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For his...her? (sorry AC, I dinnae ken!) blog re words and their meanings got me thinking back (wayyyy back) tae when I was a wee lassie. There are still a few childhood rhymes that hae stuck wi` me.
Does onybody ken these ones?

One dark day in the middle of the night,
two dead men got up to fight,
back to back, they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other!

There was a little rascal
with a little wooden shovel,
howking tatties wi` his nightcap on,
he washed them in the well,
and he roasted them in hell
and the greedy little beggar
ate them all tae himsel`!
(the word wasn`t really `beggar` but I`m sure ye can tell what it was)

and, always made me giggle when I was peedie....
on yonder hill, i seen a coo....
it must have moved...it`s no` there noo!

When I was a bairn, we used tae spend countless hours making up rhymes and listening tae elders tell stories (which is how I got me love o` the yarn meself), but nowadays bairns sit in front o` the telly and watch nightmare inducing creatures like Teletubbies (well, they would have gie`en me nightmares for sure!) and I am sure some o` they bairns presenters are no` a` richt in the heid sometimes....
I mind the first programme I watched on tv (gotten when I was aroond five or six, and a right stir it caused wi` neighbours for no` a` body had one!) and that was Star Trek and I hae remained a fan ever since.
But when I were a lass, programmes were quality....onybody mind Vision On wi` Tony Hart? Magpie? Follyfoot even? Or the Herbs, which one o` the bairns satellite channels is repeating, I believe, for me grandbairns watch it and love it.

Growing up, me and me sister didnae have ony o` the `stuff` kids hae noo. Nae games consols, nae mp3`s or tellies in your bedroom, nae pc`s.
We had dolls, toy cars and cardboard boxes that used tae hae the washing machines in them that were made intae hooses, or spaceships, and the like, and dad made us seesaws and swings and chutes that would hae the current nanny state up in arms, wi` their being nailed thegither and gey shoogly, but we had great fun on them!
When we lived just ootside Brora we had the freedom tae roam, and I mind playing Indiana Jones on the swinging bridge ower the River Brora lang afore the films were even made. And cowboys and indians in the trees. I was always the indian because I got tae tie me wee sister tae a tree and pretend she was going tae be massacred and scalped.
I must hae been a dreadful big sister!! But I mind it being fun though.
I hae a feeling we were healthier kids back then though......

Well, a` me friends arrive on Friday! EEEEK! Aye, yours truly is panicking noo! What if they dinnae like the food? Or if the weather tak`s a turn for the worse? Or if they dinnae like me company??
At least the room is dressed for the feast, just a peedie bit primping tae dae noo, and some few meals tae cook and mak ready.
The archery target is set up ready in the back field, awa` fae the chance o` hitting onything crucial by mistake...no` that I`m thinking me friends are that bad shots, but better tae be careful, I reckon....
Just got some drakes tae cull as weel, for I dinnae like duck hung, but fresh....I can hear gastronomes everwhar throwing up their hands in horror at that, but I`m nae foodie snob, me.....
and the feast itself (a true moveable feast *giggles*) is now on the 7th....I havenae been keeping up wi` the news but somebody told me the ferries might gaun on strike week after next...which causes problems for one o` me friends wha needs tae gaun offisle then, so tae be on the safe side and because I dinnae want her missing oot (though she might be glad tae, wha kens, no` me that`s for sure) it`ll noo be on Saturday.

Yesterday, it was braw and sunny. I spent four hours ootdoors at archery practice. Because I draw the string back tae touch me nose tip and chin (och, onybody wha kens archery will ken what I mean, though it does sound weird) I couldnae wear a hat tae keep the sun off me face.
So the day, I am weel sunburned and no` feeling awfy great. I think the sun hae cooked me brain a peedie bit, which, let`s face it, wouldnae hae taken lang....
so I`m haeing a quiet day the day, on the couch, feet up, glowing like a flourescent beetroot.......
wha would hae thought ye`d need sunblock on Sanday!

