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I decided tae tidy up me laptop...ye ken, all they things that clutter the desktop up such as saved pictures and downloaded music and suchlike, as opposed tae the neat and tidy work folders I should be keeping on it..
and came across the folder frae one o` the previous Sanday Sundays where yours truly and her other half were part o` the group that did the Viking Age reenactment. So here are a couple of pics, me and himself are the couple standing on oor own looking busy....*blushes*....
A grand time was had by all then, it was a hot and sunny day so that alone mak`s it stick in the mind!

The plans for the medieval feast come on apace...the building is being cleared oot for it, and provisions gathered....some o` the friends coming are bringing their ain music tae, and everybody is bringing drink! It must mak us sound like a right bunch o` boozers but that is no` true...well, no` true for all o` us....
and the firewood for the night is growing fine style. I`m making me own gown for the night...no` a trial as ye learn tae mak your own stuff for reenactment anyway...and if the whole night is a success, it`ll become a regular thing. The only `bad` thing is, it is so expensive for folks frae elsewhere tae come tae Orkney, ye would think wi` all the tourism the OIC wants tae attract they might begin by making it a wee bitty cheaper tae actually get here!
Having said that, this is a guid year for visitors for us, wi` folks coming up pretty much throughout the year. Lots tae look forward tae. I think as well, folks like the fact their hosts (that`d be yours truly and himself there see) are a bit...well...unusual...so that they actually see the crossbow practice and the bonfires and the feasts as treats. Poor souls.
As I always say though, it`d be a boring world were we all the same.

So there I was, ootside fleshing a calfskin, as ye do. And I heard the quiet chuckling o` a couple o` me ducks beside the track, and looked ower, and saw the wee wild duck that has `adopted` us. Beasts keep doing that, it`s getting a wee bit disconcerting...is it because we are the animal kingdoms equivlant o` a soup kitchen I ask meself?
I have tried tae tak pictures o` it, but apologies for the quality, I have the most basic o` digicams and it has nae zoom function on it, so ye`ll just have tae trust me when I say the ducks were a lot closer than they look! I am hoping somebody wha` reads this will be able tae tell me what kind o` duck it is...as ye can see (if ye have really good eyesight!) it`s a lot peedier than me own ducks but then, my ducks are a tad overfed and big fat beasties onyway! It has a weird orange head! Very round shaped head, and a grey/orange body, and fancy tufts o` feathers and I forget what colour it`s beak is. It has been hanging aroond for a week noo, it always nestles doon wi` a couple o` drakes so am wondering if it has the duckly equivalent o` a crush on one o` me males....but if we try tae get near it, it just tak`s off and flies tae a safe distance until we are gone oot o` the way when it comes back again. Although this is the closest we have gotten tae it so maybe it`s getting used tae us.
And the other couple o` pics are o` me sheep, I only have the one sheep, he keeps the grass doon for us and provides me wi` wool for me spinning and weaving, he is aroond 8 or 9 noo, has arthritis in his legs but is still happy and is HUGE!
One thing I did learn...never flesh a coohide and look at wild ducks at the same time...sharp filletting knives, lack o` attention = sticking plasters all ower me fingers......

Well now that it`s over, can I just say, Yayyy, well done SNP.
Hopefully, an independant Scotland will follow next.
Off for a celebratory drink. Wish we had smilies on these blogs, this page would be full of them!

Well, (taking mjc`s advice) I took the time tae look online for images o` the peedie duck that is still hanging aroond wi` me own ducks, and right enough, it`s a common merganser. Bonny wee thing it is. It is getting used tae us now, we can get within a few feet o` it but it still mak`s as if tae walk off...at least it doesnae fly awa` now but is obviously getting used tae the free feed and shelter here, plus the company o` me ducks and geese.
So tae date, that is one wild goose, one stray cat and now one wild and weird looking duck what has adopted us.
Am beginning tae feel like some kind o` animal charity......
Today is blowing a hoolie...the Peedie sea is whipped up tae white froth and heaving swell and you wouldnae get me oot on a boat on it for love nor money.
So it was a bit of an eye opener tae look doon tae the sea and see someone riding the swell on a tiny wee speedboat.
Heaving up and doon it was....whoever was in it must have been awfy wet....the word "daft" comes tae mind....
All the local fishing boats are safely tied up at Kettletoft harbour, maist folks have mair sense than tae gaun oot on water sae rough. But obviously somebody was bent on having fun.
Here`s hoping they didnae need a bucket after that jaunt....thon wee boat was shifting some, and bouncing up and doon like it was on a rollercoaster....
A whole week, we had, o` fine weather..a wee bit o` haar for a couple o` days, but at least nae wind, calm and dry and fine. Then the weekend hits and the wind decides tae come back and party. I could have done wi` some warning....half a dozen sheepskins, strung ontae frames tae stretch, were all ootside leaning agains the stone wall.
Only three o` them were where I left them this morning, I`d tae rescue one frae the neighbouring field and one managed tae lodge itself under the car, how I dinnae ken but it did, whilst the other one had come unstrung and was flapping aboot like a stray flag....
All have been rescued though, and are back indoors...serves me right for foolishly thinking May would be a safe bet for reasonable weather.....

And speaking o` flags....each year we hoist a Scots flag frae oor flagpole. It never lasts long mind you...the winds nibble awa` at the edge o` it until some three or four months later, there is a scant inch o` the flag left and nae body could ever tell what the flag had been.
So I havenae put up the flag yet this year, because somewhere I will find one which is a wee bit stronger than the usual ones the shops sell.
Either that or I might have a go at making one meself. ;-)
I hope everybody has had a fine weekend. The weather might no` have been very obliging, but ye cannae deny, the Isles are a grand place tae live when ye hanker after peace, quiet, and hermithood.

I can manage with plain fare....but have been looking around for authentic medieval recipes. What folks would eat back then would maybe surprise ye..or maybe no`...it`s a common misconception that folks then would eat anything that moved for lack o` food.
Granted, there were nae supermarkets, but for the most part, folks had a surprising variety o` foodstuff and also a fairly good standard o` food hygeine.
How and ever, I`ll forego making the roast cat or deer testicles for me visitors, which I`m sure they`ll be extremely glad tae hear....
The recipes for stuffed trout intestine had me puggled tae...I mean, what puir soul had tae fish the fish guts oot and wash, prepare and stuff them.....

(see what I did there, wi` that wee joke....)

