REGISTERED CHARITY NO: SCO045416

Volume 6 May 2020

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Contents Editorial

Fiona McAllister P. 3

Saving the Tinkers’ Heart Jess Smith P. 4 Oh Dear! Fiona McAllister / Jess Smith P. 13 Art Christine Ford P. 16 - Ward of the Little White Stones – Traditional

Poetry: The Auldyin, The Youngun and The Free Rose Stanley P. 20 Fiction: Catty Pat Hutchison P. 23 Scotia’s Bairns Jess Smith P. 34 Scots Radio Frieda Morrison P. 37 Contact HOTT P. 38

Cover Art: Courtesy of Christine Ford.

Bow Fiddle Rock, Portknockie, Moray.

Photo: F. McAllister

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Editorial

This edition of the magazine will be the last for a little while. Following our recent AGM, HOTT

decided to stop, think and plan our next steps. Our aim is – as it has been from the start – to have

the Tinkers’ Heart restored as a memorial and a place of memory where people can visit to reflect

on all that has gone before. We have been successful in our campaign to have The Tinkers’ Heart

scheduled as a monument of national importance by Historic Environment Scotland. We couldn’t

have achieved this recognition without the support and help of so many of you; too many to list

here, but THANK YOU from the Heart to each and every one of you.

HOTT now needs to make plans to have the environment of the Heart reflect that national

importance. We need time to work on this.

We’ve also produced two very different media to further the voices of Travellers. A Sense of Identity

filmed Travellers themselves talking about their lives and experiences. Wee Bessie, funded by the

National Lottery, is a children’s book telling the tale of a young Betsy Whyte. A copy of this book will

be sent to every library and primary school in Scotland. In addition, an animation of Wee Bessie is

one of many short films on our Youtube channel. A Sense of Identity will be added once all the

permissions are sorted.

Then of course, there’s the beautiful song Tinkers’ Heart written by Jeff Jeffries and Rolf Campbell.

It’s on our website and our Youtube channel if you’d like another listen. HOTT Youtube Channel

Our website and the flip book version of the magazine is another wonder that would not exist if it

were not for the coding abilities, programming expertise and sheer genius of Reece Mackie. Your IT

work is very much appreciated. It’s too easy to overlook the quiet guy in the background who’s

making sure a website is flawless and works well. Well, we noticed you fine!

The magazine has grown over the years but it remains as it started – a one-woman work edited and

produced on a basic laptop at my kitchen table. But there would be nothing for me to work with

and no magazine at all if people were no so generous with their time, talent, writing, art,

photography and so much more. I’d still be looking at blank pages on the first edition if it were not

for you. All of you have my gratitude. Pat Hutchison in particular deserves an honourable mention

here – for years that lovely man has allowed me to ransack his writings and his archives and never

once told me off for it. Bless you, Pat.

I hope you enjoy this edition.

Take care and stay safe

Fiona McAllister

Editor.

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Saving the Tinkers’ Heart

Every spring as was the way of it, we got ready to move. Like a mini herd of highland cattle

we abandoned winter surroundings to feed on fields of ancestral campsites where our

hearts beat in rhythm with the countryside and the ever-present flow of Atlantic waters. Life

was an existence during lockdown months of winter but not summertime, it was for ‘living’.

Travelling people fan out when the road calls, some leave the south and go north,

others travel south from wintering in the north. Perthshire Travellers scattered across the

shire, seldom leaving its boundaries. It’s a large county so there’s plenty places to

accommodate everybody. West will move east and pass each other on the way.

We had winter camped in most shires, schooled as youngsters and been employed in

wherever the work could be found. We knew no boundaries … Scotland was free to roam.

In my parent’s early life, they’d travelled summers with a horse, cart and wattle gelly; that’s

a tent constructed of hazel wands and canvas. A sense of freedom cost nothing and making

ends meet was a day at a time.

The Irish Famine, Highland Clearances and wars changed many Travellers’ way of life.

Some moved to towns and cities and settled into houses, while others continued to live in

the countryside with tents and campfires. Changes were everywhere and suddenly it wasn’t

safe to live in tents and travel the roads. Laws against Travellers’ way of living were

sprouting like nettles across the land; one was if they continued to live in no fixed abode,

their children would be forcibly removed. Parents had little choice but to settle in towns. It

wasn’t easy adapting to another lifestyle, the old ways of freedom and the right to roam

was deeply embedded in many of their lives. Basket weaving, besom making, heather pot

scourers, horsemanship, agricultural knowledge had equipped them well but were of no use

to a life of living in dark hovels like sardines, in homes built one on top of the other. Some

women and young folk worked the Jute mills of Dundee while their men idled at home

under an insulting banner – the kettle-boilers.

The culture had been reduced to a collective memory of the old ways when Traveller

families slept peacefully by the river’s edge or the roadside. Where the man of the home

was there. His role was to inspire in his children a desire to survive and to hand down the

precious skills to make that survival possible. But in those tenement flats what mattered

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was to get through each day and dream of the freedom when a strong horse led the well-

built cart and the campsites were more ancestral than illegal.

For a few, the call of the old ways became so

strong that they refused to live like prisoners with

faceless jailers deciding how they spent every penny

and when to get up in the morning. They deserted

town and city grime-filled skies and made for the old

roads where clear blue heavens and madam moon

welcomed their weary bones. They knew where the

willow wands grew in abundance and where baskets

woven skilfully would sell easily. Mother Nature

supplied plenty rabbit and hare, while river trout was

in abundance. Farmers could always provide a few

days’ work. Those who left the city life met and married within other Traveller families and

for a while the campsites saw their indigenous nomads return.

The State had a disconnection with the lifestyle and harboured others plans for its

control. They were determined that the culture should not strengthen its seed upon the

land. Their agenda was to maintain integration and in time assimilate each and every family

into the population of settled people. Cruelty officers and trained nursemaids accompanied

by policemen went into overdrive removing Travellers children, regardless of age. Many

under fours were herded onto ships for Australia and Canada where they would be put up

for adoption or housed in children’s homes. Orphanages were built to accommodate those

under 10yrs old. Marr Training ships took teenage boys and Industrial schools housed

teenage girls; where they were taught the work of servant girls, awful times for such proud

people. Broken-hearted parents were left to wander aimlessly without their beloved

children. Nothing matters to Travellers more than their kinchen.

It was a time of terror and to this day, the scar remains on those affected.

