Flounders and samphire

Enjoyed a couple of fresh flounder for dinner, scattered with samphire.

The marshy shores of Wigtown Bay, and of other places along the Dumfries and Galloway coastline, make for happy homes for countless flounders. In fact, until 2009, the World Flounder Tramping Championships took place at Palnackie. These attracted up to 350 competitors and large sums were raised for the Royal National Lifeboat Institute.

However, the championships, though still wildly popular were finally sunk by Britain's “compensation culture” and the last event took place in 2009. Insurance premiums had risen to ridiculous levels and po-faced officialdom frowned on seeing people enjoying themselves, muttering instead about health and safety.

The method used in the championship, and still used by sensible people today, is to walk barefoot along the shallows, feeling for the fish with your toes. When you find one, you stand on it and stab it with a metal trident known as a “Leister.” Half the fun of this type of fishing is, of course, driving the trident through your foot rather than through the flounder, giving masses of amusement to your mates.

I bought two flounders for a pound each at the Smokehouse. I also picked up a bag of marsh samphire. This is delicious, growing, not surprisingly, in the sea marshes. Tiny little stalks and nice and sea salty. You can just wash it and eat it raw. Or sauté it quickly in butter. It is great to scatter over fish and seafood dishes, baked potatoes, pasta, or anything needing a bit of a lift. Add some oil and vinegar if you like.

Samphire has been eaten in Britain from the mists of history and Shakespeare mentions it in King Lear. It also used to be important in Medieval times in the production of glass and soap, an alternative name being Glasswort. The name Samphire is thought to come from the French for “Saint Pierre”, the fisherman apostle Saint Peter.

I cooked the flounders by frying them for a few minutes in butter, with a generous splodge of sherry.

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Try an 18th century punch

7 June 2011

The Scottish coast of the Solway Firth was always a very busy place for smugglers in the 18th and early 19th centuries. With duty free imports allowed to encourage the development of the Isle of Man, the opportunities for an enterprising and sea-skilled fellow to make a bit with fast runs to the mainland were obvious.

Here's a recipe from the Wigtown Agricultural Society's Town and Country Marquee Cookbook for “18th Century Mulled Wine, that serves 12.

2 bottles of red wine
24 lumps of sugar
12 cloves
2 pints (1.2 litres) of boiling water
Half a pint (300ml) of Curacao
Half a pint (300 ml) of brandy
Grated nutmeg

Curacao is an orange liqueur from the Dutch island territory of that name which flourished as a slave trading centre in the 18th century. Many Dumfries and Galloway fortunes were made in the slave-dependent Caribbean sugar trade. Wigtown's most impressive house, in Station Road, Dunure, was built on the rewards of the sugar trade. If you can't find any Curacao, use another orange liqueur.

Pour the wine into a saucepan and add the sugar and cloves, bringing almost to boiling point. Add boiling water. Pour in the Curacao and brandy. Pour into glasses and grate the fresh nutmeg on top.

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John Paul Jones the Pirate

US Navy hero “a devilish monster”

John Paul Jones (1747-1792) is today revered in the United States as a founding hero of the American Navy. His body lies in a grand bronze and marble tomb at the Naval Academy Chapel at Annapolis. A statue of him features as part of the John Paul Jones Memorial in Washington. One of the most sophisticated ships in the US Navy is the USS John Paul Jones (DDG-53), an Arlleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer. He was born at Kirkbean, on the Arbigland Estate, near Kirkbean, Kirkudbright, Dumfries and Galloway.

Local people who knew him regarded him as a pirate pure and simple, and a thoroughly unpleasant individual, being of “a hellish disposition.” Writing in 1824, John Mactaggart said:

“The late celebrated sea robber; a Gallovidian, I am rather sorry to say, but he was a clever devil, had strong talents of the infernal stamp; he was a short thick little fellow, above five feet eight in height, of a dark swarthy complexion. Now I am going to say somewhat of this fellow, and all I say I think is the truth, for I have it from the lips of many who personally knew him, and all about his singular ways.

“He was a common sailor for several years, out of the port of Kirkudbright, and was allowed to be unmatched on that coast for skill in sea matters; he was a pilot of the first kind, was quick at conception, and a prophet at foretelling the coming of storms; and when tempests might catch the bark he was in, he dreaded them not, but like Falconer's Rodmand, was

“First in action – in retreat the last.”

“Yet, though a famous seaman, his mess-mates generally disliked him; he was of a quick, fiery temper, and of a mad, ambitious, aspiring nature; and when roused, he cared not what he did, with the first weapon he fell in with; a capstan-bar was his favourite cudjell, and once being beset with a press-gang, in Liverpool, he laid three dead on the deck, and dashed the rest overside his sloop, into the Salthouse Dock.