But, on viking age cookery, I`m on firmer ground...so rabbit wi` vegetables cooked in real beer, or chicken cooked in cream and ale, will be cooked and sampled of course...as will all manner o` sumptious fruit dishes....(I even have a great recipe for Norwegian Trollkrem ...`troll cream`...with lingonberries which I ken I`ll no` be able to get here, so will have to substitute raspberries or loganberries if I can get them)

and speaking of `sumptious`, in times past there were things called `sumptuary laws` which prohibited common folks from wearing certain clothing and fabrics, notably the more expensive, hard to obtain ones....so you wouldnae see commoners walking aroond wi` fur on their gowns or wearing silk, cotton was barely heard of, it was mostly wool and linen or leather.
However, I intend to flout the sumptuary laws regardless...it`s my feast after all...and intend tae mak a gown trimmed wi` fox fur (for anyone reading this who is anti fur, please dinnae bother hassling me ower it, I tan animal skins meself and am nae stranger tae fur and leather, plus, it`s no` illegal yet!) and made in a luscious silk velvet, all o` which would have had me gaoled way back when.

Och well, back tae recipe planning....oh hey, whar are me cats running tae.....;)

P.S Are we allowed to call the Troll Cream that nowadays considering I`ll no` be using real Trolls.....?

Here are a few pics Dag sent me, of the crafts he and his lovely wife make. Dag makes knives and stools, and Mrs Dag creates beautiful needlecraft works which, I`m sure folks will agree, look stunning displayed here in the pics! Dag has given me his permission to show these, I really thought everyone else should see them too and see what fabulously talented folks there are in Norway!

Isn`t it just though?!
The sun is shining, there`s nae wind, and it`s no` raining. Maybe we can allow oorselves a wee hope....summer is here, woohoo!

Ahem....

The merganser whom I kept calling `she` is a `he` and has gotten for himself noo, a firm role among me beasts. We hae some half dozen ducks nesting aroond the place, among the rose bushes, doon by the pond, and one right bang next tae the hoose door! And the merganser has latched ontae this one, and has become her gallant protector.
It`s quite funny tae see, but kind o` sweet tae....see, this time o` year, any duck is fair game tae a drake wi` a roving eye...and the drakes can be a right pest tae the females...and this wee nesting duck, a white one, just sits there on her nest wi` it`s dozen or so eggs, minding her ain business, until she gets up tae hae a drink o` water or a feed o` barley or bread scraps.
Then the drakes a` descend on her and mak` her life a misery...
But here comes the orange-heided merganser tae the rescue! Her nest is just ahind a wee picket type fence, so he sits right in front o` her and the eggs and gives the beady eye tae ony wandering drake....and should they hae the affrontery tae chance their luck, up he gets and wi` a surprising quack for sic a wee bird, he flies at them, fearless, until they run off...see, he can fly and me ain ducks cannae...so they run off at top waddling speed and he does this low zoom after them til he judges they are a safe distance awa`, then back he goes tae sit afront o` the nesting white.....
Occasionally he wanders off doon tae the pond tae tak a paddle and a swim, but he always comes back tae the white duck and the nest. All the other ducks, and me geese and hens, seem tae have accepted him noo as one o` the clan. It`s still odd tae gaun oot o` a morning and see him there, running up for a feed wi` the rest o` them. But he rarely flies off frae us noo, the only thing that seems tae chase him awa` for a wee while til he deems it safe again, are strangers at the door.
So we look on him as `one o` oor ain` noo.....

This sunshine has been grand for working ootdoors. The full coohide is noo strung up on its frame and tomorrow will be put ootside tae dry at the steady rate it needs, in the Sanday air. If it rains a peedie while that doesnae matter, for rainwater is soft, unlike oor drinking water, and does the hide guid.
Sheepskins are also strung up and ootdoors, and the scent o` lanolin rich wool in warm sunlight is a nice thing.
I even hung me washing oot, and at night when it comes in and gets hung ower the stove tae air, the room will smell like summer wi` it all. Ye can keep all your fancy air fresheners, just gie me plain auld fresh air......

We hae a date set for the feast noo...July ninth. The venison is coming next week and I hae a few fine fat drakes marked for eating, some recipes hae been tried oot, proclaimed guid and set intae the menu for it all. The high tables, at medieval feasts, had rich fabric and tapestries hung ahind them. So I hae gotten hold o` some lovely heavy fabric, an antique gold wi` a deep bugundy pattern on it, o` dragons and foliage. It fair looks the part! It will be draped on the wall ahind the table and then taken ower the top like a canopy. And I hae horn beakers, pewter tankards and wooden platters all ready tae be used. Furs and skins for the seating are also set aside. And I hae a collection o` richly tapestried cushions. So at least folks will be comfortably seated!

And noo, I hae tae gaun mak` dinner then back oot tae work, tae tak advantage o` the bright sunshine and the bonny day it is. That bonniness was brought hame tae me this morning as I hung the washing oot...there in a bush ahind me a wren sang and so I stopped what I was doing and just stood and looked. There was the wee wren singing his heart oot in the bush, behind which was a field sae green it could hurt the een tae look at it, wi` the farmers fine fat kye enjoying the heat and ahind that, the glimmering line o` the sea which the sun set on fire.
Sunlight mak`s all the difference tae what this island looks like, and a guid dose o` it can fair set the island alight wi` colour and the sharp clarity o` a fresh summer day.
Having said a` that, want tae bet it`ll chuck it doon tomorrow? :-D
I hope everyone is having such a fine weekend.

And it is! The big coohide is propped up ootside against the wall, and the rainwater will help soften the skin, so I`m no complaining ower much, plus of course the rain will help fill the water barrels, which we use for drinking water for the geese, hens and ducks.
I am being awfy lazy this year...the garden is hardly being worked at a`...*blushes*...this is doon tae twa or three things though....work, I am snowed under it and havenae the time tae dig or plant onything....and mair work...still snowed under and havenae the physical energy tae spend on the garden...it`s no` a wee garden see, and needs a lot o` time.
Still though we`re keeping it tidy, if no` planting onything. And the geese are the best grasscutters in the world, the lawn looks like a bowling green and is just noo dotted wi` bluebells and daffodils, all o` which were awfy late up this way but at last put in an appearance. It`s a fine thing, tae bring in frae ootside a bonny bunch o` flowers and put them in a vase near the window so the heat frae the sun scents the room wi` them.

Yesterday, standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes, I watched the nesting goose and the main gander...she was standing at the hatch o` the hutch, and he was gathering up bits o` straw wi` his beak and pushing them ahind him, so the goose could pick them up and put them ontae the nest in the hutch. But he must nae hae been working fast enough for her, because every so often she would reach oot wi` her beak and gie him a right hard peck on the backside! He did work faster after that! I thought it was funny though...truly, he is `henpecked`....:D

I love dogs...am totally, utterly, a dog person! But sometimes they can be a handful...yesterday, we had visitors, and I was just telling Lassie off for being a pest..she plants her nose twa inches frae your face and demands attention!...so she decided no` tae pester the visitors and tae tak` a flying leap onto me lap! And she is nae lightweight! So after I let oot a feeble "whooof" which was in reality, the air gaun oot me lungs but she might hae mistook it for a friendly doggy greeting, she proceeded tae lick me face clean!
Me dog loves me! I just sometimes wish she would only show it wi` a wag o` her tail or a friendly woof....
I`m gaun tae put some pics on when I get me digicam back frae me daughter, wha I loaned it tae. I hae some o` me warp weighted loom, and the nesting goose, and others. :)

I am sneaking in a wee story here....it was written for Jul and is heathen, which is nothing to do wi` the David Bowie cd (which, noo Carol has mentioned I will hae tae gaun off and find and listen tae) but is Norse heathen, so I dinnae ken if folks will get it, but never nae mind if no`.....

