91热爆

I collect crossbows. I`ve had an interest in them for years noo, and started off wi` me Wildcat 3, a beautiful beastie that I occasionally let me friends try oot. Surprisingly....or not....it`s usually the women wha` are the best shots.
I`m no` a bad shot meself mind you tae. We hae a high impact target for practicing, and on sunny days like we hae had recently, it`s grand tae be ootdoors wi` the crossbow, honing oor aim. Here is a picture o` twa o` me bows. I hae three a` thegither. (the Wildcat is on the richt o` the picture, wi` the quiver o` bolts)

Me ducks are nesting. Or trying tae...in among the still fairly bare dog roses, they gather wee bits o` twig and dried hay and weed mixed wi` the odd bit o` binder twine. Then they try tae build their nest and one o` them hunkers doon atop it, and starts laying.
A` fine and well. Then come the crows. I`m no ower fond o` crows...thieving brutes they are, opportunists wi` a canny eye for the vulnerable, and if a sitting duck doesnae count as vulnerable, I dinnae ken what is!
So I was a peedie bit riled tae watch the nearest nesting duck come off the nest tae gaun tae the drinker, and a bloody big black crow swoop in frae naewhar tae lift one o` the duck eggs up in twa claws and fly off ower the field wi` it!
Oh, I was fair riled....no sae much as the puir duck though, who ran back tae the nest mak`ing a fair racket which brought half a dozen o` the other ducks tae see what was happening.
And she settled doon again, and her cronies waddled off aboot the garden tae nudge the earth for slugs and grubs and grain. And the thieving crow cam` back again, wi` one o` his ain buddies, and hopped aboot in front o` the sitting duck, wha` once more let oot a hiss and quack and brought the other ducks back at a run, and it was fine tae see them a` head at full duck tilt straight for the crows, who, tae gie them their due, stood their ground til the last minute, then took off ower the field.
Well, since then, they are still hanging aroond waiting til the wee duck gets off for another drink or a feed, and keeping an eye on the four other duck nests aboot the garden. But the wee sitting duck has her bodyguards nearby, and they set up a racket when the crows come ower near.
There`s a Scots saying, "shoot the crow", tae mean gaun awa`. But me, I am thinking it should be taken a peedie bit more literally meself. I ken crows hae tae eat tae live as well. But when they`re eating me future ducks, then they`re on dangerous territory.
I`m no ower fussed aboot the loss o` a few duck eggs...every year we always get some twa tae three dozen ducklings, aroond half o` which mak it tae adultduckhood...the rest succumbing tae crows or blackbacks (wha` eat them doon whole!) or weather or neglective motherhood.
But it fair irks me tae see the distress o` the nesting ducks at the harrying crows.

Scarecrows, by the way, just dinnae work. I hae had one in me garden for a whiles noo, complete wi` coat and hat and ootstretched arms....the last time I looked, he had a row o` sparrows lined up all ower those arms and blackbird on his hat!

Well, I`m no`, really...but the song got stuck in me head and I cannae stop singing it, which is unfortunate as I cannae stand it!
Yours truly and himself are off on the island plane tomorrow afternoon, tae stay the weekend with me lassie on mainland. That is, mainland Orkney, Scotland is a whole different country......
I reckon, if we`d been meant tae fly the gods would hae given us a` wings or one o` they propellor things that helicopters hae...since we hae none o` the above, we`re surely meant tae keep both feet firmly on the ground...
So I booked the plane thinking, ten minutes o` hell instead o` an hour and forty o` the same on the boat. Then find oot the plane is tak`ing half an hour tomorrow. No idea why...most likely stopping off at another island...I`ve been on the wee plane afore ye see....great windows it has, fine view o` underneath ye if ye dinnae get vertigo.....
Och well, needs must...
afore that we had tae arrange for a friend tae come and milk the nan wha lost the kid, she has settled in fine among the other goats and big auld sheep, wha` still thinks he is a lamb and has nae concept o` what size he actually is....as we keep finding oot, when he gets his head stuck atween slats in the byre because he thinks his width is obviously nae bigger than head size. So forgetting the rest o` him could double as a dinner table, he tries tae squeeze through the smallest spaces and usually gets stuck or uses sheer bulk tae force his way through.
He is a big sheep though...if ye ever want tae see a sheep tak`ing a wifie for a walk, just watch me pegging him oot o` a summers day. If I could wear roller skates and just train him tae stick tae the road, it would be guid excercise.
Whilst I`m sad at the loss o` the wee kid, it`s fine tae be having the goat milk again. Each year I mak` soft goats cheese, sometimes wi` added herbs but most often just plain. So I`ve tae pick rennet up in the toon whilst I`m ower there. Noo the weather is warming up, it`s a treat tae sit ootdoors mulling ower the view and nibbling on soft goats cheese on biscuits or a mixed grain bread wi` a glass o` home made wine or mead. We need mair sun!!
The past couple o` days hae been what oor Irish cousins call `soft days`, a smirring o` rain and a light mist rolling up the track tae cast a peedie gloom ower the daylight. It`s been mild enough though....one o` the drawbacks against the wee stove is that when ye rely upon it for heat and the oven, it can get awfu warm in your hoose when the day is mild ootside.
After we get back frae mainland, I hae some cockerels tae cull...I hae four o` them left frae last year, and noo the hens are thinking o` nesting they are being a pain in the rear, tae hen and human both....wha`ever said cockerels only crow at dawn was a plain liar! A` through the night these boys will hae crowing competitions. Yours truly is used tae it, but we hae visitors coming soon and I mind in previous years nane o` them getting a wink o` sleep for the noise o` competing cockerels, chuckling ducks and hissing geese....oh, the peace and quiet o` the countryside....a myth, indeed....
I hope a` body has a fine and guid weekend, and that the sun stays warm and bright.

