but he didn't know what you want with that for him.................just learned what to do with a cell and now spell-check?might be better if you stopped using spell-check?
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Lassie-hunting In The Northern Forest
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
Tree loves the concept of the story and your 'background' chapter only adds to the enjoyment.
If I did not use spell check my friends using translators would often have no clue what I was writing...
Tree
...what, Ulrika? You are surprised I have a clue about what I am writing??? ...bitch...
If I did not use spell check my friends using translators would often have no clue what I was writing...
Tree
...what, Ulrika? You are surprised I have a clue about what I am writing??? ...bitch...
I wuv dis time o year...*
E. Fudd
*"I love this time of year..."
Naraku
Draconarius
Seems interesting so far, Eul. I guess, being part Scottish, I should know more of the dialect. Then again, my ancestors did leave almost 300 years ago...
The footnotes help.
"Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. I'm hunting cawweens. Huh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh."
The footnotes help.
I'm an American & I can't understand you half the time.
Mr Fudd spells his name with 2 "d"s.
"Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. I'm hunting cawweens. Huh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh."
...and spell check doesn't catch everything...Seems interesting so far, Eul. I guess, being part Scottish, I should know more of the dialect. Then again, my ancestors did leave almost 300 years ago...
The footnotes help.
I'm an American & I can't understand you half the time.
Mr Fudd spells his name with 2 "d"s.
"Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. I'm hunting cawweens. Huh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh."
Tree
I do too!
Yes, that pic captures the linkie perfectly!
I don't suppose it had anything to do with the Bugs Bunny,
but 'fud' (with one 'd') has a range of meanings in Scots
that include bum, pussy, and rabbit
!('rabbit' by metonymy from 'rabbit-tail')
Here's a bit more. There's a few unfamiliar words and a little snatch of dialogue,
but I think the meanings should be transparent in context,
I don't want to patronise readers with unnecessary explanations.
But a couple of footnotes explain technicalities.
3
I’ve come to the mossy bit, glance round instinctively as the undergrowth thins, silence in the woods, pale light filtering through the leafy canopy. I wade barefoot through the mud, picking my toes through thistles and flag-spears. I always run barefoot, have done since I was little. It just feels right and natural to me, and bare feet are much quieter than any shoes can be. Anyway I don’t like shoes on my feet, they don’t belong in the Forest. Dad’s scathing about linkies in trainers, I’m with him, linkie-ruggin’s not for sapsies.
And I’m running pretty near nude, just wearing my little kilt. Nothing under it, of course, panties are strictly forbidden now I’m a game-burd. Actually, I’d long given up wearing briefs under my shorts as a cub, though I was supposed to. Alastair spotted one morning before I was going cubbin, “A see oor sis has burnt her bra – are we gaein commando?” “Ye min yer ain business!” He grinned, Mum gave me a wink. But now I’m a proper woman, a game-burd, and the aim of the rug today won’t be to just cut off my pigtail! I could wear a bra, that’s permitted, but my bubbies aren’t that bouncy, they’re no trouble, not like Anna’s, she’ll surely wear hers. I’m very proud of my wee kiltie, I love the feel of it around my hurdies, and the knowledge that my tartan’s the linkie-sett[1] of the Muirton Maxwell Baillie-Rug.[2] Like all linkie-setts, it’s a lighter-coloured version of the sett the ruggers wear, like the white rump of the roe-deer, making us poor linkies more visible in the Forest! The ruggers’ sett has a dark green background, mine has wool-white, but the blue, red and maroon pattern’s the same.
I’m the only true Forest-lassie running this year as a game-burd in the Muirton Maxwell Bailliwick. But my best friend Anna will wear the sett too, ‘cos although she’s a burgh-lassie, her dad’s the Baillie-Rug Dugsman, and he's always used his daughter to train the hounds. I’ve often run with her, walking the dogs, then her dad would give us a start, and off we’d run with the hounds behind, good practice for us wannabe linkies as well as the dogs! So the Maister o’the Whup has given Anna the colours to mark her coming of game-burd age. It’s a great honour for a burgh-lassie, makes her a kind of honorary forest-lassie, I’m happy for her – though some of the snooty Kirkside girls think it’s degrading, not an honour at all.