"Inside the longhouse, there was relative quiet. The men shuffled feet and muttered amongst themselves as the women moved quietly from hearth to the small closed off space behind the skins.
In there, the woman on the bed writhed and twisted, a rag wrapped stick atween her teeth. The old woman looked at her....if she birthed the bairn before dawn rose, there was hope...hope she would live, hope the bairn would live...she looked at the sweat soaked face and limbs, saw the deepening lines of strain set upon the woman, still almost only a child herself, saw the fatigue and weariness in every set of her...,
The younger women looked among themselves and quickly lowered their eyes...they thought they waited only for death to visit her, for the Helhag to take her portion this night. But, they went through the motions...hot, pine scented water was carried in from the hearth. Rags were soaked in it and placed gently upon the writhing woman. Bells were continuously, quietly, rattled to keep evil wights at bay. All was as it should be.
Except the length of time this bairn was taking to be born.

Out in the hall, a murmur arose. The men looked towards the door, which closed in a whirry of snow and sleet and bone chilling wind. As the snow settled, a man walked forward to the hearth.
Hush fell upon the men of the longhouse. The stranger, given shelter by the laws of their kind from the storm, was known to them.
Big he was, a giant of a man even by northmen standards. Fierce he was, a fighter of a man, even by northmen standards. In his walk the thunder of an army rumbled forward. In his sudden laughter at their silence, the thunder of the skies rumbled forth.

From his honoured place in the only armed seat beside the long hearth, the chief rose and stepped aside. Indicated for the stranger to take his place, and with a curt gesture, saw that a horn of warmed and spiced mead was pressed into the visitors hand.
The murmuring of the men began again. It is not for us here to say what they said.
This is the bairns story.

Outside the longhouse, an army camped. No ordinary army this, but one of chancy steeds and dangerous wights, no ordinary army this, but one that rode the winds and hidden tracks of the barrow mounds. Draugr and elvenfolk sat around campfires untouched by the storm, eating and sharing talk.
It is not for us here to say what they said.
This is the bairns story.

In the small tented off area, the woman spat out the rag wrapped stick and began to scream. The old woman bade the younger ones to hold down her limbs, for she tried to rise from the sweat soaked bedding and run from her pain and fear.
All grew quiet around the longhouse, the screams taking an unearthly quality in their ferocity, like to the whelping cries of the Helhounds they were. Breath was held now, and all listened as in harsh guttural tones the old woman began the birthing chant.
Too late now, she thought, if it all went wrong. Too late now, she thought, if Hel had chosen this one for her own.
It would be as it must.
The birthing womans face turned of a sudden pale and the old womans heart juddered in her bony chest as she thought the womans shade might leave this scene yet...but with a great and shuddering breath she bore down, and in that moment all of her young life`s force was brought into play in birthing her bairn.
For the first time in her life, the old woman attended the birth with her eyes tight shut....her ears alone listened to the slithering of the bairn leave the womb, to the exhausted bone deep sigh of the woman, to the quick and practiced movements of the young attendants as they bore up the bairn to see if it lived, to tie the cord, to clean blood and snot from the bairns nose.....
opening her eyes she saw their own shining eyes look at her. The form they held was lifeless, blue skinned and foreign to this world. Thankfully exhuasted and unaware, the woman who had birthed a dead bairn lay deeply asleep, and the old woman thanked the gods for that small mercy, not wanting to hear the mourning cries so soon.
But this is the bairns story.

The skin curtain was pulled back and in before the visitor came a gust of chill winter wind, with the scent of lightning with it, the scent of the mountain peak and the rock that holds the elflight in its bones. He walked in and the old woman strengthened her back to meet his gaze as the young attendants ran out to the waiting men in fear.
He regarded her closely, this mortal woman who had no fear in her eyes of him. Bright blue eyes that told of sparking fires from cloven hooves across the darkening skies met faded, grey ones and held.
Silently she held the bairn to him, a pathetic blue piece of flesh, already stiffening in the cold winter air.
Steam rose gently from the corpse as blood dried. They had not cut the cord yet...it hung loosely, not pulsing, from the bairn to the mother lying limply across damp and crumpled blankets.
But this is the bairns story.
As his breath misted the air before her, she watched his arm sweep a cloak of furs across the body of the bairn. Watched a large, gentle hand lay across the belly of the bairn. Watched his bright eyed face lean closer to the bairn. Watched his breath mist over the tiny body of the bairn.

Watched the bairn come to squalling, mewling life, watched the skin lighten to a healthy, ruddy hue, watched the legs twitch and kick, the arms reach out clutchingly for something to grab hold of.
With a laugh that rocked the house tree, he turned and strode from the longhouse, taking with him a scent of northern forests, the musky, deep scent of rutting stag, the ozone sharp odour of lightning....

But this is the bairns story.

The woman on the bed awoke and reached for her bairn. Tenderly the old woman placed him on her breast, and as the mother touched every part of him to make sure he was whole, hail, and right, the old woman sank onto a stool beside the bed, exhausted.
Smiling now, she watched the mother acknowledge her own son, watched as she guided him to breast to drink, watched as he suckled greedily, nothing of death marking him now, a lusty, hearty son for the folks.

After a while the mother handed the bairn to the old wife and sank back into the blankets, to sleep a more natural sleep.
With the bairn wrapped in a richly woven piece of cloth, the old woman threw back the skins and walked to the hearth space. All were here who needed to be...the chief and his sons, their wives and daughters, all the folk who made up the importance of this clan, gathered to see the bairn, gathered to see the future of their folk.

With old and aching arms she lifted the bairn aloft for all to see. They laughed delightedly as he yelled in objection.
She spoke one word. "Thorsson".

And the bairns story begins. "

Here is a Norwegian fairy tale, kindly sent by Dag, it might be familiar to many folks here, but I remember the version of it I learned as a child being a bit `softer`, because the troll wasn`t so scary! Think I prefer the scarier version...in fact if ye look at most fairy tales they had as their origin some pretty dark imagery......and to think nowadays, the nanny state censors cartoons because they are `too violent` for kids....tsk...
I love the goats trip-trapping over the bridge! :-D

"The Three Billy Goats Gruff
Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."

On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll , with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker.

So first of all came the youngest Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.

"Trip, trap, trip, trap! " went the bridge.

"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll .

"Oh, it is only I, the tiniest Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, with such a small voice.