Walking with the Ancestors

My parent’s families escaped the shadows of those terror times: perhaps by being one

step ahead of the authorities or maybe because they were close knit large families. There

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was after all a lot of Irish blood mixed with West Coast Highlander. Survival was the only

thought in their heads. Disappearing into the mist had taught them how ‘not to be seen.’

The ever-present fear of armed factors employed by government-aided lairds, who had

taken control of once free land, made life a cat and mouse existence and they learned from

it.

The clearances had something to do with their abilities to blend into the landscape. This

episode of modern history has been conveniently ignored by the writer’s pen, leaving it to

the campfire storytellers to educate the tears of the children.

When my parents married they set up home in a campsite near Pitlochry where several

other Traveller families camped. It was known as ‘The Black Spout’. My mother had not

long given birth to a third daughter when war broke out with Germany. She said this put a

halt on the theft of Travelling children.

My father and many male relatives donned uniforms and became soldiers. Perhaps the

cruelty men did the same because for the duration of the war the campsite raids stopped.

Wars cause death and destruction and Travellers took their fair share of sorrow. My

mother’s young brother was killed. Grief was everywhere. Time should have been allowed

to heal but with the first tears back came the cruelty men, accompanied by nurses and

police, to continue the dreaded raids. Many wives had no husbands so they were sitting

ducks. It made little difference that those lost heroes had died fighting for the country.

Mother didn’t want to lose her little ones so when Dad came home weary and wounded,

she insisted that they should live in a permanent home. It was known that if Travellers

wanted to keep their family intact, an address was paramount.

Dad had been on the front line as part

of a tank crew and had suffered a great

deal of pain and injury when a bomb had

exploded on the tank. He’d been

temporarily deafened and suffered from

shrapnel wounds. This should have

convinced him to settle and have the

slithers of metal embedded under his skin

treated by a doctor.

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Dad had loathed the conflict, even refused medals that he’d won. He was a root and branch

of the old style, never a house of stone with a roof to blot out the sky for him. Regardless of

the painful injuries, he

refused to listen as my

mother pleaded with him for

a house. There were many

arguments before he

eventually gave in. The

family moved into a house in

Aberfeldy with that crucial

‘address’ and a friendly

doctor to heal his wounds.

After a while, they went northeast to Aberdeen and then back to Perthshire, where their

parents lived.

When baby number eight was born dad took a massive gamble; he purchased a Bedford

bus! Mother was furious. She had become used to the safety and confines of the house. Dad

argued that the bus would provide a warm, comfortable home for them all. He gutted every

seat and replaced with all that was needed to accommodate his large family. She acquired a

driving license to motor a small van, needed to make a living around farms and he drove the

1948 motor home.

Have Bus will Travel!

We set out over the border into Manchester and spent our first winter in the smog of

industry. I was aged 5 and from setting foot in that bus, my memories were fired with the

life of the old ways. I loved it, never forgot those years as we travelled the country.

Our winter stopping place was near a school and the usual amenities kept us together

and always with the crucial address.

Each of my sisters left to set up their own homes and when only four of us remained my

precious bus was nothing more than a shell. Dad got a caravan and a large van to pull it and

for a few more years we travelled.

I was a teenager when we moved into a residential caravan in Crieff, a nice little holiday

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town that had been a favoured place for Travellers through the years. My father had little

time for the rooted caravan (as he called it) but my mother loved her big home with a

kitchen, electricity and for him a TV.

I met a local lad, Dave; not a Traveller, we married and after two years in a caravan we

had our first son. Later we settled in a house and had another son. Three years on we had

our third child, a bonnie lassie.

My parents had earlier moved to a house in Fife where Dad spent a lot of his retirement

writing about Travelling life and believed his manuscript was worthy of publication. He sent

it to Hamish Henderson at Edinburgh University and I felt heart-sore when nothing came of

his planned book. After Dad’s passing, Mother moved to a little cottage in Crieff. I could

visit her every day and there she lived contentedly for another ten years.

Time galloped by, children grew up, left home and my husband and I began to climb

Scotland’s mountains. One day, when leaving Glen Coe’s breath taking scenery I was

alarmed that there was no piper. Traveller pipers held a stance at the Pass of Glen Coe, it

was crucial for them two fold. One, it was a sacred place; lamenting the massacre of the clan

MacDonald’s who were killed by a Campbell centuries ago. Two; the entire family depended

on a moderate living from busking to tourists who flocked in their droves to the area and

were enchanted by the scenery and the music of the bagpipes. It was there breathing in the

cool mystique and atmosphere I suddenly thought about my culture; Scottish Travellers.

The police told me it was unlawful to stand so close to a busy road and busk. Health and

Safety issues seemingly.

This was the most obvious sign that there was no piper at the Pass and, when I thought

about it, they’d disappeared from Loch Lomond side, The Rest and Be Thankful and most of

the rural tourist spots. It was then I decided to write my book. It seemed the most natural

thing in the world to do, to write about living on the road and my people. Travellers are a

diverse group, so I couldn’t write a blanket history.

I had never read a page of Dad’s unpublished manuscript which he’d hinted held stories

of ghostly pipers, battles of old, Tinker Smiths and much more, indeed the entire culture, as

he had known it.

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I couldn’t write a book acceptable to my father’s memory because I had little knowledge

about his life before he met my mother but I had my own past memories. The more I

thought about it, the more excited I became that it wasn’t in the realms of impossibility to

write about the old bus life. The biggest hurdle was my lack of education, but a new era was

about to make life a whole lot easier for a literary dreamer and that was the introduction to

a computer. Spell check mastered my abysmal lacking and also helped with grammar. Once

I rid myself of the fear of a modern contraption intruding in my sitting room, I was on a roll

and my heart was bursting to share the bus tales and how a wee lassie saw her ethnic

lifestyle with the rest of the rest of the world.

Jessie’s Journey rose from those memories and a friendly publisher liked my story. The

country enjoyed it too and my wee book went to no 1 in Scottish Biographies. Tales from

the Tent followed, Tears for a Tinker was close on its heels, a trilogy of my life. The writer’s

bug seriously bit me. Bruar’s Rest was a novel which came from a deep respect for all

Traveller women whose husbands never came back after two wars; heroine Traveller

women.

Writing was opening cultural backgrounds to me; I was becoming wrapped in the

diversity of my culture and began to think more about Dad’s manuscript. I remembered his

last days so clearly, his gaunt face, wide opened mouth gasping to fill his weak lungs with

air, fighting for every breath. The hospital’s magnolia walls had an air of final curtain about

them, like death standing behind a pale yellow screen waiting on the next soul.