Hiya folks, this is just a wee blog tae let folks ken I`m no` deid!
I hae pictures o` the feast coming via a friend wha` took them, but she is touring Scotland just noo on her way back tae Ireland so it`ll be aroond Tuesday til I can post them on here. :-D
The feast was marvellous! Really fantastic, thanks largely tae the guid company o` equally guid friends and the fact we could `dress up` and let oor hair doon and that a`body came equipped wi` an assortment o` suitable sharp and pointy weapons....everybody had their ain sword! (and one fella also had a Viking axe, no` medieval but we didnae care)
So here was the menu....three roasted ducks, three roasted hens, strips o` wild Orkney hare (wild? Oh it was mad...har! sorry...daft wee joke there....ahem...) wi` a gravy made by Sanday Housewife that made the tastebuds water and complimented the hare completely. A large piece o` roasted pig as weel, roasted wi` vegetables and lemons and basted wi` butter and sage and parsley.
Then roasted vegetables drizzled and basted in lard, honey and `painted` wi` "Great Spice", a medieval mixture of rare spices which scented the whole meal wi` an exotic perfume and the taste had tae be savoured tae be believed.
Added tae that was Orkney cheeses, Yorkshire puddings, plain boiled new tatties, Cranachan (my ain recipe as follows ....dry roast a handful o` pinhead oatmeal til golden broon, whisk up two cartons o` double cream til light and fluffy, fold in a third o` a bottle o` guid whisky and a handful o` Scottish raspberries along wi` a half pound o` heather honey, spoon small handfuls o` raspberries intae glass dishes, add three/four dollops o` the cream/whisky/honey mixture, and top wi` the roasted oatmeal and more raspberries, heaven in a glass dish)
and the medieval alcoholic custard dish along wi` various puddings including one of my friends, which involved cream and chocolate.
Needless tae sae everybody was fu`!
Then there was the drink.....cream whisky liquer, mead and beer and mair whisky, oh aye, did I mention the whisky?
And chocolate.
Toasts were made and food was ate and fun was had and the music was great. We all had oor pictures taen wi` oor swords aloft (which is the posh way o` saying pointed in threatening manners at a` sorts o` imaginary enemies) and the room just set the fine, right scene, wi` the fireplace ablaze...at times, literally! and the candlelight aglow.
So, once me friend gets back tae Ireland she will send me the pictures and I will post them and ye can a` hae a right giggle at the `grown ups` playing dressup wi` real swords and axes and generally behaving in a reprehensible manner.

Oh but wha` would want tae get auld afore their time though, eh? *winks*

Aside frae that, we had archery. I killed a car! Tae be fair tae meself, it was parked right ahind the archery target and I just overshot a tiny peedie wee wee bit and hit the heidlight, which made a satisfying crash and tinkle sound...and aye, I was stane cauld sober at the time....
and it wouldnae hae been sae bad but I then went on tae hit the bumper again...
so noo, I am known as "car killer".....ahem......*blush*

and mair fun and merriment was tae be had, but I will save that for the next blog so as tae hae stuff tae write aboot when I post the pics. (having removed the maist embarrassing, to be sure, o` yours truly, especially the one o` meself wi` me backside sticking oot frae under the car trying tae retrieve yet another arrow.....)

And I still hae friends staying, so am no` online sae much as I would like the noo, so there will be mair archery and mair trips tae Sanday`s fine Belsair establishment (if they will let us back in after the last time, har!) and mair fun tae be had........
So Slainte tae a`body, hope everyone is having a grand time tae!

In plain English, because this is a bit of a rant!
My computor was hacked and I had to get my son (who is a technical genius in his mam`s eyes) to remove not one, but THREE back door Trojan viruses. They even got into my PayPal account and it`s only the fact the bank doesn`t allow stored passwords on the computor that they didn`t get into that, however, the son assures me that given time they would as there is software available that keeps an eye on when you log into unstored password sites and retrieves the info when you do.
Like most self employed folks, I keep business and bank details on my computor. The whole thing`s given me a bit of a shock I can tell you!
Not long ago my PayPal account was hacked, from China of all places! Luckily I spotted it early enough and all they got was twenty pounds. It would have been worse. As it was it gave them access to my bank and other financial details, so following the banks instructions I`d to change my bank card which took an age, change the details and all relevant logging in info etc....
I don`t mind the hassle really...it`s better than being thieved from...but it just makes me feel as if I`ve been burgled, you know? The whole invasion of privacy thing...*insert scowling smilie here*
We have good Firewall and anti-virus protection but of course hackers upgrade their m.o all the time and sometimes your protection struggles to keep up with it, which I think is what happened here.
Added to which, it slowed my computor down horrendously to the point I couldn`t do anything much online, not a good thing when you run a business largely dependant on the Net.
So now I`m spending a few days being paranoid, constantly checking for viruses etc, and tidying up the computor.
Folks, double check your online protection, bump up your Firewalls etc, and keep an eye on Spyware and the like.