Aka, the wee island plane, the odd car or twa, and the boat....
For anyone wha kens or has watched "Father Ted"...I`m convinced I live in an alternate reality on the real Craggy Island...here`s an example o` why...
Yours truly and the other half had prevailed upon a couple o` very obliging, patient friends tae run us up tae the airfield on Sanday (it`s twa fields at the back o` oor hoose, but longer by road) and tak` oor car back hame so as we didnae need tae leave it at the airfield a` weekend.
Fine, that.
So they chapped the door a peedie while afore we had tae go, and we left and went tae sit ootside the gate and wait for the plane. And we waited. And waited. Nae plane. Nae nice folks wha` open up the airfield gates tae let us passengers get on the plane. Naebody at a` aside frae a few flocks o` geese and the odd car passing by and most likely thinking we were tourists sightseeing the Sanday airfield.
Come the time we should hae been tak`ing off, I turned tae the other half and suggested I might...just might..hae gotten the time wrong....it disnae help that in such situations, I tend tae get fits o` the giggles....such is me life, wi` so many "Father Ted" moments, that I often find it funny...others dinnae always though....
so we phoned hame, spoke tae the son wha` looked at the timetable for me and said, "Aye, ye`ve booked it off last months (now defunct) timetable..."
So back the car oot o` the car park and hare off hame tae log online and see what the richt time was...
The Loganair timetable online is no` the most easy thing tae read, ye ken....but we checked..the plane would be leaving in aboot fifteen minutes...
"Whit?! Fifteen minutes frae noo!?"
"Aye..ye better shift then"
So a` o` us traipse oot tae the car again and hare on back up tae the airfield.
Yours truly has a phobia aboot flying..I`ve done it often enough but will never like it. Up sae high wi` nothing concrete under you`re feet...it`s just no` natural...
so it was wi` some trepidation I watched the wee island plane swoop doon tae the airstrip and then tak` off again wi` the engine revving...."Oh great," I thought, "he kens it`s me and disnae want a quietly hysterical passenger on his plane" but no, he was scaring the geese off the airstrip. Off flew the geese, roond he veered tae come back in tae land, back flew the geese, so on wi` the engine revving again, and off they flew again. They are just no` feared o` the "big bird", they geese....
So bidding fareweel tae oor friends, wi` mony apologies for the running aboot and confusion ower timetables and suchlike, we boarded the plane.
And tae be honest, it was a` fine enough, even though wi` sae many windows there`s no much tae look at apart frae "doon", until we got near Kirkwall airport, when the plane started tae shoogle that much I thought me teeth might rattle oot me head...
I tell ye, it`s a richt guid job they provide sick bags in thon wee pockets on the back o` the seats...onyone wha has ever been on a rollercoaster ride will ken the feeling....
"A bit bumpy" is how other folks will describe it, wi` typical Orcadian understatement. "the plane ride frae hell!" wid be my words for it....
But we got there in one piece.
I had a braw time at me lassies, seeing the grandbairns again is always a treat. Comes the time for her tae bring us back intae toon tae catch the ferryboat (for we werenae able tae book the plane back, it being fu`...) there was me daughter, twa wee grandsons wha both need carseats, yours truly and the other half a` fairly squeezed intae her wee car like sardines!
It`s a guid job I hae lost weight recently!
At least the ferry wasnae too bad, despite the frothing churning sea. Or maybe I was just sae glad no` tae be on the plane, I just didnae notice....
And throughoot the whole weekend it blew and poured doon...even though I sat and watched on the weather how the rest o` the UK was basking in summerlike weather for the bank holiday weekend.
I hae a friend doon sooth wha said tae me, "I never ken what Orkney looks like...there`s always a wee cloud ower it on the weather map!"
One thing I hae noticed aboot the weather reports on television...they rarely get it right....
even, dare I say it, the 91热爆...they will often stick the word "Breezy" ower the north coast or Orkney and Shetland. While we`re having a Force 9. Whit dae they think a gale force wind is then?
But all in all, it was a grand weekend away. Folks on mainland were busy painting eggs and getting ready tae roll them doon hills, bairns everywhar seemed tae be coated in easter egg chocolate and grins. Daffodils were in bloom even if they were being pelted by the rain and flattened by the wind.
And sitting in me livingroom last nicht, I watched the island plane come intae land wi` a shoogle or twa in the wind, and thought, "I ken what that feels like!" and was glad tae hae me feet on Terra Firma.
Noo, it is back tae work, being up tae me oxters in sheepskins and coohides and cockerels tae be necked and soup tae be made.
And for Father Ted fans, in typical Mrs Doyle fashion, "Ye`ll hae a cup o` tea will ye no`?"

Each morning noo, when I wake up and open the bedroom curtains, I`m greeted by a half dozen eggs on the lawn. They are duck eggs...ducks, no` the brightest o` creatures, will lay their eggs any auld whar, and then walk off and leave them tae the crows.
Well, I`m no` ower fond o` crows, and would like no` tae attract them tae the garden if possible, so yours truly toddles oot o` a morning in her jammies and slippers, tae collect the duck eggs and bring them indoors.
I dinnae actually like the taste o` duck eggs meself...too `eggy`...but I hand them on tae folks wha` dae.
And noo oor chickens are well intae laying, wi` the lighter nights and longer days, we hae a wheen o` hen eggs. There`s nae point in selling ony tae the local shops, just aboot a`body here keeps hens and has eggs. So each year I`m looking for 101 new things tae dae wi` hen eggs.
So far, I can only manage these...I pickle big jars o` eggs, when we hae visitors later in the year and go for island walks, they always like, packed in the picnic basket, pickled eggs.
I seperate the yolks and eggs and put them in the freezer in big bags. See, ye can tan skins wi` egg yolks, it tak`s the place o` auld fashioned brain tanning. So I store eggs to help mak` buckskins.
I bake! Cakes, biscuits, onything which has eggs in the recipe, I bake and freeze.
Aside frae that though, I am fresh oot o` eggy ideas. We hae mair eggs than we can eat.

Och and see there! On the telly this morning, the weather report. All o` the UK basking in sunshine, temperatures tae grace a summers day on the beach.
Then I look oot the window...it`s chucking it doon, misty, cauld and damp.
I reckon they should mak weather reporters tak some kind o` course in reality whar they could at least phone up some wee chappie in the North Isles and ask him what the weather is really doing that day. Tsk.

Each morning I am serenaded by the wren which is nesting in an auld ivy covered pillar aside the hoose. For such a wee bird, there is a hearty voice! I love tae hear, each spring, the wren and the blackbird sing. Like liquid gold they are, songs full o` sunlight and ease and long balmy days.
Though, in reality, they are marking their territory and sending oot a cross atween mating calls and `let`s fight!` tae other birds...
We hae a lot o` wild birds aroond us. A lot o that is due tae the fact that they are used to feeding off the grain we put oot for the poultry, none o` which is grudged in ony way. So most days the place is full o` sparrows and starlings, blackbirds and gulls and the moorhens wha` seem tae hae adopted us and are almost tame enough tae pick up noo. Ower by the pond at the side o` the track we watch herons fish, wi` that lovely kind o` auld mannish patience and watch swans glide across the glassy water, or the smaller wild ducks, all backsides-up as they feed off the bottom o` the shallow bit of water. Aroond the pond are flag irises, which mak a bonny sea o` yellow and green later in the year, and wild flowers like ragged robin, wild orchids, clover and vetch....Orkney is always a richt bonny sight each year, a carpet o` wildflowers atop a sea o` green, what we lack in hill and forest we more than mak up for wi` this display o` colour and scent.
The landscape wakes up this time o` year. Birds mate and fight, the soil warms up and enfolds the seed, and the whole feel o` the landscape is kinder, more amenable tae us humans wha` need tae mak a living off it. There`s a fine energy aboot the place that cannae be dampened doon even in the face o` yet another rainy day.
I wouldnae trade the song o` that wren ootside me window for anything this day. Ye can keep your big cities, wi` the hustle o` ower mony folks and the roar o` ower mony cars. I`ll keep the sound o` the sea kissing the shingle shore and the pure, clean song o` the birds.
It`s a fine life, being a hermit.

Rhubarb Wine....
Roughly chop 2 to 3 lb of rhubarb, put this into a clean new bucket with 1 gallon of boiled, cooled to tepid water. Add 1 crushed Campden tablet, 1lb of sugar, and 1 packet of dried yeast. Stir well and cover, after about a week, add another lb of sugar and stir well daily for another week. When it`s stopped fermenting strain into a demijon and fit with an airlock. Rack when it`s clear. This wine keeps reallywell! I still have a couple of bottles I made last year and they`re delicious the longer you leave them.