My Dad, my warrior; the wee man who’d take on a gang of drunkards if they threatened

his girls, clenched his fists as a surge of searing pain ran the length of his body. At that

moment I desperately wanted to be a strong-backed man to cover him in the sheet, lift him

away from that sterile mattress and carry him downstairs, place his skeletal frame in the

car’s passenger seat and whisk him to a wooded place. Stick fire, Tinkers’ can boiling with

tarry tea and pour his last cup. I even pictured flicking off the twigs that floated on the top.

But my hero, my guardian of early years slipped away as I made him a promise to write

about our culture.

From that promise I wrote Way of the Wanderers, which was as close as I could get to

what I believed Dad’s book held. It was all I could do for his memory. I had other books

planned about Travellers but fate held a gate open for me and I walked through. This one

was very different!

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Misty Pilgrims

As a best-selling author and with so many people holding memories of Travellers, I became

popular with groups, clubs etc. who put me on their syllabus as a speaker. It was great fun

when people shared personal stories. One day, while in Sandbank near Dunoon in

Argyllshire, an elderly lady approached and said, “it’s a shame about your Tinker’s Heart

lass!” I was puzzled. My head filled with memories of when we travelled through the area,

where was this place? My mother was born on the shores of Loch Fyne in Tarbet, a place

we went almost every summer so I had many lovely memories, but not of a ‘heart’. When

the lady said, ‘wedding place’ it suddenly made perfect sense. Ardkinglass! This was a place

where an old crossroads near Cairndhu had a secluded campsite. Argyllshire Travellers

camped there and many times we’d meet up with local Travellers.

Strange as children living on the road,

seashore, woods, moorlands etc. have no

titles or names, they are simply

playgrounds. The crossroads had a heart

shaped circle of white quartz stones

embedded in the road and it was where

Travelling people married. The sacredness

of the area meant nothing to we children, it

was just another playing field and that is why I didn’t react to the lady’s worries. I was

curious though and before Dave and I went home we headed up the road to see what state

the Tinker’s Heart was in and for me to see if I had any childhood memories left.

At first we couldn’t find it. The roads had been realigned with the crossing of the ways

closed off at two points. I thought that like many old campsites special to Travellers was

gone, ignored and derelict. I was tired but Dave said we should keep searching. He jumped

over a cattle gate and walked towards Loch Fyne, there were a few broken wooden pallets

covering something. “Jess, come and see this!” His raised voice had me climb the gate like

an excited child.

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With a cool breeze from the loch,

Inverary clearly visible, Ardkinglass woods

to the right and the ancient Cairn of St

Catherine’s down road on our left, I slowly

approached what Dave was eager to show

me. We carefully lifted off the debris and

there were the stones of the Tinker’s Heart

almost unseen beneath cow dung and

grained in peat moss.

Tears welled within me. It took no prompting to conjure up the scene. In my mind’s eye

I saw one big mass of humanity on the move, walking from one place to another. I heard

the old ones with their wisdom, the laughter of children, the whimpering of the dying dog

and whelping of a new one. I saw the hands hammering, weaving, shoeing, flower making,

peg whittling, crocheting. I heard the welcome cries of newborns and the painful cries of old

bones. I felt flames warming the stews to feed the hordes of tattie howkers. I heard the

horses munching on their bags of hay, the revving of lorries and vans being driven onto the

campsites and the smell of juices wafting from the fields of red rosy berries. Songs sung and

stories shared. Memories flooded my heart as I looked upon the sacred circle neglected and

rejected.

Other Travellers had come searching as we had done and went away with the thought

that the old place was under tar and gone forever. What I saw was a culture on the wane. If

this special place has been overlooked and forgotten, pushed in a drawer of bygones then

what future for the culture?

Sleep did not come to me that night as I fought the urges welling inside to do something

about the state of the Tinker’s Heart. The

place represented an entire culture, it was the

most precious of all places to Scotland’s

Travellers and it seriously needed protection.

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I decided to stop writing until the Tinker’s Heart was back and beating again. Little did I

know how long this would take. To convince landowner to clean up the area and protect it

from cattle, I needed to reach out to many people. Thankfully this was done after some

press coverage and it looked so different with the stones cleaned and a strong cage around

them. From day one, however, walls of negativity were hastily built and every effort from

different factors to stop the campaign went full steam ahead. Travelling people were not

recognised as a culture. Most powerful rejections came from Historic Environment

Scotland. our country’s ancient building protectors. We invited them to list (schedule) the

stones but they categorically insisted that the stones had been moved during road

realignment therefore did not meet their criteria.

Our investigation proved the stones had not been moved, they were still in the exact

same arrangement as they’d been placed. One obvious question came from all quarters,

‘who put them there and why?’ Folklore points to an ancient meeting place where the

gatherings of clan members took place when important news was shared. Others thought it

might well have gone back to the placement of a Celtic church. The age-old beliefs in the

area of Argyll will no doubt hold the answer but it is certain Travellers used it to marry, to

name new-borns and to have the dead blessed.

After the final Jacobean battle at Culloden came times of terror as the vicious butcher,

the Duke of Cumberland, ordered his troops to spare no Gael. The story was that where

the roads cross, families took a stone from the loch side and placed it on the circle as a

memory of their lost ones. Before Christianity the sun was worshipped. Perhaps where the

circle was, a standing stone with a white quartz cap caught the sun’s rays as it set in the

west and that is why the Tinker’s Heart is sacred to Travellers and why the white stones,

holding memory, represent hope and rebirth.

Emails, phone-calls, letters and visitors brought dozens of enquiries. An army of people

began to form. It wasn’t my campaign anymore; it was the peoples.

One beautiful mind came on board to help; Fiona McAllister was as dedicated as we

were and two friends, Anne and Jim Hamilton, dug in their eager heels to prove that the

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Travelling people are and have always been a culture. We were gathering speed and only

slowed down to let other like-minded souls hop on board. Newspapers and magazines were

writing about the Tinker’s Heart; we’d stirred a lot of interest.

Fiona suggested a government petition. Where better to take our battle? Educating the

people who make our country what it is was no easy matter but it did bear fruit. On June

18th2015 Historic Environment Scotland changed their criteria and pronounced to the world

that Scotland’s Travelling people are a distinct culture and always have been. Whatever our

titles were in past times, we have survived through one battle after another, carrying a label

we were forced to wear, as survival our middle name. The Tinker’s Heart proves just how

powerful our hearts beat as one people when what we hold dear is threatened.