“Having got the command of a pretty large vessel, belonging to Kirkudbright, he set sail with her to America, for a cargo of tobacco; while crossing the wide Atlantic, one of the crew, a young lad of fair promise, having some how or other irritated him, the devlish monster ran to a pot of pitch boiling on the deck, and flang a ladle-full of the horrid fluid about the youth, who, in desperation with the pain, leaped overboard, into the Gulf Stream and was seen no more.

“The Earl of Selkirk, hearing of this diabolic act of Paul Jones, threatened that if he ever came back to the country, he should receive his reward in punishment for the same. Such news reaching the horrid captain as he lay with his ship off Long Island, New York, gave him the first hint of changing his mode of life; having got a crew he could depend on every infernal enterprize and having turned such as did not suit him adrift, scouring the ocean in all directions, and taking prizes and property to great amount; it was now neck or nothing with him, so he brought his mighty talents into action.

“Ships of all nations dreaded him; the name of Paul Jones struck terror into thousands, and he was frequently thought, like Crumwhull's gib cat, to be where he was not. Having captured at one time and another, a large fleet, he became quite piratic Commodore, and was more severe on Britain than on any other nation, and most favourable to the French; the latter soon becoming acquainted with his kindness, offered him one of their highest naval situations, which was channel pilot, the which he accepted, and became a great favourite at the court of France.

“It was just about this stage of his career, that he made his attack upon Auld Scotland, to be revenged on the Earl of Selkirk, for his threat towards him. He brought his fine ship of war, the Serapis, to anchor at the mouth of his native river Dee, one beautiful summer morning, about forty-five years ago, and sent his barge, manned, and armed, to St Mary's Isle, for the purpose of catching his Lordship, who luckily was not at home that day.

“After surrounding the mansion, and making search, the pirates came off disappointed, but took the family silver plate with them, the which they, after a time returned, accompanying the same with a singular letter, in which was notified, that if his lordship had been with him, after he left the Dee, he would have witnessed a fine sea-fight between him and the Ranger, British frigate; this was a severe bout; the pirates beat her off, but did not follow up their capture. What he would have done with his lordship had he caught him, has been a question; it is thought that he would have ransomed him for the value of his estate, and so caused his utter ruin. But before arriving at the Dee, he had called at Whitehaven, a town that once huffed him, and having spiked the cannons on the battery there, he attempted to set the place on fire, but the houses all being of free-stone he could not get it to blaze so well as he wished; such traits, in the character of Paul Jones, prove him a being of hellish disposition; for those men of a revengeful nature, are evidently the most horrid wretches on earth.

“Having rounded Scotland and visited the Firth of Forth, he returned to Brest – attended on the French navy, and had them frequently on the point of almost starting to the invasion of Britain; falling sick, however, he retired to Paris, or somewhat in its neighbourhood, where he died, a young man rather, not fifty years of age; he died very rich and all his gold went to the French treasury; whether any of his heirs in Galloway could come at any of this, I know not. He was the father of a natural son, by a married lady, the which sun yet lives, but is ratherly a doyloch.

“Paul Jones seems to be unrivalled as a pirate; his undaunted courage, his penetrating judgment, and his savage temper, befitted him in an extraordinary manner for the damnable trade. It is laughable to look back at the sensation he caused among the rural bodies of Galloway, when he brought his ship upon their lonely shores; some armed themselves with scythes, some with pitch-forks, old guns too were looked at, while many fled and hid themselves in the Rossens o' whuns, caves, and wild mosses. A row-boat even went down the river, heavily armed, the evening he stood out to sea, for the purpose of intercepting him with their tale of it, if he dared to return; when this boat came in sight of the Oyster Craig, it was thought to be Paul Jones' armed barge, so a heavy firing was opened on it, and as the tide was filling, the rock in time became covered with water, so the fluttering fancies of the borough-bravados conceiving that the barge was down, they returned in a joyous flight home; next day they went back, and on examining the rock, found it battered blue with the leaden bullets, since which time it has been termed the Frenchman's Rock.

Pages 373-376. The Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia. By John Mactaggart. 1824.

The John Paul Jones Birthplace Museum, at Kirkbean, about 13 miles southwest of Dumfries off the A710 is well worth a visit. It is open from 1 April to 30 September, 10am to 5pm, Tuesday to Sunday; and every day during July and August. There is an excellent video, a reconstruction of the cabin of Jones' ship, the Bonhomme Richard, a picnic area and easy parking. Telephone 01387 880613. See: www.jpg.demon.co.uk/index.htm

Tricycle explorations

Sadly, few people today read the works of Galloway author S.R. Crockett (1859-1914) but in his day he was one of the most successful writers in Britain.

