The Flow
Oor bink wuz in the flow ower nixt Dunloy, pairt o the lang boags rinnin frae Broonstoon tae Brig-en. A lock o yins cut thonner whun A wuz a weetchil, but naeboady noo — naw yin. (An that’s no’ a’ that’s awa, or maistly awa — A mine the whaps an the peeweeps an their wee burds jookin, the tittle efter the gowk an whutrets keekin ooty the staks o owl peats. An aye gin dailygan the enless bizzin o thon wee burd amang the seggans an queelrods, the yin ye hard but niver sa.) Weel, oanywie. Mae fether, lake the big-en o the ithers, wrocht at the breeshtin. A whiles sa the odd boady stankin, but no’ affen; an the oany untherfittin A iver sa wuz on the heid o a bink ower heech for ocht else. (Roon bae Slaimish, untherfittin’s mair whar the lair o peat’s shella — a fit or sae — an there’s nae ither wie o daein it; they ca it trinketin.)
In a wat flow — whiles mair lake a gullion — ye’d gyely aye hae tae cut a guid fit-ga alang the bink-bottom, tae dra aff lowse watther an gie yersel fittin. An a brave scra had tae be taen aff the binkheid, tae get redd o a lock o fog an fum an foazy peat. An noo ye could join tae breesht — an mony’s a lang sore oor mae fether wrocht at it. A mine him weel — A see him yit — wae the simmet appened richt doon, the galluses roon his knees an the sweet rinnin aff him — an a gral o a weefla lake me kilt wheelin tae him. (Ye could niver come oany speed, wheelin ower sapplin grun. An even copin the wat peats whar they wur gan tae wun wuz a knakky job, for ye darnae brek them — or a’ ye wud hae at the heels o the hunt wud be a wheen o clods an a bing o coom.)
Yin thing raised mae fether mair nor ocht else wuz comin on a doag in the bink-face an him gan het stitch at the cuttin. Noo a doag wuznae lake the wee chugh bits o cat (up the country they ca it dodram) that gien some o iz a wee reek in the jook whun it wuz weel wun. Naw, this wuz the heid o a tummock — or a hale tummock — birried in the moss frae guid knows whun. Hokin it oot wuz a rale sizzem an made a wile hashter o the face — but God forgie me, it lut me get mae wun.
Efter a’ that, the wunnin itsel wuz naethin — fittin an casslin an ricklin taen naethin ooty ye. An the oany bother wae cairtin them hame wuz gettin oot thon slunky rodden — parteeclarly efter a teck o wat wather, whun ye micht weel cope or lair. Ye whiles had tae hal them oot in dregs — heelin up the furst dreg on the bunker tae be clodded up an bigged on the nixt yin tae mak a hale laid.
James Fenton