Fizzy Mead...Into a clean bucket pour 1 gallon of boiled, cooled to tepid water over three lb jars of honey (heather honey is best but any will do in a pinch) and add 1 packet of dried yeast and three tablespoons citric acid OR the juice of two lemons.
That`s it, cover and just leave to ferment then when it stops bubbling, strain into a demijon, bottle when clear, this is best kept for at least six months and tastes gorgeous.

The news of the oil rig support boat capsizing off Shetland waters wi` loss o` life brings home tae us, once more, what a chancy area we live in. Rarely a year goes by withoot hearing aboot a fishing boat, or rig tug, getting intae trouble or becoming a tragedy, as this one has. Me heart goes oot tae the families o` the lost seamen, reported tae be Norwegian nationals.
It can be a fine thing tae romanticise the sea, especially during a storm or gale when she throws her waves at the shores o` oor wee islands and wages war upon the land. But we sit in oor dry and warm hames, and are nae oot upon the water o` her, risking oor lives. The reality is, the sea is a killer wi` a history o` taking lives that goes back til the dawn o` mankind.

In Norse mythology, the sun is called Sunna, daughter of Mundilfari, who rides the skies in a chariot pulled by horses and being chased by the wolf Skoll.
There y`go, I`m just a mine of useless bits o` information....:D
Anyways, I managed a peedie bit sitting ootside today, seeing as Sunna is riding the skies in fine form, even though the wind has a bite o` cauld in it. I tak` oot a couple o` cushions and deposit me backside doon in front o` the hoose, back against the stone o` it, and tak` in the view. Frae oor hoose, ye can see clear across tae Stronsay, across the Peedie Sea, doon past Kettletoft harbour wi` a few wee colourful fishing boats tied up, past Elsness beach wi` the bonny dunes on the way tae Quoyness Chambered Cairn, a finely excavated tomb wi` a wee crawlspace that ye need tae hunker doon on your hands and knees tae gaun through tae enter the chamber proper, wi` it`s beehive o` some half dozen peedier chambers.
It`s a fine view. And atween there and here, are me geese ducking through the fence intae the field next door, and me hens tak`ing dust baths in the vegetable garden, wi` a few nesting ducks in among the thickening dog roses, a` budding green and growing fatter wi` leaf.
And across the pond at the side o` the track, wild mallards are guddling and paddling, swans are gliding, and the gulls are being their usual predatory selves. The flag irises are greening up nicely and the whole thing has a pretty rural air aboot it o` the kind that mak`s fine paintings.
I`d earned me wee seat in the sun, ye see...this morning already, I got dinner ready tae be cooked, mince and tatties and vegetables, whizzed roond the hoosework fine style and then took meself off ootside tae the table I had the other half haul oot for me, tae sand and comb a sheepskin. I`m a lucky person, working frae hame, so that on fine bonny days I can work ootside in the sun. And in atween a` that I managed tae hang oot three loads o` washing so that by the time I tak it indoors tonight, it`ll smell all fresh and bonny frae the sea air, ready tae be hung frae the pulley above the stove and scent the room wi` ootdoors.
And noo the man is hame for his dinner and had it, so that in another peedie while I`ll can gaun back ootdoors and enjoy more of Sunna`s light on me face.
I`ll tak` some wool oot wi` me and the drop spindle, and spin and maybe work on a wee bit o` naalbinding, which is a Viking way o` kind of knitting and crocheting at the same time...sounds confusing but is awfu easy tae dae and mak`s for satisfying work. They used it tae mak` socks and caps and even gloves. I use a polished bone needle tae work it, which is also what they would hae used their own selves.
I hope other folks are having such a bonny day and that Sunna is riding your skies wherever ye are. :-)

Sunna`s day....
At first, it was chucking it doon, wet and miserable and blowy. Then the mist came by for a visit...then the sun came oot, yay!
Usually I`m up tae me elbows in sheepskins or coohides...ye hae tae work them according tae whar they are at in the tanning process and no on what day it is..so most Sundays are tae be spent working, just like any other day...except this day was a quiet one, wi` the skins on the frames ootside drying, and nane tae be worked, so the day was mine!
And I made the most o` it! During the dreich weather I watched some o` me favourite films, then after dinner sat ootside in the sun just taking in the view and doing absolutely nothing. Not a thing. Nae work. Zilch. Squat. Nada.
Oh, it was fine and grand tae be doing, as well! I fair enjoyed it.
Then I get `itchy` hands tae be doing something, so oot wi` the wee archery bow and here I am in the picture, taking aim, once me chickens and ducks and geese had been shooed oot o` the way, at the target. Fine shot I am tae, even if I dae say so meself. Usually we are oot wi` one o` the crossbows, but this is just as much fun.
Then it`s back indoors, listening tae music on the laptop....I hae uploaded me favourite cd`s tae it so I can listen whilst I`m online...for any folks thinking a` me online time is for fun alone, well, I hae accounts etc tae dae online so a lot o` time is spent wi` that. May as well listen tae good music whilst I work!
Me present favourite sound is a group wha` play medieval instruments...big pipes and drums mainly, called Corvus Corax, updated a fair bit for todays taste..fair thumping stuff it is and guaranteed tae hae me feet tapping along.
I hae nae qualms at a` aboot haeing a lazy, work free day. It`s good for the soul tae hae time off. I`m protective o` me spare time, see, and mak` sure it`s spent wisely. And wise it was indeed, tae sit ootside in the sun daeing nothing at a`, and playing wi` the bows.

I will hae tae ditch the quail eggs I think. It`s ower their time for hatching noo, and nary a one has hatched! That`s the last time I buy hatching eggs frae Ebay, tsk! Looks like I will just hae tae be content wi` the variety o` birds I hae already...at least I hae twa geese sitting on nests, so fingers crossed there will be some bonny wee goslings in a wee while.
I hope everybody had a fantastic weekend and that the sun shone, at least for a while, upon ye all.

Oh, afore i forget...here is a wee computor joke doing the roonds, freely available online...I really liked it as it reminds me o` Broadband hitting Sanday...so although it`s titled Hi Technology Comes To Tipperary, you could substitute Orkney for Tipperary no bother at all....

A list of computer term in common use.

LOG ON Throwin a bit a heat on the fire.
LOG OFF There's too much heat comin from the fire.
MONITOR Keepin an eye on the fire.
DOWNLOAD Gettin the turf from the trailer.
MEGA HERTZ When yer not careful gettin the turf.
FLOPPY DISC Whatcha get from tryin to carry too much turf all in the one.
HARD DRIVE Drivin home with the turf in d'Winter.
PROMPT What the mail isn't in d'Winter.
WINDOWS What to shut when it's cold outside.
CHIP Tayto's for d'telly.
MICROCHIP What's in the bottom of the tayto bag.
MODEM What ya did to the silage fields.
KEYBOARD Where ya hang the keys ah da Massey Ferguson.
SOFTWARE d'Windcheater.
HARDWARE d'Duffle Coat.
MAINFRAME Holds up the Hay Barn roof.
PORT Fancy yuppie wine.
ENTER Yuppie talk for "C'mon in".
MOUSE PAD Yuppie talk for the rat hole.