Crockett as born at Duchrae, Balmaghie, Kirkudbrightshire, and perhaps his most popular work was The Raiders, published in 1894, a dashing tale of kidnap, love and adventure set in the wild country of Galloway.

Crockett loved to explore the countryside with his young daughter, the girl being seated in a basket at the front of their tricycle. The picture shows them bowling along. From Sweetheart Travellers, published in 1895.

The Throes of Death

Galloway man John Mactaggart saw an public execution in Edinburgh and, in his book published in 1824, wished he hadn't.

“Death-Thraws – The throes of death. To the man of feeling, there is not a more horrible site to be seen, as a fellow creature in this wretched state; how alive we are then to the power of death, and how grieved to the soul that we can render no relief. I was never able to stand the scene but once, and will never try it again, unless abruptly compelled. I do not think death itself will be more difficult for me to endure than that appalling scene was.

“Once too, that restless being within me, Curiosity, dragged me to see the execution of a young man, when in Edinburgh, but she'll drag well if she drags me back again to see such a spectacle. I was not myself, Mactaggart, for a month afterwards, my mind was so disordered with the sight.

“In a curious way wrought the phrenzy (as I am one who speaks my mind) I tell this. I felt an inclination, both during night, when dream after dream whirled through my brain's airy halls, and in the day-time, to do some crime or other, that I might meet with a similar fate. Whether this is ever the way with any other person, I cannot tell, but so it opened on me, and which has caused me ever since to say, that hanging, instead of scaring from crime, has a strong tendency the other way. May God keep me far from seeing again any in the death-thraws.”

Pages 164-5. Mactaggart, John. The Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia. Hamilton and Adams. 1876.

"I hae min o'"

Some time during the 1960s a typewritten book of memories and stories about old Wigtown was compiled. The book includes sections headed “I have min o” or “I remember.” These were obviously the memories of long-time Wigtown residents. Here are some selections.

People often ate rabbit pie, sometimes with mutton in it. They grew their own vegetables and got gifts of fruit from the gardens of the big houses in the town.

On Sundays, food was a little special. In some houses that meant half an egg with the breakfast porridge; in others, it meant bacon and egg, porridge, and toast.

Ordinary folk had their main meal at noon and called it “dinner.” The gentry called that meal “lunch” and had a knife and fork tea. No one called an evening meal “dinner.” Better off people had damask tablecloths.

When the father was paid, a big ham end would be bought. For a special treat, a man had “a pint at the week-end.” As families were large and wages were small, few could afford more than that one pint a week. People baked a lot at home. Tattie scones were popular.

Farmers' wives bought eggs and butter to the town grocers to sell on Saturdays. Farmers had their own pigs and did their own curing. They also made “bleedy” puddings and white puddings. Farmers' children had bacon and eggs regularly, not just on Sundays.

On Sunday nights, children were given “a piece [sandwich] and milk” away to bed with them.
On New Year's Day there was bacon and egg for breakfast, a “fattened” fowl for dinner, and homemade ginger wine to drink.

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Here's how to make tattie scones: Ingredients – One pound of potatoes, two level teaspoons of salt, four ounces of flour, two ounces of butter.

Cook the potatoes in boiling salted water for 20 minutes then drain and mash well. Add the butter and the salt, then work in a little flour to give a stiff dough. Turn onto a floured board and roll out to half an inch thick. Cut into three-inch rounds and fry in a lightly greased pan for five minutes each side. Serve buttered while still warm.

Blind Johnnie's music memorial

If you stroll through the graveyard of Inch Church, near the entrance to Castle Kennedy at Stranraer, your eye will be drawn to the cemetery's most impressive monument. This is a polished granite column that obviously commemorates someone important.

That person is not one of the Earls who lived across the road but penniless Blind Johnnie. The inscription on the memorial explains that it was erected by public subscription in memory of John Alexander, afterwards known as Blind Johnnie, who died at the age of 70 on March 26, 1905.

Blind Johnnie was one of that group of people, found throughout Galloway, known as Worthies. These were people who were often disadvantaged but whom local communities valued and looked after. As the fine memorial shows, Blind Johnnie's street music was much appreciated. He played the recorder and the squeeze box – which are in the collection of the Stranraer Museum. He is said to have been able to recognise people by their greetings to him or by the smell of their clothing, which presumably did not come from fancy colognes and body fresheners.