Six years had passed since Dave and I stood on that dung filled spot amid broken pallets

and curious cattle but what a wonderful decision we took to heed the worrying tones of an

elderly lady and take responsibility for a very special place.

Marriage Blessings: Tanjo Tedeschi and Alda Viali married bothers Stuart and Charlie Macphail, November 1993.

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Oh Dear!

Headlines from three years ago:

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And the comment made at the time…

Wasn’t there once an indigenous transient workforce who moved around the country according to

the agricultural calendar? And didn’t they meet up with others of their clans and yet others who were

not Travellers; but scaldies who also earned a few bob picking and howkin oot? And didn’t we all

work together on the hairst?

Maybe I dreamt that. Maybe the pocket money I earned as a kid from the rhubarb fields, the tattie

fields and the berry fields was all a figment of my imagination.

Or maybe this is one of the unintended consequences of the destruction of a way of life.

Where did all the people go? (Ed.)

One recent headline:

EXCLUSIVE: Farm boss says he spent £40,000 on flying

150 Romanian fruit and veg pickers to UK - so they can

teach his new British land army how it's done - after only

4,000 Brits go to interview for roles (Mail, 17.4.20)

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Now Look Where We Are

So none other than the future King is begging folks to go and pick the berries for Britain.

Well, well, well!

Never heard a word from him when the Travelling people filled every available space

with tents, huts and caravans to pick for Britain. If he and all else in authority had the

decency and the respect to remember those hardy folk and give thanks then there would

have been no need for an Eastern European workforce to come seasonally and do the work

that Travellers had done ever since a berry cane was pushed in the earth.

Working class folk from all over the country also flooded onto the fields, those same

fields that Hamish Henderson, Ewan MacColl and all those eager to record the cultural songs

of the Travelling People mingled among. We did more than our 'bit' for Britain yet I have

never heard a word of appreciation from farmer and politician to this day.

Perhaps what is being heard now is none other than various governments policy

chickens coming home to roost.

Jess Smith

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Art: Christine Ford

The beautiful cover on this edition of HOTT magazine is the work of New Zealand artist,

Christine Ford, who has kindly shared with us some other examples of her art. Thank you,

Christine!

We’re sure you will agree her work is stunning and will enjoy the pieces displayed in this

edition.

“Hi , I am Christine Ford. I love colour and landscapes and dots, so

much of my work reflects a small part of this. All my work is acrylic

on board. I am inspired by the New Zealand landscape, all things

Romany, pattern and texture and flowers. I hope you enjoy looking

at my work.”

Why not visit Christine’s website to find out more about her and her work?

Click on the link: Christine Ford Artist

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Ward of the Little White Stones Stones, little stones, o little white stones Like the earth’s old bones are you Like the ribs about the heart you are. Protect this place where I am standing For it is the place where you lie presently.

Clocha , clocha beag , o clocha beag bán Cosúil go bhfuil cnámha an domhain d'aois tú Cosúil leis an easnacha mar gheall ar an croí a bhfuil tú . Cosain an áit seo áit a bhfuil mé ag seasamh I gcás go bhfuil sé ar an áit ina luíonn tú faoi láthair.

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Poetry

THE AULDYIN, THE YOUNGUN & THE FREE

There was an auld farmer

auld farmer was he His back it were crooked and bent were his knees

Bent were his knees with the toil o' his days But heavy his pockets

frae miserly ways.

Young was the mistress the wife o' his house. Tight were her skirts

and loose was her blouse. Winsome and bonnie and

buxom her frame, but she married fur riches of love she's haud nane.

Here's come anither,

a travelling man. He's wandered and dandered,

all ower the land, All ower the land

tae the farm by the lake, whaur he spies the young wife

as she cooks and she bakes.

Come in, says the farmer, come in fer yer tea. It's stories an' songs

we'll be havin' frae thee. Stories an' songs

fur the price o' yer bread, but for sleeping - I'm sorry,

Thaurs jist the one bed!

Jist the one bed, says the wife as she winks. It's Himsome and mesome and Himsome she thinks!

Never you mind boys,

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and never you fear, we'll eat and get merry and be o' guid cheer.

All of guid cheer?

Wi' three in a bed? The traveller man

has some cause for his dread. But the food on the table's

a right bonnie sight, so the whisky and stories

flow into the night.

Whisky flows in and it has to flow out.

The farmer is auld noo, beyond any doubt.

He's crossing, un-crossing. He fidgets around

Then it's out through the door, fur the privy he's bound.

The wifey she winks

as she takes out a cake. It's hot and it's moist and it's ready to take.

It's ready to take if you want your dessert.

Come ower and get some, noo what can it hurt?

The cake it looks tasty, the cake it looks fine.

The traveller; befuddled, on whisky and wine.

Befuddled and clumsy, he fa's tae the floor!

Just as the auld farmer comes back in the door.

What's this! Says the farmer,

what's going on here? That cake is too hot

to be cutting my dear. Too hot when it's cut

and the cake it will break. Just leave it till morning;

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we'll eat when we wake.

So it's himsome and mesome and himsome tae bed.

In the middle the farmer's like one o' the dead.

The edges are are left for the young and the free,

and their lying thegither 's unlikely tae be.

The bed it is narrow,

for three it's too tight. If one turns they all turn throughout all the night.

And throughout all the night, when the farmer must pee,

the child in its basket is placed in a'-tween!

He pees like a fountain,

he pees like a spout! It's up and it's down

and he's in and he's out. It's out to the privy

this last time he's raced, an' betwixt an' between them

the basket's no' placed!

The basket's no' placed! It's yer chance now me lad!

A chance to be naughty, a chance to be bad!

A chance now we have fur oor pleasure tae take!

So he's run doon the stairs!

And he's eaten the cake!

Rose Stanley

(I remembered this story by Eamon Kelly and turned it into a penny galoshin tale.)

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Fiction: Catty

Mabel pottered aboot in the gairden clearin een o the vegetable beds. It hid been a gye

while since she got the chance tae come intae her beloved gairden. Apart fae the odd cut o

the greenie she’d hardly been near it ava.

Her poor mither hid teen up maist o her time and the last months hid been awful as the

dementia teen a hud o her. Her mither hidna been in the best o health for a lot o years but

Mabel hid managed tae work at the cooncil offices and look aifter her ana but nae once the

dementia hid started.

Her mither hid been found wanderin aboot the toon a couple o times and Mabel hid

teen early retirement tae look aifter her. In so deein she’d lost a lot o her pension package

but she’d loved her mither dearly an widna see her gyan intae a home.