Normal service will be resumed soon as possible, once I`ve sorted my computor and stopped feeling like the return of the Viking bloodeagling practice is a good thing for some folks......grrrrrr..........

Here are a peedie drop pics, just a few as I`m waiting for a couple more o` me friends to return frae various travels and let me hae the pics they took wi` their vastly superior tae mine digicams.....
so here`s one o` the feast room afore the table was laid, o` the fire wi` the lights off, and o` a couple o` very dear friends, aka the Celtic Contigent, fierce wi` their warpaint and plaid and sharp and lethal weapons, fitted right intae me livingroom, they did *grin*, oh aye, and one o` the maimed car, luckily it was one o` oor ain so nae real harm done, right daft place tae park it in my opinion, right ahind the archery target! Wasnae my fault I overshot.....
When I get the other pictures, there are plenty o` the spread afore we a` tucked in etc, and I hae stories tae tell o` it tae, but since the computor is still playing up as is, apparently, the Island Blogging website (which appears tae hae `technical difficulties`, I hope they`re no` serious) I will leave it for noo.....
hoping a` body is haein a grand summer, and no` horribly flooded like doon sooth...I hate tae mention the glorious sunny day we`ve had here...(edited to add couple mair pics, one of the wonderful Celtic leaf blade sword I was gifted, couple mair o` some o` the food, the meat platter, roasted hens, ducks, pig and wild Orkney hare, and the flummery, medieval alcholic custard)
(edited again! To add some recipe details...the ducks were stuffed wi` chopped onions and apple smothered in the Great Spice, the pig was smeared wi` best butter and had thyme and parsley crushed intae the skin o` it, what else? oh aye, I made hame made breid, and one o` me guests made a fantastic beer breid! It went just grand wi` the Orkney cheeses...oh aye and me lassie mak`s the maist delicious version o` Baileys herself, gorgeous it was, and I had a three year auld bottle o` hame made rhubarb wine, stronger than it sounds.....)
and edited yet again to show some archery practice, me friend in black shooting the bow, me at the back, and the other pic of how we got our tasty lunch, har har...

I was in toon on Thursday, visiting me daughter, wi` the son. As we got off the ferry (the Varagen, for a change, usually it`s one o` the Earls) there was, in Kirkwa` harbour, the famed Sea Stallion. A bonny replica o` a Viking longship found in Denmark, I think.
I took some pictures but me digicam is pretty bad, so here they are, the ship was awfy low in the water, due tae the tide being weel oot. I saw nae brawny Viking fellas, much tae me disappointment, but the ship herself was well worth the look. The Viking age is a passion o` mine, and it`s always a grand thing tae see ony kind o` reenactment or recreation o` it. Fair made me day.

She drifted off on the heat of the suns rays, shut her eyes and let the soft wind bring scents of summer to her, of flower and cut wheat and seabird and distantly, raucous crow....
And somewhere within the boundaries of summer and her mind, winter came, with the chill of snow and ice and the harsh bitter air that hurt the lungs to breathe.
And somewhere within that landscape she stood up and began to walk, not across a tiny island busy with farming activity, but across a tundra with spirals of dancing snowdrifts, beneath a wide and corpse grey sky heavy with thunder.
And she followed the track of wild geese in the vast skies, north.
And she followed the song of the hungered wolf in the dips and hollows of the landscape, wolves from the north.
And she walked for an age, heedless of time, north.
And stopped at the edge of a ravine and looked down.
Steep and ragged sides spat patters of loose snow and skree into the hollow bottom of it. She laughed and her laughter echoed and faded.
And was answered by the ragged whine of a hound in pain.