A picture of Blind Johnnie appears in the pamphlet: Dumfries and Galloway Through the Lens 12. Dumfries and Galloway Libraries, Information and Archives with the Whithorn Photographic Group 1999. ISBN 0 946280 36 3.

Two Galloway genetic tales

Talking recently with a Galloway doctor I asked about an old tradition that the family of a man involved in the death of the Wigtown Martyrs had been cursed by his descendants being born with webbed fingers.

He said that he knew the family and instances of webbing in the family are still occurring today. The Wigtown Martyrs were two women who were tied to stakes and drowned by the incoming tide at the Galloway town. They refused to accept the subjugation of belief to Royal decree and today are heroes of the Covenanter movement. The killings took place on May 11, 1685. And one of the men who assisted is said to have been punished by the webbing in the fingers of some of his descendants. Webbing of the fingers is an unusual but not unknown genetic condition which, of course, has nothing to do with superstition.

Another, less serious, feature of another family is their curly hair. Running into one of them recently, I asked her about the curly hair story. “Well, my hair certainly isn't curly,” she laughed. But she did say that it was in many members of the family. Tradition ascribes this to the presence of a West Indian way back in the family history. The man was thought to have been a servant of a wealthy local family that had extensive interests in the West Indian sugar trade. This, of course, was founded on slavery.

Don't talk to the peasants

Gavin Maxwell's book “Ring of Bright Water” is a much-loved account of the otters that live in Galloway.

He lived from 1914 to 1969 and had a very colourful life. A short distance north of Port William, on the top of a cliff overlooking the sea, can be found a bronze statue of an otter and a plaque commemorating Gavin Maxwell.

Talking a few days ago with some ladies who remembered him and the Maxwell family, it became apparent that the family had a very well defined concept of its superior social status. One lady said that her grandfather and father put the plumbing into the big house and she and other children went along some days. “But Gavin and his brothers and sisters weren't allowed to talk to us as we were only the children of working men.”

History on Tap

The World Peace Society does wonderful work and it has a centre about six miles north of Dumfries with a wide range of activities and programmes.

The Society is based at Allanton House, which looks as if it was built at the start of the 20th century.

There are some lovely period details, including a tiny wash basin in a WC, compete with the original “Hot” and “Cold” taps “Shanks and Co. Patentees.” The wall tiles are also original and give a flavour or a perhaps more elegant age, when the throne was suitably placed up a step in an elevated position.

The Shanks Group is today Europe's leading waste management company, being a member of the FTSE 250 group listed on the London Stock Exchange. Revenue in 2009 was £696 million. The company began in 1880 when Guy Shanks and Andrew McLewan set up a a construction company. They worked mainly in the west of Scotland. Today the group has a huge range of interests.

In the grounds at Allanton there is a family vault containing the remains of members of the Symington family. A Symington family was, and very much is, hugely important in the Port, Madeira and Duoro wine trade. The dynasty was founded by a man from Scotland, who went out to Portugal in the late 19th century. Whether or not these Symingtons are connected with Allanton House is not known, at least by me.

See www.worldpeace-uk.org

The wild garlic is sweet and new now and it is a wonderful addition to recipes.

Out strolling and rolling through an ancient deciduous wood we found ourselves next to swathes of beautiful young wild garlic. This is technically known as allium ursinum, or Ramsons.

A large handful of leaves was quickly gathered and later chopped fine to be cooked with a roll of beef brisket, a lovely, inexpensive joint that needs long loving cooking but is wonderfully tender if it gets it. Our chopped wild garlic went into the slow cooker with red onions, shallot-onions, a beef stock cube, a splash of soya sauce, water and some dried herbs. Delicious. The taste of wild garlic leaves is much milder than the more familiar cloves and heads of garlic. Some people eat the leaves raw in salads – but we prefer to play it safe and enjoy them cooked.

The Latin name acknowledges the fondness of bears for the roots of the plant and these are also a delicacy much appreciated by wild boars.

Fog horn memories

Anyone who accuses their partner of snoring like a fog horn will wish to visit the Corsewall Lighthouse on the Rhins Peninsula of Galloway to have a look at the real thing.

Today, everything is automated in lighthouses and the Corsewall Lighthouse is a fine boutique hotel, which has won many awards for its outstanding cuisine and ambiance.

However, the light is still working and a walk around the front of the building, above the jagged rocks below, finds a huge fog horn pointing out to sea. Corsewall is at the southern entrance to Loch Ryan, for centuries the major port for ships travelling to and from Ireland. Today the loch is as busy as ever, with huge modern ferries constantly moving in and out from bases at Stranraer, at the head of the loch, and Cairnryan, about half way up on the northern side. On a recent visit the weather was glorious, except down in Loch Ryan, which was wrapped in a fluffy blanket of sea fog. The lighthouse was similarly swaddled, but the old fog horn was not working. Apparently, modern navigational aids have made long-range fog horns largely unnecessary.