[1] Sett = the pattern of a tartan; linkie-sett = the pattern on a kilt designed and approved for wear by forest-lassies, and, as explained soon, by a few other girls as a special honour.
[2] Baillie-Rug = the official hunt of a particular burgh and bailliwick. As we shall see, there also licensed private hunters in the Forest, especially on the first day, June 21st.
but I think the meanings should be transparent in context,
I don't want to patronise readers with unnecessary explanations.
But a couple of footnotes explain technicalities.
3
I’ve come to the mossy bit, glance round instinctively as the undergrowth thins, silence in the woods, pale light filtering through the leafy canopy. I wade barefoot through the mud, picking my toes through thistles and flag-spears. I always run barefoot, have done since I was little. It just feels right and natural to me, and bare feet are much quieter than any shoes can be. Anyway I don’t like shoes on my feet, they don’t belong in the Forest. Dad’s scathing about linkies in trainers, I’m with him, linkie-ruggin’s not for sapsies.
And I’m running pretty near nude, just wearing my little kilt. Nothing under it, of course, panties are strictly forbidden now I’m a game-burd. Actually, I’d long given up wearing briefs under my shorts as a cub, though I was supposed to. Alastair spotted one morning before I was going cubbin, “A see oor sis has burnt her bra – are we gaein commando?” “Ye min yer ain business!” He grinned, Mum gave me a wink. But now I’m a proper woman, a game-burd, and the aim of the rug today won’t be to just cut off my pigtail! I could wear a bra, that’s permitted, but my bubbies aren’t that bouncy, they’re no trouble, not like Anna’s, she’ll surely wear hers. I’m very proud of my wee kiltie, I love the feel of it around my hurdies, and the knowledge that my tartan’s the linkie-sett[1] of the Muirton Maxwell Baillie-Rug.[2] Like all linkie-setts, it’s a lighter-coloured version of the sett the ruggers wear, like the white rump of the roe-deer, making us poor linkies more visible in the Forest! The ruggers’ sett has a dark green background, mine has wool-white, but the blue, red and maroon pattern’s the same.
I’m the only true Forest-lassie running this year as a game-burd in the Muirton Maxwell Bailliwick. But my best friend Anna will wear the sett too, ‘cos although she’s a burgh-lassie, her dad’s the Baillie-Rug Dugsman, and he's always used his daughter to train the hounds. I’ve often run with her, walking the dogs, then her dad would give us a start, and off we’d run with the hounds behind, good practice for us wannabe linkies as well as the dogs! So the Maister o’the Whup has given Anna the colours to mark her coming of game-burd age. It’s a great honour for a burgh-lassie, makes her a kind of honorary forest-lassie, I’m happy for her – though some of the snooty Kirkside girls think it’s degrading, not an honour at all.
[1] Sett = the pattern of a tartan; linkie-sett = the pattern on a kilt designed and approved for wear by forest-lassies, and, as explained soon, by a few other girls as a special honour.
[2] Baillie-Rug = the official hunt of a particular burgh and bailliwick. As we shall see, there also licensed private hunters in the Forest, especially on the first day, June 21st.
Many of my childhood cartoons such as Bugs Bunny and Rocky and Bullwinkle were written on two levels, one to entertain the kids and one to entertain the adult, so one cannot know if the 'Fudd' wasn't one of those...
I do too!
Yes, that pic captures the linkie perfectly!
