different route. Rather than digging a moat, they built an island in a loch. They would pick a spot in the loch not far from the shore and very shallow. They would throw rocks into the loch to build a dry path. When they were satisfactorily far enough out, they would throw even more rocks to make an island. Then, depending on the area and the availability of wood, they would either build a dwelling like the one in the first picture or just build a stone house. No muss, no fuss.
The oldest crannogs appear to be about 5000 years old. Yes ladies and gentlemen, that’s all the way back to the old kingdom of Egypt, about the time, according to some historians, that Abraham appeared on the scene. Entire empires have risen and fallen, trying to build great monuments so that the world would remember them. Meanwhile the Scots were snug in houses that, with the quick destruction of the bridge, were just not worth wading out and invading.
Does building a crannog sound like a lot of work? Well, yes, but remember three things. One, these were often multifamily dwellings. Many hands make light work. Two, the growing season is very short in Scotland. If everyone spent a couple hours pitching rocks in the loch every day of winter, the island would appear more quickly than you’d think.
Three, Scots don’t expect things to happen quickly. I can easily imagine kids measuring their growth by the size of the rocks they could throw each year. Can you imagine the toddlers? “Sure, throw all the rocks you want.” The focus of a Scot’s life is at least as much on their family as it is on themselves. What does it matter if you don’t see something finished? Your family will be safe for generations, and you’ll be part of them for making it happen.
The second picture is an example of what happened to crannogs after the family moved out. As you can see, it is covered with vegetation. Even animals don’t bother to invade it. Crannogs, and the stone family houses built on them, were still quite active into the 17th and even 18th centuries. Archeological expeditions, even ones underwater, are learning more about them all of the time, and we await some carbon dating to prove the 5,000 year number (present ones go back only 2,500).
A drop: a respectable portion of whatever alcohol you are drinking. A wee drop: technically a small drop, this is generally a modest suggestion that no one takes seriously.
According to The Whisky Barrel, a shop in Edinburg that has a webpage and ships worldwide, grain is used to make a weak beer, which is then aged in oak barrels, giving it a distinct flavor that we know as Scotch Whiskey. In America is generally just called Scotch. The Scots are trying to make it clear that this term, Scotch, only applies to whisky, but I don’t know if they’re having much luck. People around the world also use Scotch for plaid, regardless of the colors used, and for anything Scottish, including the people.
The whisky pictured is named after Dougie Maclean’s famous song, “Caledonia”, and he had a hand in choosing its flavor and selling it. That’s not particularly hard when you have to sing the song at every concert you give. If you like contempoarary music of any type I suggest looking Dougie Maclean up.
Whisky comes in all sorts of types. There are many tiny breweries. If someone asks in Scotland, or in the U.K. in general, they ask specifically rather like we do for beer. In the U.S. it’s just “Scotch” or “Scotch on the rocks”. We know that people from Scotland wouldn’t export anything less than first-rate.
Description: Scottish Deerhound, Fernhill’s Kendra
Source: Fernhill website
Date: 12:38, 11 March 2010 (UTC)
Author: Linda Lindt/Richard Hawkins
Used with permission: Linda Lindt Photographer
Actually, most Scots just say “dog” especially in modern times, but some accents change it a bit. Many types of dogs come from Scotland, and nearly all are working breeds. Any dog that can be trained to deal with sheep is priceless to a Shepard. The dog pictured is a deerhound, most likely a hunting dog.
As one of my readers recognized, the banner across the top of the site is in fact the tartan of the Clan Urquhart, who willingly adopted me after my mother married into the family. Clans generally start when someone does some thing brave and extraordinary. In the Urquhart Clan, a dog was just as important as the person.
The founder of our clan. Conachar Mor, scion of the Royal House of Ulster, was a mighty hunter. His faithful hunting dog was very old and probably in pain. Mor was considering putting the dog down. An old woman warned against this, saying that the dog still had a role to play. Sure enough, the two were out walking one day and encountered an angry wild boar. The situation was dire, for usually it took ten or twenty men to take down a boar with special weapons, and even then some were wounded in the process.
The boar charged, and no amount of bravery on Mor’s part did much good. The dog flew into action, forgetting any pain, and took down the boar enough for it to be killed. The dog died after the struggle, protecting his master. Hundreds of years later we remember them both.
Check out here for a more detailed version of the story.
 | jlfeuerbach on Guest Post about Shinty and… |
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 | James Clifford on The Parish of Dunkeld |
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| jlfeuerbach on Guest Post about Shinty and… |
| Martita Patton LaSor… on Guest Post about Shinty and… |
| James Clifford on The Parish of Dunkeld |
| jlfeuerbach on The Parish of Dunkeld |
| Ian Hunter on The Parish of Dunkeld |
Loving Leed: An American learning Scots 