"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.

"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the billy goat. "Wait a bit till the second Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."

"Well, be off with you," said the troll.

A little while after came the second Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.

Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap, went the bridge.

"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll.

"Oh, it's the second Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, who hadn't such a small voice.

"Now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.

"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait a little till the big Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."

"Very well! Be off with you," said the troll.

But just then up came the big Billy Goat Gruff .

Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap! went the bridge, for the billy goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.

"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared the troll.

"It's I! The big Billy Goat Gruff ," said the billy goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own.

"Now I 'm coming to gobble you up," roared the troll.

Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones.


That was what the big billy goat said. And then he flew at the troll, and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the cascade, and after that he went up to the hillside. There the billy goats got so fat they were scarcely able to walk home again. And if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why, they're still fat; and so,

Snip, snap, snout.
This tale's told out."



(and here are some more Norwegian goats, aren`t they right bonny? I covet their coats, which is probably no` a very politcally correct thing tae be saying.....)

I love those auld pulp sword and sorcery books o` the fifties and sixties...when I was a wee lassie I used tae love the covers, some o` the later ones had pictures o` fit looking barbarians fighting off weird and wonderful monsters wi` axes and swords, and some were done by wha` I now ken are famous artists, like Boris Vallejo and Frank Frazetta.
Onyway, this is a wee story that can never dae justice tae all those fantasy books that fed a growing imagination and ruined it, maist likely, forever mair....


"She had no grace...knew this because others told her so. A clumsy girl she was, watching others dance like swans, move with fluid beauty, while she knocked her belongings over, bumped into people, who, irritated with her, shoved her rudely out of their way. No grace. No beauty.
Watching children play she saw their own dance of grace, an unselfconscious, youthful thing that had long since deserted her. Watching the dancers at the summer fete she saw the twining of their bodies in the music of love and envied that, sitting alone, wide eyed at the spectacle of it all.
In the lives of the clan, grace and beauty were prized. "Touched by the gods", folks were called who had been favoured by grace and beauty. And they were marked as that, as favoured, and treated with respect earned only by the way they looked, the way they moved, and the clansfolk flocked to them when they spoke, and basked in the glow of who they were.
So she lived her life in the shadow of the others, a plain and unmarked woman, and her days were filled with the work of the clan, her people, the essential work of cooking and spinning and weaving the cloth which the clansfolk wore, tilling the strips of land for winter crops, herding the kye down from the hills and sitting at the milking, morning and night.
And she saw the graced ones did no work, but sang their days long and played with one another as they raced the ponies around the township, and danced the dance of love among the stooks at the harvest dances. Charmed lives, they led, the ones blessed with grace.
And she watched folks flock to them, and bask in their glow, and mimic their ways.

The riders struck in the night. Whooping and hollering their rage, they fired the thatch of the crofthouses and slaughtered the kye and the ponies with poison tipped bolts from blackened crossbows. In the fire of the ruined township the folks were herded and penned like the slaughtered cattle, but for a few who hid from sight and sought ways out of the township to run and get help.
But she never ran. Watching the enemy riders, she counted twice until she was sure of their number, of where they all were, and of how they were led...she marked the leader and his group, for had she not had practice, watching those who led and their sycophants?
Under the burning thatch of the smithy she found a blackened, hot-hilted sword and a small throwing axe.
Running swiftly and quietly behind the mounted enemy, she reached the smouldering remains of the wattle coop and hunkered down. Marking the second in command, she threw the axe at his back and was rewarded by the sight of him pitching from the saddle and the ensuing panic of the other men trying to control their whinnying ponies, startled at the sudden attack.
Amid the panic she ran onward to the safety of a ruined hut and watched as the men of the enemy whirled around, seeking the attacker, and saw two of them ride down the wattle coop, reining the ponies to trample it into the dirt.
And at the edge of the circle of her herded clansfolk she watched the leader whirl his own pony around and around, seeking, searching...and that is when she chose to step out into the firelight and walk toward him.
With a shout he stayed the hand of his warriors who would have shot her with their poisoned bolts. She had relied upon this, upon his curiosity, his arrogance......
She stood before him, a small woman, ragged and dirty and dragging a mans sword beside her. Looking up at him, she issued a wordless challenge in the frank and angry eyes.
Laughing, he dismounted and handed the reins of his pony to another warrior who took up the laughter, as did they all.
She could see behind him, as he strode to her, the remains of her people, shivering, dirty, wounded, the graced ones among them, looking with disbelief at her own stupidity.
She took her gaze from them and appraised the chief before her. A big but slight man. Muscled, lean, not so different from the men of her own clan, different only in ornament, in the cut of his skins and the paint of his own skin.....but in his eyes she saw the expectation of her death.

All grew quiet as all watched, expecting her to die quickly. And in her own heart she knew she faced her death.
But this was to be her moment of grace......
Raising the sword, she felt it become part of her, an extension of will and memory and all she had watched of the menfolks at their training for war lodged in behind her eyes and she met the chieftans sword and did not feel the jar of steel ring her bones like to shatter them, did not feel the force behind his sword arm as she parried and danced with grace the sword dance, a whirl of muscle and steel and the song of blood ringing in the ears and in the heart.
And in a moment the sword she bore pierced his chest and she watched with a bloody, mad grin on her face as his eyes looked into hers and clear disbelief lived there....
Placing one foot on his stomach she kicked and he slipped free, dead, of the blade.
Breathing heavily, she turned to her people, not seeing the graced ones, not seeing favoured ones, seeing only those of her blood as they watched her with fear and terror in their eyes.
Slowly, the sword once more dragging the earth, she turned round to meet her death, and gave once more the warriors mad grin as she danced the battle dance and entered the gateway to the Underworld at the hand of the enemy."

Me other half was oot in the byre this morning. There are all kinds o` nesting wild birds in there, blackbirds and sparrows and starlings and pigeons...
and some o` them hae young in the nests and are awfy wary.
So when himself walked by one o` the nests in a hole in the byre wall, the mam flew oot and pooped right on his head!
He wasnae too pleased and is just oot the shower.....(me, I thought it was hilarious though)
Noo, when I was wee (or, at five foot nothing mebbe I should just say, younger) me ain mam used tae tell me if a bird pooped on ye that meant ye would hae guid luck that day.
I did tell this tae himself but it didnae cheer him up ony, as having the shower has made him a peedie bit late for work.
I also mind other bird related things...omens and sayings...
There`s the well known magpie one..."one for sorrow, two for joy"...
Owls screeching whilst perched nearby meant someone in the nearest hoose would die soon.
Crows and all birds o` the corvus family are messengers o` bad tidings (in Norse mythology ravens are the god Odins birds, representing memory and thought, Huginn and Muninn)
Gulls carry the souls o` drowned sailors in their throats...
Curlews will lure lone travellers tae their deaths ower hillsides in fog...

