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;