The light from the Corsewall Lighthouse first shone out in 1817. It was automated in 1994 and is now operated from Edinburgh. But local people still remember the lighthouse keepers and at least one is still around, efforts are being made to trace him to find out more about life in a Galloway lighthouse.

The four-star, owner-operated, hotel is set in 20 acres of grounds. The hotel's Range Rover will pick up guests from railway and bus stations in Stranraer, and there is no problem with vehicle access – head north of Kirkcolm. Pickups can also be arrange from Glasgow and Prestwick airports.
Corsewall Lighthouse Hotel, Corsewall Point, Kirkcolm, Stranraer, Scotland, DG9 0QG. Telephone 01776 853 220. www.lighthousehotel.co.uk. Among the items on a sample menu are: “Supreme of Wood Pigeon from the Craufurdland Estate pan eared and carved onto a nest of crisp salad leaves, served with a tangy tomato chutney and pink grapefruit segments; Roast Rack of Galloway Lamb, pan roasted and presented with a mint-scented gooseberry jelly glace; and Breast of Succulent World Renowned Goosnargh Duck, pan roasted and presented with a rich Cointreau and orange zest game jus.”

Bells ring for Osprey arrival

The bells were ringing in Wigtown first thing this morning to announce the arrival of the season's first osprey.

Wigtown has been home to ospreys for several years with pairs arriving to settle into a giant nest and usually raising a couple of chicks. The County Buildings, or equivalent of the Town Hall, has a special bird room on the top floor with a link to a camera focussed on the nest, whose location is secret.

This morning the first arriving member of staff was delighted to see an osprey sitting calmly in the nest. She dashed for the bell rope and rang the bell to alert the town to this happy event. Quickly, people came along and there was great interest in the visitor. Apparently, no ring could be spotted on the bird when it stood up, so it may be a new visitor. Or, perhaps an older one that has lost its ring.

Half a dozen people were quickly on osprey watch at the screen but when we visited, he or she was off flying around. This is an early check in to the nest, last year the first bird arrived two days later.

Great hopes are held for this year's eggs and chicks.

Update: Another osprey arrived at the nest a short time afterwards. It was confirmed that the male was “EP” and the female “H/D” - not, perhaps, the most exciting names in the world for such elegant birds. They have both returned to Wigtown after wintering in Africa. EP has been out and about collecting sticks and started digging an egg hollow in the nest. His partner has enlarged the hollow and moved twigs around to make it comfortable. Meanwhile, swallows have also arrived, being seen in Newton Stewart and the Isle of Whithorn

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A glimpse of the farming past

This old farming equipment is quietly rusting away at a quiet spot on the Rhins Peninsula.

Americans perish off Portpatrick

Today Portpatrick, on the Rhins peninsula is a popular haunt for tourists with its picturesque harbour and attractive old buildings. But this was once one of the country's most important ports, being the prime access to Northern Ireland – 22 miles away.

The port was never very safe, with violent westerly winds and storms always making access difficult, despite the huge amounts poured into breakwaters and jetties. For sailing ships, the coast of the Rhins was a nightmare. The rocks are savage and jagged and cliffs soar upwards straight from the sea. The seabed is littered with wrecks.

A memorial in the old churchyard recalls the fate of an American ship and its crew

“Sacred to the memory of Captain Allen Bursley who was drowned about a mile to the south of this port on the 1st of February 1835 at half past 2 o'clock a.m by the wreck of the American ship Lion of Boston which he commanded.

“On the left of the stone are interred the remains of seven of his ship's company who perished with him on that fatal morning. Captain Bursley was born on the 10th of May anno domini 1800 at Barnstaple in the State of Massachusetts in which place he left a wife and infant son. The surviving relatives of the deceased are deeply grateful to the humane inhabitants of this place for their kind exertions in recovering these bodies from the deep and depositing them with Christian rites in this Holy Spot.”

The memorial is on a wall at the back of the cemetery, which is behind the ruined old church with its distinctive round tower.

One thought is that many Scots left for America through Portpatrick. Could this have been a ship heading to the port to pick up emigrants? Most of the trade was carried in American sailing packets. The journey to a new life would have taken about 55 days.

If anyone can shed any light on the Lion of Boston, Captain Bursley or his crew, please get in touch at: raxomnium@gmail.com

The Last of the Eagles

Author S.R. Crockett described the fate, in the 1870s, of the last of the eagles of the Southern Uplands.