I seem tae mind there is a whole heap o` bird lore but am forgetting half o` it, nae doubt I will remember it later and can add tae the list. Be glad tae hear onybody elses bird related lore. Let`s face it, in Orkney, we`ve nae shortage o` the creatures!

Talking o` which, just a wee while ago this morning, I watched a jackdaw steal something (couldnae see what it was) from a tern, and watched both birds get intae an ariel fight that would hae graced a film like Battle of Britain or the like, sae furious they were gaun at it.
I also gave a crow the fright o` his life when I went oot tae get the cats in...those cats hae me weel trained, see, they go oot tae mark territory and chase birds and dae their business, then come and sit at the window and STARE at me til I gaun oot and lift them up and carry them in...*blushes with shame*...
onyway, there I was, walking roond the corner tae get the cats, and nearly tripped ower a big crow wi` a garden snail in his beak. He didnae drop it mind you, so couldnae hae been that feared...though, I wouldnae hae thought a bird could "Caw" and keep a snail in place at the same time....
I nearly got a face fu` o scruffy black feathers....

Kindly sent by Dag, isn`t the picture that came with it just great! A peedie bit scarier, far better than the watered doon versions we had at school....:D

Boots Who Ate a Match With the Troll


ONCE upon a time there was a farmer who had three sons; his means were small, and he was old and weak, and his sons would take to nothing. A fine large wood belonged to the farm, and one day the father told his sons to go and hew wood, and try to pay off some of his debts.

Well, after a long talk, he got them to set off, and the eldest was to go first. But when he had got well into the wood, and began to hew at a mossy old fir, what should he see coming up to him but a great sturdy Troll.

"If you hew in this wood of mine," said the Troll, I'll kill you!"

When the lad heard that, he threw the axe down, and ran off home as fast as he could lay legs to the ground; so he came in quite out of breath, and told them what had happened, but his father called him "hare-heart,"—no Troll would ever have scared him from hewing when he was young, he said.

Next day the second son's turn came, and he fared just the same. He had scarce hewn three strokes at the fir, before the Troll came to him too, and said—

"If you hew in this wood of mine, I'll kill you."

The lad dared not so much as look at him, but threw down the axe, took to his heels, and came scampering home just like his brother. So when he got home, his father was angry again, and said no Troll had ever scared him when he was young.

The third day Boots wanted to set off.

"You, indeed!" said the two elder brothers; "you'll do it bravely, no doubt! you, who have scarce ever set your foot out of the door."

Boots said nothing to this, but only begged them to give him a good store of food. His mother had no cheese, so she set the pot on the fire to make him a little, and he put it into a scrip and set off. So when he had hewn a bit, the Troll came to him too, and said—

"If you hew in this wood of mine, I'll kill you."

But the lad was not slow; he pulled his cheese out of the scrip in a trice, and squeezed it till the whey spurted out.

"Hold your tongue!" he cried to the Troll, "or I'll squeeze you as I squeeze the water out of this white stone."

"Nay, dear friend!" said the Troll, "only spare me, and I'll help you to hew."

Well, on those terms the lad was willing to spare him, and the Troll hewed so bravely, that they felled and cut up many, many fathoms in the day.

But when even drew near, the Troll said—

"Now you'd better come home with me, for my house is nearer than yours."

So the lad was willing enough; and when they reached the Troll's house, the Troll was to make up the fire, while the lad went to fetch water for their porridge, and there stood two iron pails so big and heavy, that he couldn't so much as lift them from the ground.

"Pooh!" said the lad, "it isn't worth while to touch these finger-basins. I'll just go and fetch the spring itself."

"Nay, nay, dear friend!" said the Troll; " I can't afford to lose my spring; just you make up the fire, and I'll go and fetch the water."

So when he came back with the water, they set to and boiled up a great pot of porridge.

"It's all the same to me," said the lad; "but if you're of my mind, we'll eat a match!"

"With all my heart," said the Troll, for he thought he could surely hold his own in eating. So they sat down; but the lad took his scrip unawares to the Troll, and hung it before him, and so he spooned more into the scrip than he ate himself; and when the scrip was full, he took up his knife and made a slit in the scrip. The Troll looked on all the while, but said never a word. So when they had eaten a good bit longer, the Troll laid down his spoon, saying, "Nay! but I can't eat a morsel more."

"But you shall eat," said the youth; "I'm only half done; why don't you do as I did, and cut a hole in your paunch? You'll be able to eat then as much as you please."

"But doesn't it hurt one cruelly?" asked the Troll.

"Oh," said the youth, "nothing to speak of."

So the Troll did as the lad said, and then you must know very well that he lost his life; but the lad took all the silver and gold that he found in the hill-side, and went home with it, and you may fancy it went a great way to pay off the debt.

(I like writing wee fantasy stories...ye can get awa` wi` an awfy lot wi` them...and I love snow, and am still disappointed that we didnae really hae ony this last winter. When I was a wee lassie we had MONTHS o` the white stuff and it was proper snow, that squeaks like polystyrene when ye walk on it. I miss proper snowy winters. As a wee girl I built snowmermaids and snow horses wi` nae necks ...or legs..because if I made them wi` necks, the heids fell off, and if I made them wi` legs, they wouldnae stand up.....nooadays, I would just like the chance tae build a bog standard snowman, if we ever got the snow....)



Puffing and panting, she managed to get to the space between the firs through the deep, foot-sucking snow. In the thin moonlight her breath misted and spiralled in the air before her face. She paused for a moment to catch her breath.
Behind her, the track of her journey here was already covered by the soft, fat flakes of snow falling with increasing thickness. She could see cloud moving down from the North, getting ready to blot out the moon and knew that shortly she`d have only the light of the snow itself to see by.
On each side of her stretched the young forest, short fir trees made round and soft looking with the snowfall and throwing scant shadows out around them.
She was cold. Shouldn`t have stopped. Already her furs were icing up around the hood and neck, the moisture of her breath freezing and becoming icy. If she could have seen herself, she`d have seen an ice maiden, one of the Mountain Women maybe, a creature made out of blue light and ice, frosted eyebrows and lashes and the tears she had cried frozen like diamonds upon her cheeks.
Feeling the tingle of pain from the cold in her hands and feet, she pressed on.
The snow fell thicker, and with it came the hush such snow brings, the blanket of silence it throws over forest and earth, and she could hear her breath in the thin air and the thing that followed her too.
She knew it was a young black bear. Had seen the shadow and shape of it when she had turned to look back an hour ago.
She knew it would be hungry, should have been sleeping, but wasn`t, should have been further south but wasn`t, should have attacked and eaten her, but hadn`t.....
So she pressed on. And her mind worked on what to do. She had nowhere to go in mind. Ahead was North. That was all. Mountains, should she reach so far. Thickening forest and wolf and cat, all hungry, all cold and winter-angry for food.
But for now here she was, in the young part of the forest, small trees and much snow, and plenty cold to spur her on.