A stray cat has adopted us. It`s been coming roond here for at least the past three years, but was always sae nervous and skittish we couldnae get close tae it. In fact, soooo nervy it was, that one day it got intae the porch through the open door, and I stepped oot the hoose door, the cat got the fright o` its life and took off horizontally, going right through the glass window...which was shut at the time...and landing in the rain barrel ootside afore making off intae the field. Luckily it was fine, nary even a cut or graze, but yours truly had nearly a heart attack at the fright and a broken window tae fix.
Since then, he has been popping in and oot, visiting me ain three cats. They`re a` female cats so I reckon I ken fine what the attraction is, although he might no` ken they`ve been done as I`m no that fond o` cats I want tae be breeding them!
So anyways, we began tae leave the garage door open for him, he would go intae it and find a wee neuk to hunker doon in, so then we left oot cat food and water, and noo he comes and goes as he likes, and has finally managed tae get close enough tae oor cats so as they dinnae try tae claw his eyes oot as they used tae.....
still though, it was a surprise tae see the main female cat (oh believe it, cats DO hae a hierarchy!) sitting under the dog roses watching me ducks waddle across the lawn tae get tae the water, wi` the `new` cat by her side.
He is a right bonny creature, but looks like a black version o` Blofelds cat, the white Persian beastie frae the James Bond movies. Veeerrrrry hairy cat, this one!! In fact I`ll hae tae try and tak a wee pic o` him if he`ll let me...though am fairly sure that a` that`ll come oot will be a huge ball o` black fluff wi` a pair o` feral green eyes in the middle o` it.
I admit tae being a dog person, dogs, they are uncomplicated beasts that dinnae look at ye as if they have ye well trained....ye can tak them for walks, play catch and ball wi` them, hae them sit at yer feet in blind unswerving love and loyalty and bask in the mutual appreciation going on there, and ye can fuss your dog wi` oot it trying tae tak your eyes oot when they`ve had enough.
But cats...well, they say cats ken they were once worshipped as gods in Egypt, word got aroond and so they havenae forgotten that....
So in a vain bid tae understand the new addition I searched online....and found this....


Feline Physics Laws
Law of Cat Inertia

A cat at rest will tend to remain at rest, unless acted upon by some outside force - such as the opening of cat food, or a nearby scurrying mouse.

Law of Cat Motion

A cat will move in a straight line, unless there is a really good reason to change direction.

Law of Cat Magnetism

All blue blazers and black sweaters attract cat hair in direct proportion to the darkness of the fabric.

Law of Cat Thermodynamics

Heat flows from a warmer to a cooler body, except in the case of a cat, in which case all heat flows to the cat.

Law of Cat Stretching

A cat will stretch to a distance proportional to the length of the nap just taken.

Law of Cat Sleeping

All cats must sleep with people whenever possible, in a position as uncomfortable for the people involved, and as comfortable as possible for the cat.

Law of Cat Elongation

A cat can make her body long enough to reach just about any counter top that has anything remotely interesting on it.

Law of Cat Obstruction

A cat must lay on the floor in such a position to obstruct the maximum amount of human foot traffic.

Law of Cat Acceleration

A cat will accelerate at a constant rate, until he gets good and ready to stop.

Law of Dinner Table Attendance

Cats must attend all meals when anything good is served.

Law of Rug Configuration

No rug may remain in its naturally flat state for very long.

Law of Obedience Resistance

A cat's resistance varies in proportion to a human's desire for her to do something.

First Law of Energy Conservation

Cats know that energy can neither be created nor destroyed and will, therefore, use as little energy as possible.

Second Law of Energy Conservation

Cats also know that energy can only be stored by a lot of napping.

Law of Refrigerator Observation

If a cat watches a refrigerator long enough, someone will come along and take out something good to eat.

Law of Electric Blanket Attraction

Turn on an electric blanket and a cat will jump into bed at the speed of light.

Law of Random Comfort Seeking

A cat will always seek, and usually take over, the most comfortable spot in any given room.

Law of Bag/Box Occupancy

All bags and boxes in a given room must contain a cat within the earliest possible nanosecond.

Law of Cat Embarrassment

A cat's irritation rises in direct proportion to her embarrassment times the amount of human laughter.

Law of Milk Consumption

A cat will drink his weight in milk, squared, just to show you he can.

Law of Furniture Replacement

A cat's desire to scratch furniture is directly proportional to the cost of the furniture.

Law of Cat Landing

A cat will always land in the softest place possible; often the mid- section of an unsuspecting, reclining human.

Law of Fluid Displacement

A cat immersed in milk will displace her own volume, minus the amount of milk consumed.

Law of Cat Disinterest

A cat's interest level will vary in inverse proportion to the amount of effort a human expends in trying to interest him.

Law of Pill Rejection

Any pill given to a cat has the potential energy to reach escape velocity.

Law of Cat Composition

A cat is composed of Matter + Anti-Matter + It Doesn't Matter.

In Norse mythology, Bifrost is the rainbow bridge between the realms of man and the gods.
This morning I woke up and opened me bedroom curtains. Normally I dinnae shut them but as an insomniac, find the lighter nights keep me even more awake, so come summer they get shut tight.
Anyways, I opened me curtains and saw a beautiful thing...a double rainbow with the tail o`it dipped intae the pond beside the track, shimmering against the bruised flesh o` a thundery sky.
I kenned fine, then, the meaning o` the word `entranced` because I stood for a full fifteen minutes just watching the rainbow, seeing birds fly through it and shimmer in something like a heat haze on a summers day.
There is something awfu special aboot the jewel like colours o` a rainbow against a dark sky, it`s a very hypnotic sight.
Even after being born, and growing up in Scotland, I hae seen more rainbows here in Orkney than anywhere else. But I think the most special sight I saw was a moonbow, which is a rainbow seen at night. It has nae colour o` it`s ain but is clearly a rainbow, it has the `stripes` that would be there in daylight but is a beautiful silver colour.
Well, nae doubt folks will think me a bit daft for being entranced by a rainbow, but such a fine start tae the day mak`s a big difference tae me.

I`ll be offline for a day or twa, as I hae a pile o` work tae deal wi`...primarily a coohide tae work, which needs probably a bit mair muscle than I currently have, but is a damn guid workoot! :-D
So here is hoping everybody else has a fine and guid week, and that the weather keeps bonny for ye all.

This nae swearing on the blogs tends tae mak for some creative wording I`ll tell ye!
There was yours truly, beginning tae work a coohide and four sheepskins when I cam` doon wi` a virus that has left me dizzy, weak and slightly nauseous. :-(
So, confined tae the sofa wi` the tv for company (they should mak a special channel just for invalids wi` actual decent programmes on it) here I am again. Had tae get the other half tae oversalt the hides and skins tae keep them in storage until I am up on me feet again, which hopefully will no be too long, for I hate being ill.
The wee black cat that has adopted us has is right now ootside in the garden, half hiding in the dog roses and `stalking` oor hens and ducks, wha`, being used tae oor ain cats, just ignore him. Whether the cat feels slighted at that snub, I`ve nae idea, but he`s doing a grand job o` imitating a prowling tiger.
I would just like tae say, tae any weather gods there might be listening, what is the idea you guys? Warmth and sunshine one week, then hail, gales and rain the next? Can ye no` mak` your mind up please? For, how am I supposed tae flesh a hide ootdoors when I need tae wear a hardhat tae protect me head frae hailstones the size o` marbles coming doon at warp speed?
That`s no fair, it just isnae.....nae doubt it`ll snow next week...or maybe gie us a drought, ye never can tell....