"As we mount, we leave away to the south the green, sheep-studded, sun-flecked side of Curleywee. The name is surely one which is given to its whaup-haunted solitudes, because of that most characteristic of moorland sounds – the wailing pipe of the curlew. “Curleywee-Curleywee-Curlywee.” That is exactly what the whaups say in their airy moorland diminuendo, as with a curve like their own Roman noses they sink downward into the bogs.

"Waterfalls are gleaming in the clefts - “jaws of water,” as the hill folks call them – the distant sound coming to us pleasant and cool, for we begin to desire great water-draughts, climbing upward in the fervent heat. But our guide knows every spring of water on the hillside, as well as every rock that has sheltered a fox or eagle. There on the face of that cliff, is the apparently very accessible eyrie where nested the last of the eagles of the southern uplands.

"Year after year they built up there, protected by the enlightened tenants of Glenhead, who did not begrudge a stray dead lamb, in order that the noble bird might dwell in his ancient fastness and possess his soul – for surely so noble a bird has a soul – in peace. As a reward for his hospitality, our guides keeps a better understanding of that great Isian text, “They shall mount up with wings as eagles,” than he could obtain from any sermon or commentary in the round world. For has he not seen the great bird strike a grouse on the wing, recover itself from the blow, then, stooping earthwards, catch the bird before it had time to fall to the ground?

"Also he has seen the pair floating far up in the blue, twin specks against the supreme azure. Generally only one of the young was reared to eaglehood, though sometimes there might be two. But on every occasion the old ones beat off their offspring as soon as these could fly, and compelled their children to seek pastures new.

"Some years ago, however, in the later [18]seventies – the eagles left Glenhead and removed to a more inaccessible rock-crevice upon the rocky side of the Black Hill o' Buchan. But not for long. Disturbed in his ancient seat, though his friends had done all in their power to protect him, he finally withdrew himself. He was shot by some ignorant scoundrel prowling with a gun, somewhere over in the neighbourhood of Loch Doon. We have no doubt that the carcass is the proud possession of some local collector, to whom, as well as to the original “gunning idiot” we would gladly present, at our own expense, tight-fitting suits of tar and feather"

Picture: Looking towards Glenhead from Bruce's Stone, Loch Trool.

Pages 59-56. Crockett, S.R. Raiderland, All About Grey Galloway. 1904. Hodder and Stoughton, London. D&G Library Service: (GK91) Crockett, S.R. Raiderland.

Baby memories of Galloway

Samuel Rutherford Crockett was a very popular author more than 100 years ago with his books eagerly devoured by readers. But he is almost forgotten today.

Here he describes two of his memories as a baby at the family farm at Little Duchrae, off the road between Laurieston and New Galloway, on the east bank of Loch Ken. Crockett was born on 24 September 1859.

“The farm I know best is also the loveliest for situation. It lies nestled in green holm crofts. The purple moors ring it half round, north and south. To the eastward pinewoods once stood ranked and ready like battalions clad in indigo and Lincoln green against the rising sun – that is, till one fell year when the woodmen swarmed all along the slopes and the ring of axes was heard everywhere.

“The earliest scent I can remember is that of fresh pine chips, among which my mother laid me while she and her brothers gathered “kindling” among the yet unfallen giants. To young to talk, I had to be carried pick-a-back to the wood. But I can remember with a strange clearness the broad spread of the moor beneath over which we had come, the warmth of the shawl in which I was wrapped and the dreamy scent of the newly-cut fir chips in which they had left me nested – above all, I recall a certain bit of blue sky that looked down at me with so friendly a wink, as a white racing cloud passed high overhead.

“Such is the first beginning that I remember of that outdoor life, to which ever since my eyes have kept themselves wide-open. Of indoor things only one is earlier.

“It was a warm harvest-day – early September, most likely – all the family out at the oats, following the slow sweep of the scythe or the crisper crop of the reaping hook. Silence in the little kitchen of the Duchrae! Only my grandmother padding softly about in her list slippers (or hoshens), baking farles of cake on the “girdle,” the round plate of iron described by Froissart. The door and windows were open, and without there spread that silence in comparison with which the hush of a kirkyard is almost company – the silence of a Scottish farmyard in the first burst of harvest.

“And I – what was I doing? I know not, but this I do know – that I came to myself lying under the hood of an old worm-eaten cradle of a worn plum-colour, staring at my own bare toes which I had set up on the bar at cradle foot.

“These two memories, out-of-door and in-door, have stood out clear an distinct all my life, and so so now. Nor could I have been told of them afterwards, for there was nothing in either which concerns any but myself.”