And on she went.

In a small hollow ringed by the young firs she had to halt. Her breath was ragged and though cold, she was unbearably tired. She knew she had to stop, to rest. And if she left it too long she would not be able to make the fire she needed.
Kneeling, she scraped a patch of snow away to reach the ground. It was deep, that snow, and taking a cold hand from fur glove she touched
the earth beneath. It was frozen, hard and brittle and for a space, felt soulless. But she kept the hand there, and slowly felt the beat of the earth beneath, the soft thrum of life locked in the soil, slumbering beneath the dark and cold of winter.
She stood and put her glove back on. Her breathing was settling now, which made it easier to see. Sharp eyes picked out deadfalls of wood, and though she knew it would spit, rich with sap and tar, she needed heat. So struggling to the rim, she picked up clumsily the branches and twigs, armfuls of it she carried back to the pit and laid down, three journeys she made to gather firewood.

With cold, numb hands she struck the spark which caught the tinder of dried moss, lit the small fire, carefully crouched over it, blowing softly, and when it caught the heat melted the frozen tears and wet her face, melted the frosted lashes and brows and gave her the look of the sauna.
She knelt beside the growing fire.
Looked around. The flames threw increasing darkness around the hollow, the light making it hard to see outside the circle of it. But she knew what was there....the trees, the snow, the bear...
The snowfall began to lessen and the cloud cleared a little, and she looked at the moon. A thin sliver of scimitar he was, a knife edge to cut the darkness, nothing more.
Clumsily she scraped a hollow in the snow beside the fire and laid herself down in front of the flames. She did not care if the sparks caught her furs. Did not care if she slept and did not tend the fire. With the growing warmth feeling was returning to frozen limbs and with it came pain. Weeping quietly, she wrapped her arms around her and crawled into the position of the babe, and watching the fire, slept the sleep of exhaustion.

And in the night the bear came, a scrawny, hungry, confused beast. He had followed the girl because he knew no other thing to do. He had no memory of before. Had no notion of what he should be doing. The wound on his head, made at the point of a spear, had stolen his wits.
And in the dark he saw the flicker of light and flame the girl made. And he retreated a pace, back into the darkness among the trees and snow and moonlight.
He could smell her own wounds. The raw blood of them. Could smell the fatigue and fear and pain on the human. Hunger and need rose up in him. Blood and meat would help his failing strength.
He watched the girl lie down and sleep. He waited, pacing back and forth on silent pads amid deep and smothering snow.
When he heard the regular beath of sleep, he crept forward.
Pacing on silent pads amid deep, soft snow, he scented the blood on the girl, smelled the tracks she had made, followed the thread of her work as she gathered the firewood, lit the fire, scraped the hollow to lie in.
Snuffling quietly, he nosed her fur hood.....

The hunters shout broke the silence of dawn as they spotted the mound of fur. The curve of the bear echoed that of the girl beside the dead fire. With the caution of hunters who know the arts of the bear, the changeling nature of them, the trickster cunning of them, they toed the beast to make sure he was dead before examining what they found.
The bear lay facing North, as if to keep the wind from the girl. At some point in the night, she had turned and made to burrow into the thick, soft black fur, seeking warmth.
The dead fire mocked them both.
Her face was pale and perfect, only the tracks of frozen tears upon her cheeks, the glitter of frozen lashes laying soft against skin.
A hunter reached down, pulled her hood back....they all looked, all backed away, ancient superstitions and fears arising in harsh, warrior minds.

Black, thick hair cascaded out of the hood, like a shadow against the snow. In one part of it though, a wound, a spear wound, bright still with blood and sticky around the raw opening. This wound echoed that of the black bear. And they knew that this bear would not return home with them, the pelt would rot here in the cold Northern air, the bones lie here forever under the uncaring skies. Wordlessly, they turned for home.

And around their hearthfires the children listened to the story of the witch who kept her soul in the form of a young black bear. And when the brave hunters killed the bear, the evil witch also died, wrapped around it like a lover. But when the night wind howls in the coldest winters the children hear a snuffling, enquiring snort outside their hut doors, and the bright and brittle laughter of a young girl, and they scent the heavy musk of bear and glimpse the shadow of a furclad girl upon the walls in the lamplight.

A few folks have been telling me they`re having trouble reading my blogs, the ones I write in Scots so I thought I`d give it a go just writing in plain English for a while, so any feedback on what`s preferred would be gratefully received . :-)

Online shopping, I`m sure, has been the downfall of many a good woman! I think psychologists and men underestimate the power of a good shopping stint on the mind of your average woman..the feelgood factor alone is a tremendous thing...if I had my way, shopping would be prescribed by every doctor (along with a hefty amount of free cash to deploy at the same time).....well, I can dream!

So just window shopping on an online internet auction site, I got to the archery section (I know, bit of a strange girly, usually ignore the clothes and jewellery and go straight to stuff like archery or crossbows...) and there he sat, a nice wee recurve bow, just sitting there whispering "buy me buy me!"...so I did...

Well, after I`d explained my purchase to himself (expected howls of rage but got an "Oh that`s not too bad, looks good" at which point I nearly fainted, so have now got the gist of it, buy `blokey stuff` then you`ll get no hassle for it girls) I realised, my crossbow target is on it`s last legs.
I`m used to shooting with the crossbow, see, but haven`t that much experience with the archery bow, although I`ve shot one before, the crossbow is `my` weapon. So I`ll need to practice. So I`ll need a new target.
Targets seem to be quite expensive online, so I`m trying to think what can be used for target practice. I think it`ll just come down to stacked hay bales with a drawn paper target on them. The possibilities for fun with that paper are endless....:-D
See now, older days of times gone past would have been more fun. I`d`ve practiced then been able to go out and shoot my dinner. Then all I`d`ve had to worry about would be the sherrif or bailif chasing me, because when it comes to meat I`ve expensive tastes.
Anyways, there it is, my new purchase, a recurve bow. And now himself is getting a compound bow, which is usually used for field sports where the recurve is for target archery.
So if folks on Sanday are wanting to practice shooting, give us a call, not that we`re experts unless it`s in using a crossbow. But I don`t see it being that hard to be honest, crossbows might be a world of difference but the principle remains the same...point, shoot, hit....
Pictures will be forthcoming once we`ve got the hang of it (to avoid distressing pics of the neighboring cows in the field stampeding etc (joke, in case the farmer`s looking in by the way!))

Anyway, never mind shopping being a vice....am convinced that sometimes, it`s a virtue...I think, though, it helps in that the stuff I tend to buy is hugely practical.
What do you mean, "how practical is an archery bow?" Of COURSE it`s practical, if the world goes to pot and we have to ever catch our own dinners, I`ll be fine! (Yes, I know I already have the crossbows, but it doesn`t hurt to diversify)....
Or if hoardes of savage invaders ever decide to take on Sanday, I`ll be there, on the front line, managing to shoot, oh, at least one or two afore I`m overwhelmed (probably by giggling invaders, I`m not really such a scary sight, even with a bow)...
So there, see? Totally practical purchase.

