Righty-ho. It is that time again. As I’m sure you’ll all know, the “Glorious Sixteenth of May” opens the much-vaunted Scottish Peat Worrying Season with fanfare and song. Galoshes are pulled on. Walking sticks selected. Corrie lochs identified.
For myself, I’ve stowed my tarasgeir, tusker and flaughter. Propitiatory googas have been gralloched. A jelly piece an’ a bumper o’ tappit hen broth have a’ been packed tae ward aff hunger.
For myself, I’ve stowed my tarasgeir, tusker and flaughter. Propitiatory googas have been gralloched. A jelly piece an’ a bumper o’ tappit hen broth have a’ been packed tae ward aff hunger.
My intention this year? To stramash up ol’ Tom-na-Weir, find me a patch o’ peat an’ worry it mightily as our faithirs did a’fore us. I’m being put up in the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui’s bothie.
In sum, I’m awa’
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