When I`m no` sae dizzy and sickly, I hae some photos tae post, o` me spinning wheel and me cats and dog and oor sheep the size o` your average dining table...he gies me the wool I need tae spin, which I should be getting on with, so I hae enough wool for the warp weighted loom demo in August.

Tae answer mjc re the moonbeams, ye can see them any time o` year, usually though there has tae be at least some light tae see them, bright stars or the moon. They`re a right bonny sight and well worth looking oot for.
And tae answer Dag, I tan sheepskins and cowhides and mak` them intae rugs and things for a living. I also hae an interest in reenactment, specifically the Viking age and including Viking settlement in Orkney and Scotland. :-) In August I`ll be giving a demonstration o` the Viking warp weighted loom for the Sanday show, which is why I need tae spin a pile o` wool aforehand. Sometimes I feel like the lassie oot o` Rumpelstiltskin...or have I got that wrong? The one wha` was locked in a tower until she spun a pile o` gold? No`, mind you, that it would be a bad thing, tae be able tae spin gold....
Oh dear...waffling again...it must be the delerium...:-D

Last night I watched the sea come in doon the bottom o` the track. The wind had whipped up a hoolie, so the waves were fairly racing tae shore. And the water was that cold, chilly looking green foam that promises a scant two minutes o` life left if you`re in it...and I got tae thinking on all the stories o` selkie folks and kelpies and merfolks who used tae populate the waters aroond oor isles. These stories are just curiosities now, which is a shame, I think. How many bairns now, ken the auld tales and go to the shore tae look for the bright eyes o` the selkie folks peering above the water.
Changed times....

Please feel free tae ignore, ridicule, scorn, criticise, whatever....I`m fairly thick skinned...I wrote this a long time ago noo, one o` the greatest things in life I was ever given was the love o` reading, and books have enriched me life a very great deal. I`m nae great writer but like tae hae a go at the occasional short story, and this one was cast up by the beautiful Orkney shorelines.

"Where are the sealfolks now, I wondered, walking along the shore. In a wind grown bonedeep cold I buried my nose in the scarf and peered at waves grown huge and cold looking and fierce, tumbling onto the shore with no little force. These were never the waves that gently lapped foreign, golden shores in warmer climates. These weren`t the waves you would see folks surfing in, like merfolk they could seem skimming the sea on sealshaped boards.
These waves belonged to the North, the icelocked lands not so far away, and you could smell the cold in them, you could smell the briny air of shingle shored lands where the great whales swam and the huge white bear birthed her cubs.
So I kicked the stone into the water, staying well enough back not to get wet.
It was winter now. In summer these shores were barely warmer. But the sea now, in summer, the Sea Mither quietened a bit. Enough to watch the seals come to shore and follow your path along the beaches.
With their dog faces and their doe eyes they popped up and down beneath gentler waves and if it was an especially quiet sea day, you could follow the shape of them, quick grey darts beneath turquoise glassy water.
The sea belonged to them, the seals. Ungainly and heavy on land, they became beautiful beneath water, graceful, fair formed like the Sidhe women who captured the hearts of men deep in hollow hills with song, with dance, with a glance beneath long sweeping lashes....
Once selkie women graced the rocks of these islands. Once the lore of them was known to every child, every adult every gull carrying the sighting of them for folks with the ears to hear.
Once merfolks lived in the shallows and lured sailors to deep cities where old gods dwelled with fins for feet and ridged spines along their backs, gills to breathe water, they had...
Once the gods of the waves demanded gild price for travel in stormy weather and every sailor who valued life paid it....once the god of the deep demanded blood for the survival of a doomed ship far out to sea, and every sailor who valued his own skin paid it, yet one would lose....
Where are they know, the sealwives, the mermen, the temperamental gods of the sea?
All that survives is the dim memory of superstition, when sailors will offer their spit alone over the side for a fair wind, or toss a meagre silver coin of little value to the denizens of the deep.
Do they hide their form from us, our cousins who love the water? Are they glad to be shot of us, with our arrogant trespass upon their realm?
Or somewhere is there a mourning of sorts, a waterlogged hall wherein dance mermen with courtly grace borne of weightlessness, where upon a coral throne like old worn bone sits an ancient god with sight turned inward, thinking on times past when he netted his coin in great vast catches of respect and the dialogue of ritual?

None of this shows upon the violent, stormy surface of the sea. Like the breath of a vast ice beast the chill from the water mists the shore, like the drumming of the oldest, weariest heartbeat, the waves beat the shingle.
It is no great distance to turn home. One short walk along a track where sand sits under the rock.
There had been no real need to visit the shore on this day. But I was glad I had. Closer to the edge of it, I listened for the song of the merfolks, that eerie haunting ballad which captures the heart and mind and lures you to take ship and journey.
I looked over foam and ice-blue caps for fin or nose or bright liquid doe eyes.
Nothing moved on the surface of the water excepting the mist spray of the foam blown by the winds.
I mourned a little. Where are the children seeking the selkies, where are Ran`s daughters, Manannan`s riders?
I turned my back on it all and hunched deeper into my coat.

And behind her a graceful head rises from the violent waves, grave green eyes watch her head for home, strong muscled arms and fin-bedecked legs tread water, and a salt laden tear adds to the great grieving ocean.

Um, ok, I am a wee bitty nervous aboot this one...I love dogs ye see and this is me favourite story, tied up wi` the auld tales aboot the hounds o` the Sidhe (the Celtic fairy folks) who were always white hunting hounds wi` red eyes and ears. So anyways, if it mak`s nae sense tae others, fine that.


"She ran her hands through the coat of her hound. A big mongrel of a beast he was, long and lean limbed, fleet footed and steady and with a keen sure eye for the hunt.
The hare spitted before them now over the fire had been brought back by the hound.
He had no name, for she didn`t believe in naming beasts...names of their own, they had, secret beastkind names loaded with meaning and form. And her kind rarely got to know them. Oh, he would answer to any name she gave him...repetition of it would teach him to heel at command.
But she loved the hound and hated the things which took the wild out of him, which curtailed the freedoms that were his birthright.
For he was no ordinary hound. Mongrel he assuredly was, but white he was, with pale wild eyes and blood red ears, one of those beasts belonging to the Quiet Folks.
Loping out of the night like a vast, white wolf, he had come to her fires, wary at first, then hungry, jaws slavering with longing for the meat she`d had roasting.
And she had given it all to him, that great white hound. She knew at once she would keep him for as long as he cared to stay.