[pages 20-21] Crockett, S.R. Raiderland, All About Grey Galloway. 1904. Hodder and Stoughton, London.

Marking the miles to Ireland

Just outside Portpatrick, on the right hand side of the road as you drive in, an historic milestone can be seen. This is a marker on the old military road that ran to the port, only 22 miles from Ireland.

The old military road was built from Bridge of Sark, near Gretna Green, to Portpatrick in the 1760s and it stretched for about 105 miles. Segments of the road can still be seen today, but much is probably buried beneath the modern A75. There is a suggestion that the route followed that of an old Roman road.

During the 18th century the British were determined not to allow any more rebellions in Ireland. Land confiscations had been followed by the placing in Ireland of protestant settlers, many from Scotland, in Ulster, Munster and elsewhere. Naturally, this caused deep hatreds, the effects of which are still being felt today.

London wanted an efficient road that would allow it to move troops to Portpatrick, then the main port for Ireland. The harbour is exposed and so huge amounts of money had been invested in breakwaters and improvements. Still, the weather often seemed to get the upper hand and caused considerable damage. But what is known today as "the old military road" meant troops and supplies could move efficiently to the port. A street sign in Port Patrick bears the name Old Military Road.

The milestone gives the following distances: London 415 miles, Port Patrick 1 mile, Stranraer 7 miles, Dumfries 83 miles. The stone also carries the “broad arrow” mark which signifies government property. The origins of this mark are lost in history but would seem logically to come from the arrows of medieval archers. It was first used officially by the Board of Ordnance to mark government property in the reign of Henry VIII. Later it became the mark of the War Department. Today using the broad arrow without authorisation is still an offence.

An officer involved in building the road in the 1760s, complained of endless problems with landowners who wanted the route adjusted to their benefit. And, in a complaint with much resonance at present, he moaned about the difficulty in getting money out of the Treasury.

©Phillip Bruce

Making Bacon

Ken was talking about making bacon during the Second World War.

As a child he lived on a farm and the family pig was a key part of life. Every rural family kept a pig, he said, and slaughtering was carefully planned as sharing was vital. A well-fed pig would produce a lot of meat and this would be shared with neighbours, so that everyone benefited in turn.

Ken's family used to keep their pigs until they weighed about 300lbs, although they were normally slaughtered at about 200lb. The pigs were housed in a comfortable sty and fed well. A copper pot was kept in the kitchen and into that went all the scraps, potato peelings and left-overs from meals. Once a month a ration of meal, or grain, was available and this was mixed with the other food.

The pig always had a pet name but when the time came to slaughter things were efficient. It was hit over the head with a big hammer and the throat cut before being hung up from the rafters. An Irish woman would collect the blood in a bucket to make tasty black puddings.

The next stage was to butcher the pig, with hams and “flitches” being produced. But nothing was wasted and Ken remembered with longing the “chitterlings” which were made by an elderly neighbour. She would take the intestines and turn them inside out over a stick, using her fingers to scrape away the fat. They would then be washed and put in a brine bath for about a week. The chitterlings were then woven into plaits and hung up to dry. They lasted well and when wanted, were taken down, cut up and fried with the bacon. “Lovely,” said Ken.

The bacon was made in the following way. Two large planks of oak were angled together in a V-shape and mounted on trestles. The ends were closed by other bits of oak. The flitches, or sides of the pig, were put into these troughs and steeped in saltpetre, beer and pickling spices. There was nothing very fancy about the spices, said Ken. What grew around was used, such as juniper, with the odd exotic ingredient, such as cloves. The meat was left to soak for about a week. Then it was drained and hung up to dry. The process was not over, as the children of the house then had the important job of regularly rubbing more of the curing mix into the flitches until it matured into fine bacon.

There were plenty of eggs around the farm, with some 40 to 50 chickens running about. They were kept in a barn at night to protect them against foxes and did their egg laying in the straw there. So, fried bacon and eggs were a delight. Ken said that big thick rashers were cut from the flitches, nothing like the paper-thin wafers served today. Occasionally, a larger piece would be cut and put in the oven. Hams, or legs, were also cured and roast ham was a real treat.

He explained how potatoes were kept throughout the winter. A layer of straw would be carefully laid down on a dry, flat, area. Over this would be erected a pyramid-shaped lean-to of about six straw bales. Three to four inches of earth would be packed over these and the potatoes carefully placed inside. A bundle of straw sealed the small entrance. The potatoes were kept snug and dry and could be taken out as needed to feed the hungry family.

“Life was very rural when I was a boy,” said Ken.