The church bell struck ten so wi a wee groan Mabel straachtened hersel up fae the veggi

bed and made her wye intae the hoose, first takin aff her dubby beets and pittin on her

slippers at the wee porch at the back door.

Mabel didna like gyan intae the kitchen noo that her mither wiz awa, she ayee expected

tae see her sittin on her cheer at the side o the fire.

The kitchen wiz aal farrent wi sclate flag on the fleer at the lum waa wiz the big Aga

stove that keepit the room as warm as a pie and the reason they’d spent maist o their time

in the kitchen, for there wisna ony ither form o heat in the hoose. Apart that is fae a two bar

electric heater in fit hid been her mither’s bedroom and of course the grate in the

gweedroom that wiz nivver used these days.

Mabel fulled the kettle an switched it on then gyan tae the press aside the windae she

teen oot her ‘special’ treat for mornin fly, a jar o Nescafe coffee. She drank fae a china mug

nae een o yon horrible big heavy joogs that fowk drank fae noo-a-days. She sat doon at the

aal deal table wi her steamin joog o coffee and opened the cutlery drawer in the table and

teen oot her ither 'special’ treat, a packet o fags. This wiz the only fag she smoked, she’d hae

een at ten o’clock ivvery mornin alang wi her one cup o coffee. She sat back wi a sigh and

takin a guilty glance at her mither’s cheer, lichted her fag. Mabel’s mither hid been that

against smokin so she’d ayee wint ootside tae hae a fag.

24

The room hid a big settle against ae waa, an aal leather thing that hid definitely seen

better days but it wiz comfy an nae too far fae the tv on the wee table. She’d kent this room

nearly aa her days and fin her parents were here it hid been fulled wi laughter.

Her ee shifted tae the mantle piece abeen the Aga tae the photo o her father an

mither’s waddin day an a gweed lookin couple they were ana. Dadin his Gordon

Highlander’s uniform wi his medals on his breest an his sergeants’ stripes, her mither smilin

and lookin up at him wi love in her een. That’d been jist aifter the Great War. Mabel hid

been born in 1923. It wiz soon aifter that they’d moved intae this hoose, that’s siventy years

ago.

Mabel gave anither sigh and looked at the ither photo, showin a bonny lassie in her

early twenties. Mabel wiz far mair critical o this photo though thinkin that the lassie in it wiz

bonny enough but her nose didna seem richt and though she’d a bonny smile it wiz spoiled

wi her showin ower muckle o her gums abeen her teeth. But sayin that she’d hid a fyowe

suitors in her day an mair than eence she’d been offered the chance tae mairry.

Mabel gave anither sigh and wint tae the sink wi her cup an gave it a sweel. She’d

rejected the offers though. Her father hid teen affa ill wi his heart and hid left his job wi the

railway. Mabel then mair or less became the breadwinner at that time. Eventually her father

died and the doctor said his hert wiz enlarged. He’d tellt her that a lot o men that hid focht

in the Great War teen this type o hert complaint and her father haein been a piper also

added tae that. Her mither nivver in the best o health hid teen a turn for the worse and wiz

nivver the same aifter her husband died.

Mabel hid managed though and worked awa at the cooncil eventually reachin the rank o

Registrar. She’d loved her job at the cooncil and hid set up a filing system second tae none,

which wiz her pride and joy. But as things do in life, they change and the new computers

came on the go. Younger fowk used them and eventually her card index system wiz

relegated tae history. It wiz aboot that time that her mither started showin the signs o

dementia. The cooncil hid wanted tae mak staff cuts, so she’d teen early retirement.

She wint back tae her vegetable bed and wiz soon lost tae fit she wiz deein. Aboot half

eleven she’d been thinkin on pittin on a tattie for denner fin she noticed movement aneath

the big elder bush. Standin up wi a groan Mabel crossed tae it and hid a look. At first she

couldna see onything amongst the last year’s growth until she moved some o the twigs

aside. That’s fin she saw the bonny blue ee lookin at her.

25

“Oh me, peer wee catty!”

She put her haan in tae touch it but the cat hissed at her and backed aff.

Mabel saw that its richt ee wiz a mess o scab and its luggie on the same side wiz nearly

aff.

She tried athing tae get it tae come tae her but it jist hissed an tried tae clook her. She

spoke quietly till it tae see if that wid work but it held aff still lookin at her wi the bonny blue

ee.

She wint intae the hoose and got a saucer o milk and put it aneath the bush then she

moved awa an sat on the greenie wi the saucer o milk in sicht.

Aifter a good while the catty came towards it an started

tae sup. She could see the cat wiz in a gye mess, an saw livid

weepin cuts aboot its neck as weel as the festered ee an

damaged luggie.

Mabel muttered, “Oh ye peer wee thingie!”

It looked like somebody’s pet cat that hid wint feral. Mabel didna ken muckle aboot cats

but saw that it hid marlled colours and by the size o’t must be male.

Ower the next fyowe days Mabel fed the cat and as she did it seemed tae get a wee

bittie tamer and came as far as the back porch tae get fed. But still it widna let her touch it

and jist hissed at her if she tried.

In the mornings she’d ging oot and shout, “Catty! Come on dearie!” and it wid come fae

ablow the bush.

She decided tae caa it ‘Catty’ because it seemed tae answer tae that.

Eventually ‘Catty’ started tae come intae the hoose and loved tae sit on the flagsteens

ablow the Aga.

Mabel got tae touch it noo and wiz even alloed tae wash its wounds wi saaty water tae

clean them. The festered ee wiz her main concern but aifter a lot o saaty water and

solutions o cider vinegar the infection got better. The ee wiz blinded though and instead o

the bonny blue o the good yin it wiz milky and sair lookin.

“Oh ma peer wee Catty,” she’d mutter as she tended its wounds.

As the weeks passed Catty wid let Mabel pet him in front o the Aga but wid nivver come

ontae her knee.

Mabel loved tae watch her films on the vhs video. She’d got it for her mither and her tae

26

watch, baith o them loved Doris Day films an mony’s the nicht they spent watchin them.

One film though wiz Mabel’s favourite. ‘They Carved Her Name With Pride,’ a true story

aboot a lassie in the S.O.E. that wint tae the war in occupied Europe and wiz captured by the

Gestapo. The actress wiz Virginia Mackenna and she fairly made a good job o the film. Fin

Mabel watched it she’d usually end up greetin because it wiz so sad.

Ae nicht she sat watchin it and as usual at the end she started greetin.