So it took another age to climb the ravine, a best left story of slip and slide and heart in the throat at the danger of it, til, leaving bloody handprints on the virgin snow, she blinked in the darkness at the bottom of the ravine and let her sight adjust.
And there, in a corner, half under a fallen boulder, a wild hound lay, eyes rolling in wariness, sides heaving and panting.
A bristled, brindled, grey mottled hound it was, ragged and hurt and watching her approach and still spirited, ready to take a hand, rip a throat, if it could but move.
So softly, quietly, not baring teeth in any foolish grin, she walked toward the hound, and without thinking, put her shoulder to the stone and rolled it away from the torn flank of the beast.
Snarling, the hound half slid, half hauled itself to the relative cover of the side of the ravine, and began to lick the flank clean of blood, still showing her the whites of its eyes.
She just stood, and watched this happen and watched the hound minister to itself the only healing it knew how.
And saw, it was a young male beast, skinny and unkempt, one of the tundras wild hounds which raced the wolves for fleetfooted meat and, sometimes, won, one of the wild hounds which, if winter bit extra hard, took an unwary child or old woman for meat, leaving behind only bones, and tattered strips of cloth, and maybe a half gnawed shoe....

Seeing the twist and turn of the ravine ahead, she turned away from the hound and walked the path of it.
Snow began to fall, soft fat flakes, thickening the quietness, blanketing the light.
Out from the ravine she walked, and into the twilight the snow gifted the vast space ahead.
Hearing the soft pat of the hounds paws behind her, she stopped walking and turned around.
A mere foot away from her, head waist high, soft glowing eyes watched hers, and slowly, he inched forward until he reached where she stood, and the narrow, feral head moved forward to let a damp and rough tongue lick her fingers.
She saw the wound had stopped bleeding now...he limped a little but it would heal.
She saw the ribs stark against the staring coat but saw he would live to bring down meat again.
Carefully, she stroked the head, caressed the ears, and turned again to walk into the snow.

The cry of a gull, nearer now, opened her eyes. The summer sun drew a haar from the sea with the war of heat and chill and water....
The scent from the roses drifted to her like the finest perfume.
And beside her outstretched hand, in the grass, a perfect paw print began to fade......

In some places, there`s a tradition (a pagan thing, has tae be said) o` telling stories for the harvest times. I ken it`s a peedie bit early, but just in case I cannae get online at the time, here`s one o` them. ;)



The old man wept as the crofthouse burned. All his possessions still laid within it, such as they were....the most precious of them, perhaps...memories....
Into the night his neighbours battled with pails of well water, futilely throwing it over the thatch of the roof, ablaze and bright with scarlet and orange and gold, such bonny colours for such a destructive force.
And eventually, breathless and weary beyond belief, the old man sat on the milking stool beside the well and stayed the hands of the neighbours, and bade them go home...."For there`s nothing to save, see you...I thank you all, but it`s over now, go home, it`s all lost..."
And seeing the hurt in his eyes, they averted their own and turned away, muttering softly among themselves, wondering how the fire started, what he would do now, where he would go now....

As he sat and watched the crofthouse burn down to embers, the glow of it held his gaze and enthralled his mind and heart...in the coals of his home he watched the past unfold.....
and saw the time he carried his fair young bride over the threshold of it, her laughing blue eyes caught in his, her kisses sweet and soft, and oh but the joy found within that cot beside the peat fire, the sweet scent of it perfuming her hair as he buried his face in the thick river of it.....
and saw the time of the sowing of the rigs, the seed sprayed carefully into drills that promised future meal, future fodder, enough to fatten both himself and his wife, and the newborn laddie, and the kye grazing the hill nearby as well....
and saw the harvests, years upon years of them, sometimes fat, a triumph of work and nature combined, the blessings of the Quiet Folks who kissed the rigs with plenty, other times lean, when the gods of the skies warred above the land and blasted crop and beast alike with chilling cold and too much water, where the thin crops were carefully stored and protected against rat and beetle and greedy brownies......
and saw the memory of each years sheaf, no matter how fat or lean the harvest, tied up with ribbon, his bonny wifes job that had been, for hadn`t it always been a woman`s thing, the sheaf, the doll, the goddess?
And brought into the crofthouse she was carefully placed among the rafters, tied up near the fire to collect the rich smoke from the peat so that when she was buried at the Spring sowing, she would enrich the thin, acid soil and add the magic of the Auld Folks to the barley and oats...
and unseen, the old mans eyes wept a river of tears as in his mind he watched again, his son leave to fight the Sassain, and watched him return home again, a corpse washed and laid out by the crone across the glen, and watched the years unfold and saw again his wife lose heart and fade before his eyes, the thick river of hair thin and greying, the bright blue of her eyes losing the lustre which had so easily drawn his gaze in that first glimpse of them, laughing, shining eyes they had been...
but she had died in that cot bed by the peat fire, and he himself had buried her and given her soul to the Folks of the hills to carry away and keep for him until he could join her....