Some useful Galloway words and phrases

Some useful Galloway words and phrases

It is always useful to have at least a smattering of the local lingo, and here are some words and phrases from Gallovidian that visitors may find of use in polite conversation. The source is an 1824 book.

Ackavity, Acwavity, or Ackwa – The chief of all spirituous liquors, viz., Whisky, when taken to excess, does not even make such a wreck of the human constitution as others do, such as rum or brandy, and when taken in moderation, as it should be, there is none other half so good...Scotland may be very thankful that it is her prevailing drink; as a drink, like every other nation, she must have; the English have their drowzy brown stout, the Turks their opium; the South Sea Islanders their kava, but what brings on a quicker, or happier intoxication, than the pure mountain dew? How it exhilarates the soul, how it exposes the sons of men, and shows them in their true colours, be they good, bad, witty or how...
Bees in the Brain – People, after they have been “fou” [full, drunk] feel, as they are returning to their wits again, a bizzing and “singin” in the head, which are called the bees o' the brain; also, when they are getting intoxicated, they feel these fanciful insects.
Boack – To vomit.
Bowze – A set-to for some time at eating and drinking.
Bumshot – When any plot gives way with us, we are said to be bumshot.
Capernoited – Intoxicated, giddy, frolicksome, &c.
Cawkie – A dram of spirits; also a shod for a shoe of iron.
Chawchlin – Eating like a swine.
Chollers – Lumps of fat beneath the chin – double chins.
Clay'd Up – Eyes are said to be so when boxing has blinded them.
Clunk – That noise which is produced when a cork is drawn out of a bottle.
Cockabendie – I dare hardly, for the sake of modesty, explain this term; when such is seen to be the case, readers may make a rough guess at what it is.
Cogg – Any flat surface not lying horizontal, is said to be a cogg. An old carter, fond of whisky, would often birl the bawbie [toss a coin] with his horse, to know whether it should have a stimpert of corn, or he one of grog; one cold day, trying the turn of fortune this way, the luck fell on the side of the poor beast, when he bawled out, “That's no fair; that's a cogg;” so he birl'd away, until t he luck came to his side – the inhuman wretch.
Cronie – An agreeable friend.
Crouse – Merry, high in spirits.
Crummie – Grog, half water, half whisky – Crumbie, a Priest who was once a placed preacher in Kirkudbright, amongst many divine things he taught his flock, this species of Punch was one, and it seems to outlive all the rest; yea, and hand his reverend name down to posterity; Crummie's Punch will live as long as Crook o' the Lot or the Pilgrim's Progress.
Currmurrin – The noise in volcanic bellies ready for eruption.
Daffin – Toying with women under night.
Debushed – Debauched.
Dottle – The little piece of half-burnt tobacco left in the pipe after smoking, useful when another pipe-full is to be consumed in lighting it.
Drappie – A little spirits.
Drappykins – Drops or drams of spirituous liquors.
Dringing – Not working, hanging about.
Drouthy – Inclining to dryness; some tipplers are still in that state and would drink fire and brimstone, and put them in a brandy glass.
Drowning The Miller – We are said to be drowning the miller, when we are pouring in too large a quantity of water among the whisky to be mixed into grog.
Druckensome – Inclined to drink to excess.
Fleeter – A full. A bumper.
Fou – Intoxicated with spirits; also, a full of any thing.
Fuddle – A spell at tippling.
Fudjells – Fat, contented persons.
Gardy-Vine – A large beautiful oblong-shaped glass bottle, used for holding spirits. It is from the German, “a gin bottle.”
Gaucy – Jolly, well-dressed and well-fed.
Hawckin – The nose made to clear the throat.
Het-Drinks – Warm drinks of the cordial nature, which gude-wives bumper at “Kimmerins.” [The feasts at birth, women only].
Hochle – To tumble lewdly with women in open day.
Jummlie – Sediment of ale.
Jumpers – Little maggots, which leap; common in hams.
Lippin-Fu' – Brimming full to the lips.
Lunting – Walking and smoking a pipe.
Mill-Shillling. The shelled grain, which runs out of the mill-e'e. When we see a person vomiting, from the effects of drinking spirits, we say he was “sendin' the drink frae him like a mill shilling.”
Nitters – A greedy, grubbing, impudent, withered female.
Peelaneets – Potatoes, boiled with their skins on.
Pinkle-Pankle – The sound of a liquid in a bottle.
Quak – To speak like a duck.
Raffing Fallows – Ranting, roaring, drinking fellows.
Scawd or Scaud – A disrespectful name for tea.
Scullduddery – Fornication.
Smeerikin – The sweetest of all kisses; the kiss one lover gives another, when they are quivering in one another's arms;