She saw Catty lookin up at her fae the fleer wi the one blue ee and aifter a minty it

shoochled its wye ower tae the settee and came up intae her bosie and put ae big paw

ontae her cheek as if sayin ‘It’s gan tae be fine.’ Aifter that Catty spent nearly ivvery nicht in

her bosie and did the same thing wi his paw finivver she graat at that film.

The months wint by and in that time her and Catty became inseparable.

Finivver she wiz in the gairden Catty wid lie as close tae

her as possible an a fyowe times she nearly stood ontae

him.

At the back o her gairden a block o fower pensioner’s

hooses backed ontae it. There wiz a widden fence on tap o the dyke because the hooses

were higher up than Mabel’s gairden. The aal fowk hid left tae gang intae sheltered housing

and the cooncil hid began pittin younger fowk intae the hooses.

The young couple that bade in the hoose directly ahin Mabel’s were affa fine. They’d twa

bairns; the loon Michael wiz four and the wee lassie Greta seven. She often spoke tae their

mither ower the fence and wid ayee speir for the bairns. Mabel wid gie them birthday cards

wi a fiver in it and the same at Christmas alang wi a selection box each. The man hid a job at

a local hotel workin makin braakfasts so he’d an early start ilka mornin.

Mabel hid often thocht o inviting them in for supper some nicht but ayee kept pittin it

aff because she wiz sic a private person. That mornin though the lassie hid tellt her they

were moving awa doon the Arbroath wye because her man hid landed a good job in yin o

the fancy hotels doon there. That wikeyne they moved but nae afore Mabel getting their

new address and geein the bairns a penny for the journey.

Sadly that wiz the last real peace Mabel wid ivver ken. The next tenant wiz a single man

and in nae time he’d the loud music on the go and drinkin pals inaboot makin a noise tae aa

oors.

Fin Mabel wint oot in the mornins she’d find empty beer tins and loads o tabbies in her

27

gairden. Aften she’d hear folk rinnin throwe her back yard as the new lads mates used her

gairden as a short cut at nicht.

Mabel thocht o gyan tae the police or maybe the cooncil aboot this but decided she’d

hae a word wi the new lad aboot the noise and rubbish thrown intae her gairden. She did

get tae speak tae him but for aa the gweed o’t and the moothfae o abuse Mabel hid jist

walked awa, shakkin her heed mutterin despairingly, “Nae point!”

Aa that she’d achieved wiz tae enrage him and things got an affa lot worse aifter that. If

she’d keepit quate an said nithing, things micht’ve worked awa but noo she’d shown her

heed abeen the parapet and ended up a real target for him and his mates.

She could hardly get intae her gairden ava noo for the abuse and ilka mornin her greenie

wiz littered wi empty tins and bottles. Because they drank aa nicht she could get intae her

gairden early in the mornin. She’d use the time tae clear up the mess.

She started tae find wee squares o tin foil that looked as though they’d been burned.

She’d shown yin tae the man at the local shop and he’d tellt her it wiz heroin that hid been

heated on the foil. Seemingly there wiz a lot o drug takin aboot the toon noo a days.

A gye thochtful Mabel made her wye hame tae her hoosie. Afore she’d loved bidin here

but noo it fellt tae her like a prison. She couldna enjoy her gairden ony mair and recently

they’d teen tae throwin steens at Catty finivver he wint ootside and on mair than one

occasion hid hit him.

This wint on for months till ae nicht she’d heard a commotion oot the backie and Catty

myowin in agony. She’d jist gotten oot in time tae see the lad and three o his pals throwin

Catty in the air wi a squeeb attached tae him. It wint aff wi a bang and Catty howled in

terror and pain. Screamin hersel Mabel got Catty intae her bosie and ran intae the hoose wi

him, followed by mocking laughter fae the fower men.

She’d tried athing tae help Catty but as he started tae shak wi shock she’d seen the life

leave his bonny blue ee. She’d graat and graat and graat ower Catty and kept him tae her

bosie. Aa the while steens were stottin aff her reef and windaes as the men cairried on

laachin and caain her an aal witch.

Early the following mornin Mabel beeriet Catty ablow his favourite bush. She hoped that

neen o the lads saw her, but naebody did, they were ower busy sleepin aff their drink and

drug filled souls.

Ower the next few months the tormentin didna stop, she’d stopped gyan oot tae tidy up

28

noo and jist left the rubbish tae accumulate. If she did show her heed oot the back they’d

shout aboot roasted cats and throw steens at her.

Mabel hated bidin in the hoose so she’d use her pensioner’s bus pass and ging awa

maist days. She’d een o yon wee trolleys wi twa wheels that ye pulled ahin ye. Affa handy

for eerins but also tae tak wi her on the bus wi her flask and sandwiches and some ither

special things she’d be nottin for the day.

It wid’ve been a sax weeks later that she wiz sittin watchin ‘They Carved Her name With

Pride’ that a strange thing happened. As usual as the film ended she’d burst oot greetin but

this time the greetin wiz so uncontrollable that she thocht she’d nivver manage tae stop. Aa

the traumas o the past fyowe months seemed tae come tae the fore and the tears flowed

like a river.

She felt something touch her cheek and fin she looked here wiz Catty and its paw

touchin her cheek like he used tae dee. Oh me but she teen him intae her bosie an sobbin,

“Yer back! Yer back!” The big blue ee looked at her as she said this. Mabel must’ve fell

asleep because fin she wakened she wiz shiverin wi the caal. Och she’d let the Aga gyang

oot ana. The tv aff station jist sizzed awa so she switched it aff. Shoutin for Catty she

searched aroon but nae signs o him could she see. Mabel kent she’d been dreamin but oh

me, it seemed so real tae her.

Next day wiz pension day so she made her wye doon tae the Post Office.

There wiz an affa lot o ongyans and abody wiz speakin aboot the drugs war that wiz

gyan on in the North East o Scotland. Seemingly there wiz an assassin gan aboot killin drug

dealers and so far there’d been fower deaths.

Mabel hearin this smiled tae hersel an felt like sayin that she wished he’d come an shoot

the bugger that bade at the back o her but she keepit quate.

Ower the next twa years Mabel spent nearly ivvery day awa on the bus. She jist couldna

abide her ain hoose now. But still some nichts she’d sit and watch her special film and fin

she graat Catty wid come tae her bosie and look at her wi his bonny blue ee. She wiz weel

aware Catty wiz deed but she enjoyed feelin him in her bosie aa the same, imagination or no

it seemed so real.