And they worked well together, hound and woman. He would lope steadily before her, in and out of the snarls atween the trees and shrubs, nosing softly the undergrowth under the thorns and briars, ears pricked high and coat laid sleek.
And she would follow slowly, keeping a distance away so as not to scare the prey, keeping downwind, eyes keen to spy out the land, watching for deer track and burrow and holt.
And in a flurry of white coat and a soft `whuff` he would put up a rabbit or hare or, rarely the red fox, and the chase would begin and breathlessly she would follow, heedless of thorn and catching, clutching branch, a wild excitement in her heart and blood pounding in her legs and always the spectre of the white hound before her eyes.
And in a blurred moment he would bring down the creature, a snarl and a snap and a broken, bloody neck....and then he would drop the meat and sit, and wait...wait for her to come to him, to lift the meat, to show approval with a soft stroke of white throat and a gentle pat to a heaving, sweating flank.
And back home they would go, a hut in a clearing, nothing more, nothing grand, but silent and safe and quiet. 91热爆.
She would clean the meat and spit it or pot it and add what herbage she had. No salt sullied this meat, no spices overshadowed the fine taste of it.

Because this was the meat of the Quiet Folks. And finer meat she had never eaten, before the hound came....

And at night he would lie outside the door, never coming in, hating the confinement of the hut, the excessive heat of the small fire. She always slept easy with his guarding of the threshold. Great noble head laid on wide paws and he would keep eyes open until she slept on her straw pallet.

She wept on his death, on finding him cold and stiff still lain across the doorway. As if asleep he seemed, still. But his limbs were stiff and chilled and a fine dewy dampness covered his coat. So she wept and cradled the huge, fine head on her lap and wondered if she had angered the Quiet Folk.
It took a whole day to dig the pit for him to be laid in. She gave him her only blanket, a mean thing of open weave and scratchy wool it was, but all she had. She placed him with his face turned North, for his soul to find the way home with ease. And mounding earth over the pit she sang the wordless song of tribute to the Quiet Folks to let them know, this wasn`t her doing, she loved the hound, please do not punish me Kind Folks, I loved him well, I fed him well, I cared much for him, I miss him greatly....
And over the mound of earth she planted spring bulbs and wolfsbane to keep his mound from desecration from the other beasts. And around it she placed stones, old and river worn and smooth.

And spent a cold and lonely night in her hut, the fire a mean thing against the dark, and if she heard a soft snuffle around her door she did not go to see, and if she scented a perfume never before known she did not go to see, and if she saw under the thin planks a light that was not of nature she did not go to see, but spent the dark hours shivering and holding her knees and rocking and keening in a quiet, simple way, and wishing for her hound, her beautiful Sidhe-born hound.

At last sleep took her, as the sun filtered softly through the trees. The wind played with leaf and branch and the whole forest creaked and danced the rhythm of the trees when no-one sees....
And at first she thought the scratching a dream, like the dream of the sounds she heard in the dark, those things she knew she must have dreamed, for nothing like them existed in her world, in the forest world.
But the scratching carried on and soon there was a high whining and she knew the sound well enough....and finally, with no little courage, opened the door.

At her feet, wrapped in an old, open weave, scratchy wool blanket, a small white head poked out. Red ears it had, this pup, red red ears and long, whelp lean legs. A tail lashed the threshold and thumped recognition.
She picked the small beast up and looked into eyes that seemed to know her.
Cradling the hound, she carried it indoors. Tears ran unheeded down her cheeks.

In the forest, hare and fox took to their burrows."

This is a photo o` me Ashford spinning wheel, I hae had it for a goodly while noo, and it`s spun a lot o` wool in that time. It lives under the window next tae the chest I use as a seat when I am spinning, so I can sit and spin and still peer oot the window at the view and the ducks and hens and geese.
The wee toolbag on it hauds a few bits and pieces o` kit...wool for naalbinding (a sample o` which is shown in the other photo, along wi` the polished bone needle the other half made me for reeanctment) and one o` me drop spindles, I didnae tak oot the lovely wee Viking shears the son in law kindly made for me but I can show them next time, plus more balls o` wool spun frae the wheel and other bone needles o` varying sizes.
In winter, it`s fine and nice tae sit in the warm livingroom wi` the Doric ticking ower, and spin and watch the rain pelt the window or watch the ducks waddling aroond looking for food, or the geese and hens try tae bully the wild moorhens wha are getting used tae that noo and ignore them. All o` the birds I hae seen lately in the garden are nesting, ye can watch them pick up small bits o` windblawn hay and dried grass and the down off the geese tae feather their nests. Maist o` these nests are in the nooks and crannies o` the byres, some o` them in plain sight, like the blackbirds nest wi` it`s bonny blue eggs.
And the birds grow used tae us twolegs and the dog and the cats (wha surprisingly, leave the birds be) and flit aboot the byre eating the grain put oot for the hens and flying back and forth wi` nesting material.
But doon by the beach is a different matter...there, the gulls nest, and they spit at ye if ye gaun too near their nests, a foul smelling concoction that taks a week tae wash off if ye are unlucky enough tae get too close.
When the weather warms up again....we hae had sun, torrential rain, winds, hail and it even tried tae snow ower the weekend!....I`ll tak the spinning wheel ootdoors and sit round the front o` the hoose tae spin.

It`s near on that time o` year again...the dog has tae hae a bath! She doesnae mind it, in fact she loves the water....but oh, it`s a fair auld mess at the time! I hae tae keep an eye on the other half this time tae mak sure he doesnae dry the hound doon wi` me brand new best towels again......

Here`s a couple o` pictures o` the `adopted` hairy cat, which has kind o` stuck as its name (seeing as I never really name animals, it doesnae matter though).
This is aboot as close as we can get to it...he`ll let us leave him food and water, and he`ll creep intae the garage tae sleep and nap and hunt mice, otherwise, well, call me fanciful, but he has a wild glint in his eyes and a look that says tae me, one step nearer, missus, and I`ll hae yer hand off!
So I keep a respectable distance. He`s a bonny enough creature though is he no`?

I ken I`m risking being seen as a crazy mad wifie posting equally crazy stories, so will likely mak` this one the last for a guid long while ye`ll be pleased tae hear.
I hae a great fondness for Celtic lore, as well as one for traditional ghost stories. This is kind o` a combination o` the two. Probably best read after a dram or two....

"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The old man watched his grandson playing the games console...quick nimble fingers pressed buttons and on screen, the hero fought a dragon and won. With an exultant punch in the air, the lad turned off the console and got up, went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of coke.

With the noise of the game over, it was quiet in the crofthouse. The lad settled himself on the old, oversprung couch, soft with cushions his granny had made before she had died. Soft with memories.

In the hearth the fire burned, glowing in the encroaching twilight. The heady scent of burning peat always made the lad happy to be here. Of course, when he`d been a wee bairn, visiting for the summer holidays, the croft had been a larger, more exciting place, with grandad always out at the kye or tending the runrigs and granny concocting treats and hearty fare over the range fire in the scullery.

But now he was older, wiser, and the croft, well, it was just a wee house in the hills, nothing special was it? Miles from anywhere and empty seeming now that granny was gone...and truth be told, he wouldn`t be here at all if mam and dad hadn`t put the pressure on him to visit grandad, emphasising how alone he was now, how he needed to see family every now and again, how the croft was becoming too much hard work for him, the few cows a burden, the strips of barley and oats more cumbersome each year.

So this then, was his `good deed`....

In the gathering twilight they sat in comfortable silence in front of the peat fire. With a sigh, the old man got up and went to the dresser, once a well loved and waxed and shining creature his wife had polished and dressed with best china and the ugly but cherished wee ornaments the children had brought home for gifts...now it was not so shined, and the debris of an old mans life littered the shelves among the dusty china. Opening a drawer he took out his small bottle of whisky, and poured himself a dram in an old Jacobite glass.