And all that night, he sat alone, and watched his home burn and become a black, diminished, smoking heap of rubble, watched his memories dance in the heat haze until the sun rose and painted the land around him with gold and rose, the softness of a highland dawn heavy with dew and magic....

It was the tiny flash of colour among the burned embers that drew him there, to where the peat fire had its hearth, now dark, now cold.
Using his bare hands, unheeding of the heat still trapped within the charcoal of the wood, he sifted the ashes to bring out the colour, and drew forth the ribbon, one of his wife`s it had been, bonny bonny blue to match her young eyes....
and within the circle of the ribbon the perfectly made sheaf doll fell into his trembling hands. Straw hair moved a little in the morning breeze, bright and gold, seeds fell in a glittering arc from the full skirts, bright and gold, and the whole Little Goddess might have been made this very morning....and yet she had come through the fire unscathed.
He took the sheaf to the milking stool by the well and sat down to look, his mind numb, uncomprehending still the nights events, only feeling the loss of his life, and still, after so many years, of his wife.....

As the sun rose the neighbours returned to find the old man still sitting, his back leaning against the stone well, cradling the remains of what had been a wheat sheaf goddess in his hands. It was burned, and almost unrecognisable but for the faded blue ribbon about the waist of it. They shook their heads, for he must have gone into the hot embers to reach for it, because his hands had blistered and bled.
Sending for the village crone, they stood in silent respect for their neighbour, a kindly man who had led a rich life and always respected the land that fed them all.
No breath fell from his lips, no life from his eyes, and when they bore his body away to be washed and laid out, only a collie dog noticed in the still smoking embers of the crofthouse, the shades of the man and his wife, young now, smiling now, arms entwined, holding the bright gold and blue beribboned wheat sheaf Goddess.

We only hae the ane sheep, an auld beastie he is, wi` arthritis in his legs, so he needs tae be shorn lying doon...also he is gey heavy, so hauding him up tae shear would hae done me man`s back in! Onyway, here are the pics, o` before and after.....he ayways looks faintly embarrassed after being shorn, but wi` the haircut the other half gies him, I would tae I think.....

But nope, it isnae neep shaped (for Blackadder fans) :-)
I hae it in mind tae mak a big drum...tae tak a whole coohide and attach it tae a frame. The thing that prompted this was the memory o` attending the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, the year the Norwegians sent ower a viking longship. It rose up frae the battlements wi` a viking beating just such a drum wi` a whole oar! The longship was then pulled roond the arena on wheels (there being nae water in the grounds o` Edinburgh castle, see...) wi` this fantastic drum being beaten wi` that oar and making a sound like rolling thunder!
So I can dae the coohide nae problem whatsoever, but the frame might be difficult, although I hae a freend frae Ireland wha`s family mak`s musical instruments, and she will be gieing me good advice.
It`ll be fun, if nothing else, and I might just hae something I can beat wi` an oar that will hae folks looking tae the skies expecting rain....:D

Well, 1st August is Lughnasadh in the Celtic calendar, and is a harvest festival. The god Lugh began the feast to honour his mother who died in the effort of clearing land in Ireland to sow the first crops, and he began games and feasting to mark this and the first `birthing` of the crops picked for harvest and from the wild fruits.
It`s a time of eating, drinking, singing and dancing, of plenty and great merriment and games (gets bow out again)
So, whether or not you make a living from the land, I`d just like to wish everyone at IB a fruitful, prosperous time (and lots of fun with food and drinking cannae be a bad thing now can it? *winks*)