Mabel, intae her siventies now decided tae mak a will. So ae day she wint in by a local

solicitor tae get een made up. The hoose and athing wi it she left tae the young couple that

used tae bide at the back o her alang wi the fyowe coppers she’d in the bank. Her Post

29

Office savings accoont hid a good puckle siller in it so that wiz tae be left tae the S.S.P.C.A.

for tae look aifter cats. She’d nae faimily o ony kind so rather that let athing gyang tae the

Crown she thocht this wiz the fairest thing she could dee.

The solicitor duly made up the will and a couple o days later she’d tae gyang and sign it

and twa o the office staff counter signed it as witnesses. Her affairs now in order, Mabel

returned hame and that nicht watched her film.

Catty came intae her bosie and she cuddled him as the tears ran doon her cheeks. It wiz

comin on the wikeyne, always the worst time for Mabel, fin her neeghbour wid hae his

drunken mates inaboot. The steens wid start eence mair rattlin doon her reef.

Aa the windaes at the back o the hoose were broken noo and her eence bonny gairden wild

and unkept. There wisna ony point in plantin floors noo because that nicht some o the lads

wid come intae the gairden an staan aa ower them.

* * *

The fire engines, police and ambulance were on the scene, they’d nivver seen onything

like this afore. At the back o the hoose were fower burned bodies. Seemingly they’d been

sittin oot the backie enjoyin a quiet drink fin somebody hid thrown a napalm type grenade

in amongst them?

Naebody could get near the bodies for the burnin syrup type stuff that continued tae

incinerate them as the emergency fowk stood helplessly and watched. The police said it wiz

anither gang war hit. Anither four bodies tae add tae the five ithers that hid been shot.

They were caad by the papers ‘The Double Tap Murders’ on the accoont that each hid been

shot twice one round in the chest an yin atween the een.

Aifter the fire eventually wint oot the fower bodies were examined for bullet wounds

but neen wiz found so they’d been roasted alive.

“Poor buggers!” said the pathologist, “They died in agony and it widnae hae been that

fast!”

The papers got a hud o it and said the ‘Double Tap Murderer’ hid moved ontae a new

weapon o terror. It wiz aa speculation of coorse for the only link that there wiz atween the

deed wiz they were aa drug dealers baith big and smaa.

But fitivver, the Chief Constable wiz teen ower the coals for nae catchin the killer. Poor

man hid jist teen it on the chin because naebody hid ony idea faa wiz responsible. They’d

drawn a complete blank. The bullets used in the ither murders wiz completely unknown tae

30

the fire arms experts that kent only that they must be specially made for executions like this

due tae the devastating effect the low velocity rounds hid on the human body. The only

ither forensic type clue wiz that at each murder scene they’d found tiny bitties o rubber.

That wiz it! Nae anither thing tae gyan on ava.

Police officers did a door tae door, seein if onybody his seen or heard onything, and

apart fae fowk haein heard the dull thud o the grenade and the horrible screams o the dyin

men nae useful information wiz gotten. Mabel, faa hid been the nearest, said that jist afore

the explosion she’d heard somebody rinnin throwe her gairden. The constable duly noted

her statement and tellt her that she’d probably be getting a visit fae C.I.D. afore lang.

It wisna till the next day that a detective sergeant and a constable peyed her a visit.

They chapped on the door but got nae answer the constable peered in the windae but

jumped back as a cat cloured at the widae and hissed.

“Gweed sakes!” he shouted jumpin back in fear!

Turnin tae the detective he said, “Did ye see that?”

The detective shook his heed an speired;

“See fit?”

The constable still shakin tellt him aboot the big angry lookin cat wi one ee almost comin

throwe the windae at him!

“Oot o the wye!” the DS said pushin him aside and teen a look in the windae but saw

nithing, “Michty min ye must’ve been imagining things.”

Gyan roon the back they found the door open. The constable stood aside tae let the

detective gyang in first. The detective laughed at this and said, “Are ye feart o catties min?”

He got twa steps inside fin he wished he’d nivver mocked the young policeman. The one

ee’d cat wiz there and in seconds hid clookit baith his legs till the bleed wiz fleein. Wi a gasp

o pure terror he ran fae the hoose knockin the young constable doon on the wye oot. Aifter

a lot o cursing they looked intae the back windae and could see an aal woman sittin at a

desk aside a big stove. She wisna moving and fin they knocked the big one eyed cat near

came throwe the glaiss at them.

It teen a couple o oors for the lassie fae the S.S.P.C.A. tae arrived but fin she wint in nae

sign o a cat did she find. Feelin like a richt pair o plunkers the DS and the constable wint tae

the body.

Mabel sat at her wee roll top desk staring intae nithing. At one side o her sat an empty

31

coffee cup at the ither an ashtray wi twa tabbies squashed intae it and a wee tin canister as

thick as a fountain pen wi a skull & crossbones and one word, ‘Cyanide’.

“Oh God!” said the DS, “Go get the big boys doon here!”

The constable stood like a statue, lookin at Mabel.

“Go on min and dinna touch onything said the DS!”

Galvanised the PC made awa.

Ower the next couple o days the place wiz fulled wi army bomb disposal teams, forensic

fowk and the Chief Constable. A complete news blackoot wiz in place and in the end it wid

tak weeks afore ony sense could be made o their findings and even then nae information

wiz ivver given oot aboot fit hid happened.

The Chief Constable sat at his desk fingerin the report in front o him. He jist couldna

believe fit he’d jist read. First ava they’d found oot that Mabel hid made the napalm used in

the grenade in her back shed. And it wiz so simple how she did it. She’d used easy tae hand

materials tae mak it, a haanfae o chaip electronic lighters strapped on a weighted steel plate

fae an Aga attached tae a canister fulled o petrol and ither stuff she’d used tae mak the

napalm. Fin the weighted plate hit the grun the device wint up like a grenade

dowsin abody within aboot ten feet in flaming syrup. That wiz bad enough as tae how an aal

woman in her seventies could mak such a device but it got much much worse as tae fit else

they’d found in the shed.

He still couldna get the next bit richt in his heed. The search team hid found a pistol, and

nae an ordinary pistol. This wiz a pistol designed for assassination. It hid a clip wi twa bullets

in it but again nae ordinary bullets like ye’d expect. Oh no! This bullets were designed tae fit

the special pistol and were killer rounds made for that job. But the maist amazing bit hid

been the silencer for the weapon. It wiz in size and shape like a Vim tin but made o

aluminium, inside it wiz fulled o ground doon bike inner tubes tae absorb the sound o the

discharge. That’s faar the rubber hid come fae at each o the hits that naebody could explain.