(almost convinced meself now......) :-)

Aye, ye guessed it, yours truly indulged her shopping vice again....in me defense, it was a present for himself....
See, I blame the weather...it`s awfy rainy, windy and just plain auld miserable, no` summerlike at a`...so tae cheer meself up, I just thought I would window shop again...(must stop giving in tae that by the way)
and so that me dearly beloved wouldnae be feeing left oot, found a fantastic compound bow for him, and have bid on it, and it looks as if we`ll get it tae....
See, recurve bows are what are maistly used for target archery. Compound bows are used for field shooting. That did puzzle me a wee bitty at first...I mean, wha` wid be after shooting at fields, what hae the puir fields done tae annoy ony archers...
then realised, oh aye, wait a minute, they mean rough shooting, as if the archers were really chasing doon their dinners.
Onyway, the compound bow, aboot which I know squat, looks tae be a complicated affair wi` pulleys and strings a` ower the place, and has a higher pound pullage weight than me ain recurve bow, but no` sae much as me crossbow which is a 150 lb pull (fine if ye are wanting arm and shoulder muscles like Arnie Shwarzenneger, nae sure if I spelled his name right there though).
And we are still looking for suitable targets.
And noo I am kind o` `banned` frae shopping online for the time being, which is no` surprising.
I still maintain, though, that at least me purchases are practical and so should be appreciated for that. I mean tae say, blokes gaun oot a` the time and come back wi` a` manner of things they say are practical...car parts...tools...wierd bits o` machinery that doesnae look like they fit onywhere....and dae I complain? Och no` one wee bit.
So I should be indulged every once in a while, eh? I think sae onyway.

There is no` much ootside work tae be done at the moment thanks tae the weather. Yesterday we had hail. Remind me again what month it is? The wee merganser duck has left off defending the white nesting duck, I think because nary a one o` the other drakes dare gaun near her noo....and has migrated roond tae the front o` the hoose, wi` twa or three mateless drakes, tae sit among the rose bushes. I looked oot this morning and there he was, creeping towards the overhang o` the concrete walk that gauns along the front o` the hoose, presumably tae tak shelter frae the lashing rain. He did look awfy soggy.
And twa o` oor geese are fighting ower one nest o` eggs. We hae four geese nesting noo, one in the hutch and the others dotted aroond nearby. But on one nest there are twa geese and instead o` taking turns like they did last time, tae sit, they behave like Sumo wrestlers and try tae nudge one another off the nest. Right noo there they are, both sitting half on, half off, the nest, neither giving an inch and occasionally hissing at each other. I`m no awfy sure wha will win. And can only imagine what will happen when the eggs hatch.
We had the same problem last year when oor ducklings hatched...twa mother ducks fighting ower the ducklings, wi` each trying the steal the others awa` til we had tae seperate them and put them in pens.
Ever tried chasing ducks and ducklings tae catch them? It`s guid excercise.......took us a` morning and some heid scratching trying tae figure oot wha`s ducklings were wha`s.
Having sae mony nesting ducks again this year, we also hae crows and gulls wheeling above the nests waiting for opportunities tae steal the eggs. I dinnae like the great thieving brutes! The blackback gulls are the worst, though they really become the biggest problem when the ducks are born, as they will swallow them whole and live.

The date for the medieval feast has been changed tae July 8th noo, because o` travel arrangements for me friends wha are coming tae bide. This weekend sees the great `red oot` (tidy out) o` the room it`s tae be held in. We hae already been doing bits and pieces tae that end, but it will really start tae tak` shape then. I hae all the music sorted and the food is almost arranged, and the drink. One o` the fun games is one wi` a Viking theme...using throwing axes tae chop the pigtails off the wifie .....onybody wha has seen the film The Vikings wi` Kirk Douglas will ken what I mean....
but naebody need phone the polis, it`s tae be a dummy heid, no` a real one..naebody would volunteer, har har....(was joking there, I didnae really ask for volunteers)
Onyway, the prize is tae be a bottle o` mead, fitting in wi` the theme.
If onybody has ony suggestions for mair games , please feel free tae let me ken aboot them, they`ll be gratefully received. :-)

I am hoping the weather clears up tae be fine again soon. Even wi` the rain though, it`s a bonny sight oot there. The pond is ringed by flag irises, some o` which are blooming early, and the bright yellow marsh marigolds always a welcome sight after a dreich winter. Herons and wild ducks and me ain ducks are feeding every day off the pond, I often wonder how the herons manage tae stand sae long in the water, I waded in one summer day once and got sucked intae mud up tae me knees! (mind you, I`m naewhar near sae light as a heron!)
But after yesterdays hail shower, I cannae help feeling proper summer is still a ways off.

Yesterday, himself brought in a wee sparra that had been caught on a fence, the wind blows a lot o` peedie birds intae fences. This one had been caught up in some sheeps wool trapped on the fence, by its leg, and in its panic had tried to eat its own leg off. So he brought it in, the leg was lost, mangled and only hanging on by a thread, its beak was bloody, aside from that though it seemed fine. It had a ring on the other leg that said British Museum and some numbers, so I phoned the island ranger, wha wasnae in but his wife kindly cam` ower tae see the bird. She took note o` the numbers tae report them tae the Museum.
Well, the wee bird sadly didnae mak` it, and this morning we found it dead in the box we`d put it in. I think, meself, the shock had been too much for it. So we`ll remove the ring and find oot where tae return it tae. The winds tak` an awfy lot o` wild birds, we often come across mony a seabird wi` mangled wings having been blawn intae the fences. The kindest thing tae dae is tae put them oot their misery. We have amputated a few o` the wings, we kept a gull for a full year after doing that, put him in wi` the hens, we couldnae let him go as the other, bigger gulls took tae attacking him. He was happy enough though wi` oor hens, but the rats got him in winter. So after that, if we come across other birds wi` the same extent o` injury, we put them oot their misery, quick and kind.
I do feel a wee bit sad aboot the wee sparra though....it was a game wee bird, a right wee fighter. I would hae liked tae see it mak it, but that is nature, I reckon.


Here are a couple o` medieval recipes that`ll be used for the feast, I got them frae a friend who is a food historian and a reenactor herself. The full menu will be roasted venison marinated in wine, wi` a guidly number o` roasted ducks, hens and pork, baked herbed vegetables, honey glazed roasted onions and neeps and the like, an assortment o` sweet dishes, platters o` fruit and home made breads and cheeses, and no` exactly medieval but also dishes o` Cranachan, wi` enough mead, whisky, wine and beer tae keep the festivities nicely flowing.

Flathonys - or an alchoholic custard!