I don't suppose it had anything to do with the Bugs Bunny,
but 'fud' (with one 'd') has a range of meanings in Scots
that include bum, pussy, and rabbit
('rabbit' by metonymy from 'rabbit-tail')
4
I’ve got to the place where I’m going to lie low. It’s the old den, one we made years back as cubs, one the lads never found. It’s under the huge roots of a long-tumbled oak. I creep in to the dark cave within the woody tangle, startle as a bat flies out swishing over my hair. Ferns and fungus brush my skin, there’s a pungent smell of slowly rotting wood, toadstools, bat-droppings. But our secret survival stash is safe in plastic sandwich boxes. Over the last few weeks, I’ve filled them with wee cartons of fruit juice, cheese that’ll keep, savoury biscuits and sweet ones, dried fruit and nuts, crisps, chocolate, tablet, lots of sweeties. Not a bad food-hoard for a parcel of she-squirrels!
The idea is for five of us to meet here. Anna and me, and this year’s three other new game-burds, Sheila, Mollie and Una. They’re all burgh-lassies,[1] but they’ve been keen cubs, their Dads and brothers are all in the Baillie-Rug. When Sheila was cubbie-rugged last year, she gave them a brilliant run, nearly three hours before she was caught. It’s best to run as a parcel,[2] we’ve a plan of action that involves running like that for some way, then suddenly scrambling, splitting off in different directions, then criss-crossing our paths, that’s the way to confuse the dogs – the ruggers too – with luck!
It’s still only about half-three (we game-burds aren’t allowed watches, or any such artificial aids) , still as dark as a Midsummer night ever gets. Still all quiet. I know there are rat-ruggers[3] about, the lads make no secret of their plans to stay up all night before the Rug so they’ll know where we’re hiding, their dogs’ll have our scent! But they’re all mouth, if any of them are in the Forest, they’re probably just skulking around my home, like Nyn said, hoping to spot me coming out at dawn – well, with Grannie and Mum’s help, I’ve jinked them!
What we will need is water, I’ve stashed some plastic bottles in the den, I’ll go on down to the Collie[4] Water and fill them. It’s a steep scramble through beechwood, where the understorey isn’t as jungly as it is in the Top Wood, though there’s blaeberry[5] and heather in light patches. I’ve got the bottles in a couple of supermarket bags. In the distance, I hear a bark, freeze, crouch down instinctively. There’s another. Doesn’t sound like linkie-hounds, in fact I doubt its dogs at all, more like foxes. But best be careful. I’ve reached the Collie Water now, good. I check around, all senses alert, then slither softly down the bank, feel the cool freshness round my feet – this is a good water for burnie-rinnin,[6] the best way to foil the dogs – I kneel down and cup myself a few good mouthfuls, splash my face, breasts and legs with the coolness, then set about filling the bottles.
Getting back up to the den with the heavy water bottles is more of a task. The sky’s just turning lighter now, that deep greeny glow that stays all night at Midsummer is turning to an opaque glassy tinge, birds are beginning to cheep and squawk.
[1] Bugh-lassies = girls from the burgh (the town or the bailliwick), but not born in the Forest. A ‘burgh’ incidentally is historically a town with a charter giving it certain rights – to hold a market and a court, levy some tolls, charges and fines, and be exempt from others, etc.
[2] Paircel = a hunting term, for more than one of the hunted animals running together. ‘Scrammling’ = such animals splitting and running different ways. I’ve standardised these words in the narrative, but use the Scots forms in the dialogues.
[3] Rat-ruggers = unofficial hunters, not hunting with the Baillie-Rug. They are either local men acting independently, or licensed ‘strangers’, as we shall see.
[4] Gaelic coille, ‘woodland’.
[5] In England, bilberry, same family as blueberries, cranberries etc..
[6] Burnie-rinnin = running along a stream, to throw the hounds off scent (= ‘foil’ them).