The two bullets were for the ‘Double Tap’. One tae the chest the ither atween the een.

They’d found a box o fifty o these specialist bullets but twenty two were missing. The used

cartridges hid been found in her rolltop desk each pair taped thegither and a code on each.

Twenty two o them. There’d been five hits, one in Fraserburgh, one in Peterhead and three

in Aberdeen that accounted for ten bullets so fit happened tae the ither twelve?

32

At this moment the Security Services were trying tae decipher the coded index cards

they'd found in her desk tae try and find the names o the ither missing bodies. The man fae

MI5 stood lookin oot the Chief Constable’s office windae.

He turned fin he heard the file being closed and wi a wry smile teen oot anither file but

this yin wiz different. It wiz buff coloured and hid a reed line across it wi the words ‘Most

Secret’.

“Divulge what’s in here and you’ll end your days in the Tower!” he said tae the Chief

Constable.

Hesitatingly, as if it wid explode in his face, the Chief Constable took the file and opened

it. He could see richt awa it wiz a service record. The wee photo at the left hand side

showed a really bonny lassie smiling intae the camera. But it wiz the title that teen his

attention:

Mabel - - - - - -. S.O.E..Born Peterhead Scotland 14th June 1923

Recruited April 4th 1943

Special aptitudes languages, firearms and explosives.

Trained Achnacarry Scotland.

Dropped as ‘Moon Strike,’ France September 1944

Tasked- assassination.

S.O.E. disbanded 1946

Carried out tasks for H.M. Government until stood down July 15th 1958.

Awarded the Military Medal November 1960 for services rendered to the Crown.

33

The Chief Constable looked up at the MI5 man.

“She was Special Operations Executive?”

The MI5 man nodded and said, “Churchill wanted them to set Europe ablaze!” Noddin

towards the file he said, “She was the very best the S.O.E. ever put into the field with a

string of assassinations to her credit longer than my arm! The best of the best!”

He snatched up baith files and put them intae his briefcase.

“So you’ll agree that this story must never get out?”

Athoot waitin for a reply he made for the door and paused. “Incidentally if you do find

any of the missing bodies just get in touch with us and we’ll have a sanitising team up north

pronto!”

Wi a cheery "Toodlepip old chap!" he left the office leaving the Chief Constable

contemplating the wee cottage on the Buchan coast and early retirement.

Pat Hutchinson

From Sanners Gow’s 2nd volume, Mair Tales... available as paperback and ebook

34

Yes, it may be said that you are ‘better’ than I, your peers have obviously blessed you with a

grand home, fine clothes, the best schooling, good food etc.

I, on the other hand, saw life from the mouth of a ‘Tinker’s’ tent.

But I have felt the wind of John O’Groats.

I have seen the hills of Glen Coe clothed in purple heather, heard her mountain tops whisper

a thousand curses on the murderers of the MacDonald bairns.

The ghosts of Culloden

brushed against my cheek as I

sat on a rock seat, watching

heaven’s lightning streak

across the land to the sea

beyond.

Can you say you’ve tasted the first ripened strawberries at Blairgowrie?

Sucked on raps until their red juices filled your taste-buds with flavour fit for the Gods?

Is there a time in your life you’ve washed in the early morning dew, in a field flowering with

cowslip, pink clover and wild daisies?

Did you ever swim below the belly of a giant basking shark

Have you sung to a curious seal?

Have you heard the weasel’s whistle pierce the eardrums of a hypnotised rabbit?

Seen the fear in the eyes of the Monarch of the Glen as the stalker’s finger pulls back upon

his gun?

Did your protective parents tell you tales of the feared Fian Warriors of Glen Lyon?

35

Do you know how old the Yew Tree at Fortingall is?

Have you ever listened to a deaf child sing a beautiful Scottish ballad, music and words

unwritten?

Have you tasted the morning milk from a cow before she suckled her calk, or tasted the

freezing waters of a burn at its source?

Have you ever watched the dolphins

follow The Lord o’ The Isles as she

sails majestically from Oban to Mull?

Saw a fight to the death between two

Traveller warlords ruled by their

forefathers, adhering to the rules of

their clan?

Have you seen the Banshee washing shrouds at the river’s edge in the thick ghostly mist of a

lonely glen?

Have you held the hand of an old woman as she breathes her last breath and stretches her

body for the last time?

I am a child of the mist,

what are you?

I am ‘Ethnic’, you are accepted. I tell a tale of your ancestors, you are taught not to!

Would you converse with a road tramp?

36

Does a ‘Tinkers’’ encampment fill you

with excitement, or do you draw

back in disgust?

Do you give thanks for each breath

God gives you, or do you take life for

granted?

We are different, you and I: I am the

wind in your hair, you are the voice

of mistrust.

I am the blue of the Atlantic as she

thrusts her watery fingers into Scotland’s west coast.

You are the gate that stops me from entering the forest.

I am the grouse in the purpled heather, you are the hunter who denies me my flight.

I am the salmon as she leaps to her favourite spawning stream, you are the rod who would

end my epic journey.

I am the seed of all who went before me. I am from the brave ones who hid, not burned the

tartan. I am from those who spoke the Gaelic in seret places. I am psrt of the ‘true Earth,’

the sea, the sky –

I am The Scotia Bairn.

Jess Smith

Listen to Jess recite her poem on our Youtube channel: Scotia's Bairns

37

SCOTS RADIO

Scots Radio is a programme that spiks aboot the

culture and the ongyans o fowk fa use Scots in their

wirkin warl.

Accordin tae the last census in Scotland, there are

aroon 1.5 million Scots spikkers in this country. Ye

dinna hae tae wanner far tae hear it – jist ging as far

North, Sooth, East an Wast as yir lugs’ll tak ye.

I hope ye’ll enjoy rummelin aboot in the Episodes, and welcome tae the company that

celebrates the Scots Language – and the fowk that jist spik it.

Frieda Morrison Producer / Presenter

SR Website: https://www.scotsradio.com/

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/scotsradio

38

How to Contact Heart of the Travellers:

Email: Website:

admin@heartofthetravellers.scot www.heartofthetravellers.scot

HOTT on Facebook

REGISTERED CHARITY NO: SCO045416

Youtube

HOTT Youtube Channel

Thank you all once again for all your support, contributions and comments

over the years.

We’re no awa tae bide awa.