About to put the bottle back, he paused...turning to the boy, he said "Well, I suppose you`re auld enough now, chust, for the one?"

The lad, startled, but proud to think his grandad realised he was a man grown now, said "Aye, I`ll have one if you`re offering", with a shy grin.

Taking the glasses to the fireside, the auld man sat and raised his to the lad...."slainte mhath, laddie"...

the boy raised his in like salute, and knocked the ancient whisky back...the auld man winced a little to see such a fine, golden liquid barely touch the boys throat...but said nothing.

The old clock on the mantelpiece ticked the evening away and the boy grew drowsy. He would never have said, but that had been his first taste of the whisky...and oh, but he liked it fine, even if it did burn his throat on the way down...now a warm, drowsy feeling filled him and he relaxed into it, pleased, after all, that he had humoured his old folks and came to see grandad. He missed granny fiercely, and supposed the auld man did, though he never spoke of it if he did, and truth to tell, the lad would be uncomfortable should he do so.



"Did you ever see the Quiet Folks, when you were wee, in the hollow behind the byres?"

The lad, startled out of comfortable thoughts, blinked..."Quiet Folks? You mean the wee poeple?" he answered, with a faint snort of laughter.
"Aye, I suppose I do, though, they`re not so wee, know you..."

The lad shook his head..."No, I never did Grandad. Why do you ask?"

The auld man looked at his grandson, and the laddie was startled to see tears in his eyes, and a little uncomfortable....

"Because for this past winter, I have seen them with my own eyes, and I have seen your Grandmother with them too!" and at this he slapped his knee for emphasis.

The lad was aghast...didn`t know quite what to say.

"Grandad, are ye sure? I...I mean...ye havenae been having too much of this stuff have ye? Mebbe made a wee mistake, or a trick of the light! Aye, that`ll be it, a trick of the light!"

The auld man snorted in derision.

"Do you not think I know my own eyes? And since when did a drop of whisky make me stupid?"

"But there`s no such thing! The Quiet Folks are only fairy tales Grandad, we all know that!"

The auld man said nothing for a moment, but looked at the empty Jacobite glass in his hand...it was a rare and precious thing that glass, and had been in his family for generations.

As if coming to a decision, he stood and beckoned to the lad. "Follow me then. I`ll let you see something for your own self" and without a backward glance, still holding the glass, he opened the croft door onto the night and strode out, leaving his coat and bonnet hanging still on the peg behind the door.

The laddie followed his grandad, shaking his head, wondering if the auld man was losing it finally, getting a wee bit saft in the head maybe.....

Around the side of the crofthouse the auld man strode, the laddie at his heels, and they were joined by a collie come out of the byre, a shadowy streak in the gloom, bright eyes on his master as he ran to heel.

Beyond the house was a rising slope, a hillock perfumed with heather and bracken and the soft, springy grass of the Highlands. And atop the hill was a hollow, like a giant had fashioned a great basin out of the ground for to house his porridge.

The auld man motioned the lad to sit and put a finger to his lips, for to be quiet. Shrugging, the laddie sat beside him on the lip of the hollow, and the collie lay flat and still beside them both, eyes on the space beneath them.

Some twenty yards across this hollow was, and in it grew rare wild flowers and a fairy ring, dark against the grass. Boulders were scattered across it, some growing moss, and the whole place was like something caught in time, so quiet it was, so secret seeming. The wind never seemed to scour this place, and snow never touched it but skimmed the rim of the hill and let it be.

The auld man knew the magic of this place, for his own wife had known it before him, she had always had the way of the Fey about her, and to him, this place was hers.

In scant moments the lad was hushed with fear...ahead of them a soft light began to grow, and as if from a great distance music was heard, quiet and low at first but growing in sound, the music of pipe and tambour and stamping feet and thumping hands, the music of a wild dance that belonged rightly in the far past.

And out of the misted light forms took shape and the boy and man watched in silence as the people came into being, and both gasped for such people they had never seen, not in the books the auld man had nor the films the young lad favoured. Bright creatures these were, garbed in fashions that had never walked the earth in their memories. With fluid and fantastic grace they moved in a secret dance of their own about the hollow, and the music grew apace with each step. And laughter was heard there, and speech that could not be understood by the boy or the man.

And in the dancing group the laddie saw a familiar figure...and a choked cry broke from his throat...there within them was his granny, not the grandmother he knew most of his life, a frail and couthy wee figure of a woman, grey haired for most of that life and with a wrinkled but bright face, this was his granny as she would have been in the prime of her life, afore she was married maybe, and he looked to his grandad and was about to say something, but the words died in his throat.

For grandad was weeping, quietly, tears of longing and loss. He saw her too, and naked need and want was so plain upon his face it hurt the lad to see it there.

So he lowered his pointing hand and sat speech less, and just looked.

For what seemed like an age they were caught up in the dance, those Quiet Folks, a dance so beautiful to see but frightening too, for was there not a faint desperation upon their faces, and a look of old weariness in their eyes?



And so they sat, and they watched, and the lad watched his granny as she stepped lightly like a young lass and wove a dance among the fair Sidhe folks.



Neither of them remembered walking back around the byre and into the crofthouse. But they sat beside the fire and let the burning peat warm their cold bones and let the scent of it bring them back, all the way back, to now.

"What was that, Grandad? Did I just dream it? Was it something in the whisky you gave me?"...the last said almost with accusation....

"I`ll tell you something my lad...all winter have I been out there, watching your Grandmother dance with the Sidhe...and if she truly wants to be dancing there, I do not know. There are few enough place the Old Folks gather in this land now, so hostile to them it has become. But when I was young, your age even, they were not such strangers to us that we did not know them when we saw them."

His eyes had not quite lost their pain, the pain of loss..." At first it was a good thing, to see her there...so young again, like to when we first met and I fell in love with her, it was. But now...." he looked into the peats and his eyes grew guarded..."now, I think it`s almost a living hel. And I`ll be telling you for why."

He took a deep breath and looked straight at the lad.

" I think, in their own way, the Quiet Folks are as trapped in that place as we are on this earth. I think there are older, stranger things that live here. And they play with us all for their own amusement. And I think that hollow is a space tainted by old and wild magic."

Getting up and going to the dresser, he poured himself another dram, and brought the bottle over to the fireside. Offering it to the lad, he let him pour the amber liquid into the small glass. It was needed, tonight. For all that he was raised on a diet of television with its special effects computor imaging, that out there...that had been REAL and he was scared of it.

"What are we going to do?" the lad whispered.

His grandad thought for a while, and passed a hand over his tired eyes.

"You`re going back home tomorrow"..."But ...." "No buts!", he said. "There`s nothing to be done about it, do you not see that? Think you to be telling other folks about that out there?" he pointed to the door.

"And who do you think you`d be getting to believe you? And if they did, do you think I am wanting strangers all over this place? No! I will not have that, do you hear?"

The boy hung his head.