Ingredients:
8 fluid oz milk
5 egg yolks
2 oz sugar
4 fluid oz dark ale or beer
1 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar to sprinkle on top
Enough pastry for pie casing (9 inch), plus a smaller plate or beans for blind baking. (ie with no filling in it, but weighted to stop it rising up.)

Bake pie casing blind for 15 minutes at 425F, 220C gas mark 7 Remove casing from oven and leave to cool slightly, (with weights removed!)
Reduce oven to 350 degrees F, 175C, gas mark 3 to 4.

In a saucepan, combine milk, sugar, ale and egg yolks. Heat slowly over a medium heat, stirring constantly until it begins to steam slightly. Stir in salt and melted butter and whisk. Pour into pie casing.
Bake 10 to 15 mins until top just sets.

Sprinkle sugar across top and continue cooking until whole filling is just set. Don't worry if it looks a wee bit wobbly as it will continue to cook in it's own heat for a while after it is taken from the oven.

Serve warm. Serves 8 normal portions or 6 if you're greedy.

Lombardy Pasties
This was originally made using whole chicks, but in deference to modern sensibilities, I have substituted chicken breast.

Ingredients:
Pastry from previous recipe, but with lard instead of butter, if you like.
2 chicken breasts, boned.
bacon or ham, (for amount, see recipe) .
2 eggs, beaten
Verjuice (yes, I know I said no verjuice, but you can use vinegar and a drop of apple juice, or cider vinegar)
Fine-ground spice powder ( To make Fine Spice Powder. Take of white ginger an ounce and a dram, of selected cinnamon a quarter, of cloves and grains of paradise each half a quarter of an ounce, and of lump sugar a quarter and reduce them to powder. Personally, I use mixed spice powder and a pinch or two of brown sugar.)

Iced water

Cut each breast in large chunks, roughly quarters or thirds, depending on size of chicken breast. Make up a mixture of the eggs beaten with a splash of verjuice (vinegar) and a pinch of spice powder.
Dip the chicken pieces in this mixture til well coated.
Roll out the pastry and cut out rounds big enough to take 1 chicken piece, plus leaving a rim for sealing.
Place coated pieces on one half of pastry round. Add a piece of lean bacon or ham to each piece of chicken.
Fold other half of pastry over to cover, and seal edges , by wetting the two 'in' sides with cold water and pressing firmly together.
When all the pasties are filled, brush them with any remaining egg mixture, thinned with the cold water if necessary.
Bake until golden and chicken is cooked

It`s chucking it doon. It`s damp and miserable and ye ca` this summer!? Whar`s me sun then eh? `S no awfy fair at a`......

right then, that`s me pleep ower for the day....;-D

do ye notice, spiders (or speeders as me granny called them) come in just afore it rains? Why they think they`ll be ony safer in me hoose I dinnae ken. For I hae the reputation o` having battered invading speeders intae oblivion. Really....just got the nearest book/handy object wi` a flat surface....and battered the creature til there was no` even a smear, no` even a memory there was ever a speeder there....
and do I feel ony guilt whatsoever? Oh, no, not at all....
In the past year I was bitten three times by speeders, they muckle huge wolf hunters. Twice the bites turned septic. So far I have no` gotten the ability tae climb walls using a handy web spun oot o` me wrist, nor have I developed a taste for flies. But I did hae a couple o` nasty, septic bites that gave me some grief. So after that, I declared war on speeders, and noo they a` get crushed and beaten til there is nae thing left o` them.
It`s no` like there`s a shortage o` the beggars after a` noo is there?
I mean, have ye LOOKED closely at one? Like something oot o` the film Alien they are...a` beady eyes and hair and ower mony legs and they can shift when they want tae and a`....
So the past few days we`ve had the odd (massive, I exaggerate not folks!) speeder tak` up residence in me hoose. Some o` them land in the bath. How they end up there I dinnae ken, but they get flushed awa`, boiling water it is. Some o` them gie me the fright o` me life as I turn the light on and find it right next tae me hand. The modus operandii there is for me tae run and grab a magazine, come back and whack the thing til there is naething left o` it.
Then ye get the sneaky ones...they wait until ye have settled doon for the night, then, in this summer-like twilight, ye look up at the ceiling, and there it is, dangling on the edge o` a web, staring at ye and sniggering, just biding its time...
there is nae M.O then folks, yours truly just shrieks fit tae wake the deid and gets himself tae deal wi` it. Me bravery has its limits.....
I also realised whar thon auld saying comes frae, no` tae kill speeders or it`ll rain. It`s because every wife like me wha` sees them come intae the hoose afore it rains, kills them. That isnae what causes the rain, it is just an indicator o` the fact it WILL rain. Maybe speeders like dry heids like onybody else....

Still and a`, I got me bow through the post today! Woohoo! Yours truly is chuffed, though it would have been better had there been a dry day tae try it oot. So I will just have tae have some patience...no` a great trait o` mine...and wait until the sun decides tae show her face again. If ever. Oh man, it`s WET the day! It`s a fine bonny bow tae, though I`m a bit amused at the woodland camouflage ower the limbs o` it...it`s no` as if there is a need for it here noo, on Sanday, whar the bairns will play spot the tree, a game naebody wins.....
So a friend is picking me up some extra arrows in toon today, and we hae a big roond bale o` hay on order, so there is the target taken care o`. We just have tae mak` paper targets noo, and we are gaun tae have fun wi` that. ;-)

The wee merganser is noo a regular here, and one o` me duck family. He has taken up wi` a couple o` surplus drakes and it`s like watching a peedie king wi` his entourage, seeing them gaun aroond the place. For a wee fella, he hasnae half bullied me big fat drakes intae doing as they`re told. I`m fairly sure we have a case o` mafia boss and bodyguards there.....

At least I have been able tae catch up on me work, though I have tae work just inside wi` the door open. Me hound, Lassie, keeps me company. When I`m fleshing sheepskins, she gets the offcuts and fat and meat scraps so that keeps her happy (and fat!). One o` her favourite bits is when I cut off the skin along the legs. I throw them tae her and she taks them up in her jaw and wonders off tae bury them. I used tae think she would forget aboot them, but have seen her dig some up she had buried frae months ago, and eat them wi` relish! (that`s, enthusiasm, no` actual pickle, by the way....she`s no that clever!)
and this morning, off she went, wi` her treasured scraps, tae bury them in me flower plots (I hae given up on me garden this year) and it was that wet, she was clarted up tae her jowls wi` muck when she came back! She is noo in the garage, til she dries off and I can brush the muck off her.

I have also heard back frae the bird ringing folks aboot the wee sparra. It was ringed in August 06, they think. I hae nae idea how long sparras live, but that doesnae sound like an awfy long life tae me, puir wee thing.

Well, am off tae sit and admire me new bow, polish up me crossbow, and find a decent film tae watch. This is the life, right enough. :-)