In the morning, the lad waved goodbye to his grandad at the croft door. It was strange, acting as if nothing had happened, but then, after a nights sleep the whole thing had the air of a dream...for sure, he had no idea there was anything he could do, after all...so he walked to the nearest bus stop and caught the coach back to the town, and told no-one, and when his mam and dad asked how his grandad was, he said, "Oh, he is fine, just fine" and they did not notice his downcast eyes or worried face.



Two weeks later he got off the coach. The year was brightening now with coming summer, and the evening was stretching out before him in golden shadows upon the hills with their grazing sheep and kye, in the softness of the highland air and the blue of each burn and runnel which tumbled down the hills and into the glens.

There was no smoke above the croft lum, and that had him worried, though in his heart he knew it was more. Breaking into a run, he crashed through the croft door. The grate was cold and as he walked toward it he knew, instinctively, that those cold peaty ashes were from the fire that night, two weeks ago. The glass he had used to drink his whisky was there, on the wee table beside the old couch and its soft cushions. But there was no sign of the Jacobite glass.

He looked through the byres, of course...the kye and the few sheep had all been turned out onto the hill to graze and he saw them there in the long twilight. Content enough, they were.

But nowhere did he find Grandad, nor the collie, and with his heart thumping in his chest he took blankets off his grandads bed and wrapped them around himself and took the bottle of whisky from out of the dresser drawer and sat himself upon the rim of the hollow and waited for dark.

And he drank,

And in the darkness the mist came again, and with it came the music, and the Fine Dancers, and among them, yes, there was his Granny, the young woman twining herself around the figure of a young man seen only from the back, with a shock of thick black hair and a straight back and he watched his Grannys eyes as she looked into the mans face and saw the love there...and he knew, oh he knew, now, where his Grandad had gone.

And so it was no surprise to watch the dance unfold and see the dancers twirl and find his Grandad, a young, straight man again, within the dance.

He watched until his eyes ached with the pain of it, watched the dance unfold and saw the faces grow familiar through the watching, such beautiful, unearthly faces, but upon them all, the faint taint of desperation and terror.

He watched until the dawn chased the mist and music away and the dancers began to fade and knew that he could walk among them unnoticed and never be able to touch them....unknown, tears of loss and pain ran down his cheeks.

Drunk, weary, miserable, he stumbled into the hollow as the dancers began to fade, reaching out to the unheeding figures of his grandparents, sobbing.

As the sun breached the rim with light he collapsed to his knees, and watched light chase the Shades away...and the breath caught in his chest as at the last, his grandparents turned and he saw their eyes see him, and cast a look of great pity upon him, and turn away, arms around one another. And as they walked into the fading mist, he watched his Grandad raise his Jacobite glass and sip the honey gold liquor within.



And behind them the shadow of a Border collie trotted to heel. "

Now that summer is a-cumin in, the weather improves a wee bit so as friends can actually plan tae travel tae the wilds o` Orkney without needing a bucket for the boat or valium for the plane. Well, in theory the weather calms doon...in reality, I hae seen snow in June up here, and right noo the weather is giving us rain o` pre-flood proportions...so ye never can tell...

We hae a flock o` visitors coming tae visit us ower the summer months. I always look forward tae it...being a hermit means, I dinnae go oot ower much so am always happy for others tae come visit me here.
Given me interests...history and reenactment...I have devised a good nights entertainment for some o` the visitors.
We have a building tacked onto the main hoose, it was the auld original hoose afore they built this one in the thirties for the local schoolteachers. It has thick walls, one tiny window and the most beautiful flagstone floor wi` a vast open fireplace.
So, what better, I thought, than a medieval feast? (Aye, my mind doesnae usually work the same way normal folks does....that really was the first thing that came tae mind!)
So it`ll be getting red oot (Scots for cleaned and tarted up!) and the fire will be lit...here is one o` the problems, but no` an insurmountable one....the grate is huge, how tae find enough wood and logs tae burn all night on a virtually treeless island....
and the main room will be dressed wi` a large dining table, draped chairs, and candles all ower the place.
On the menu will be roast duck (me own) and venison (bought in frae Scotland, distinct lack o` deer in Orkney although I`m led to believe they did once live here) with roasted herbed vegetables and home made bread,cheeses and fruits and plenty o` mead and whisky.
Next I just have tae get the music sorted, so am looking aroond for something suitable for a medieval feast. Suitable attire will also be arranged, as will some games and pursuits....we will be at the crossbow practice in the garden...luckily all but one o` me friends hae done this afore so are good at it...and there will also be an axe throwing competition, wi` a bottle o` mead for the prize.

See now, I ken how tae mak visitors work for their dinner....;-)

Well, it`s only a few weeks away frae now, so I have tae get scouring the beach for any stormblawn wood for the fire.

I did think o` acting as the traditional medieval jester, but I only ken one joke and have told everyone it quite a few times ower......

I just had a fabulous day! The sun shone, we went for lunch to the Belsair Hotel, then toured the island...ok, that can tak` a` o` half an hour by car but we drove slowly ...and had a visit frae me daughter and her family.
And the sun is still shining so I`m no` indoors owerlong just noo...
but here are a couple o` pics o` me billygoat, isn`t he something special? A bonny beast wi` magnificent horns he is. When he dies o` auld age, those horns will be wall mounted and his coat will go on the wall aside me other goathides. Until then, he is in the prime o` his life servicing the islands nans and enjoying the early summer sunshine. One misty evening, a friend o` ours was walking up oor drive, when up popped the billy`s head over the stone wall. The friend had near a heart attack thinking Auld Nick had put in an appearance....:-)
I hope everyone else has had such a grand fine day...according tae the weather forecast (which I dinnae usually set ony store by but am wanting tae this time) almost everywhere is having a sunny, dry and fine day.

Okies, with the help of Michelle (TGMIN) I think I`ve gotten the hang o` doing this! (though I can`t seem to manage to insert the Walled Garden logo Michelle! so here is the link to it..http://thewalledgarden.blogspot.com/
So here are my five recommended blogs and the links tae them.

"http://brocantehome.typepad.com/brocante_home
This is the Brocante 91热爆 Blog, a wifie who is very into vintage housekeeping. I like that meself, although my idea o` vintage is pretty much lots o` fur and wood...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/islandblogging/blogs/005354/0000009285.shtml#comments
This is The White Settlers blog on Island Blogging. Just because, he`s awfy funny at times and makes me giggle. Not sure if that is meant, but he does anyway.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/islandblogging/blogs/005391
This is Things Go Moo In The Night`s blog. also on Island Blogging (I dinnae get aroond much online ye see and am awfy new tae blogging ) and am no` sure if it`s ok tae gie this award `back` tae her but she deserves it anyway for having such an interesting, different blog.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/islandblogging/blogs/005209/
Flying Cat`s Blog, also frae Island Blogging....I`ve never heard a cat speak afore, and am finding oot just how entertaining and clever they can be.

http://www.sandaigprimary.co.uk/pivot/index.php
This is the weblog of Sandaig Primary School Sandaig is in Barlanark in the city of Glasgow, Scotland. (just because, it`s fun and great tae see schools doing blogs and I chanced on it by accident looking for info aboot otters.)

Hope this works ok, not very techy minded me....(just, when I clicked `save` none o` the links showed up, I am hoping this is some weird techy thing and they will all turn up in the end.....)