I’ve got to the place where I’m going to lie low. It’s the old den, one we made years back as cubs, one the lads never found. It’s under the huge roots of a long-tumbled oak. I creep in to the dark cave within the woody tangle, startle as a bat flies out swishing over my hair. Ferns and fungus brush my skin, there’s a pungent smell of slowly rotting wood, toadstools, bat-droppings. But our secret survival stash is safe in plastic sandwich boxes. Over the last few weeks, I’ve filled them with wee cartons of fruit juice, cheese that’ll keep, savoury biscuits and sweet ones, dried fruit and nuts, crisps, chocolate, tablet, lots of sweeties. Not a bad food-hoard for a parcel of she-squirrels!
The idea is for five of us to meet here. Anna and me, and this year’s three other new game-burds, Sheila, Mollie and Una. They’re all burgh-lassies,[1] but they’ve been keen cubs, their Dads and brothers are all in the Baillie-Rug. When Sheila was cubbie-rugged last year, she gave them a brilliant run, nearly three hours before she was caught. It’s best to run as a parcel,[2] we’ve a plan of action that involves running like that for some way, then suddenly scrambling, splitting off in different directions, then criss-crossing our paths, that’s the way to confuse the dogs – the ruggers too – with luck!
It’s still only about half-three (we game-burds aren’t allowed watches, or any such artificial aids) , still as dark as a Midsummer night ever gets. Still all quiet. I know there are rat-ruggers[3] about, the lads make no secret of their plans to stay up all night before the Rug so they’ll know where we’re hiding, their dogs’ll have our scent! But they’re all mouth, if any of them are in the Forest, they’re probably just skulking around my home, like Nyn said, hoping to spot me coming out at dawn – well, with Grannie and Mum’s help, I’ve jinked them!
What we will need is water, I’ve stashed some plastic bottles in the den, I’ll go on down to the Collie[4] Water and fill them. It’s a steep scramble through beechwood, where the understorey isn’t as jungly as it is in the Top Wood, though there’s blaeberry[5] and heather in light patches. I’ve got the bottles in a couple of supermarket bags. In the distance, I hear a bark, freeze, crouch down instinctively. There’s another. Doesn’t sound like linkie-hounds, in fact I doubt its dogs at all, more like foxes. But best be careful. I’ve reached the Collie Water now, good. I check around, all senses alert, then slither softly down the bank, feel the cool freshness round my feet – this is a good water for burnie-rinnin,[6] the best way to foil the dogs – I kneel down and cup myself a few good mouthfuls, splash my face, breasts and legs with the coolness, then set about filling the bottles.
Getting back up to the den with the heavy water bottles is more of a task. The sky’s just turning lighter now, that deep greeny glow that stays all night at Midsummer is turning to an opaque glassy tinge, birds are beginning to cheep and squawk.
[1] Bugh-lassies = girls from the burgh (the town or the bailliwick), but not born in the Forest. A ‘burgh’ incidentally is historically a town with a charter giving it certain rights – to hold a market and a court, levy some tolls, charges and fines, and be exempt from others, etc.
[2] Paircel = a hunting term, for more than one of the hunted animals running together. ‘Scrammling’ = such animals splitting and running different ways. I’ve standardised these words in the narrative, but use the Scots forms in the dialogues.
[3] Rat-ruggers = unofficial hunters, not hunting with the Baillie-Rug. They are either local men acting independently, or licensed ‘strangers’, as we shall see.
[4] Gaelic coille, ‘woodland’.
[5] In England, bilberry, same family as blueberries, cranberries etc..
[6] Burnie-rinnin = running along a stream, to throw the hounds off scent (= ‘foil’ them).
Some more hunting technicalities in this bit -
I am drawing on what little I've learnt about hunting -
not that it's something I've ever done or would want to,
it's the traditions and language that fascinate me,
and I'm trying to imagine myself and my friends
in the position of being the hunters' prey!
Quite a lot of Scots dialogue too -
I haven't translated every bit,
but hope my notes suffice to explain the hunting terms
and enough of the Scots to make it intelligible.
5
As I approach the fallen oak, a chocolate-coloured fur coat moves across the blaeberry bushes, a small head with pointy ears lifts up and gazes at me with an air of possession. I pause, give him a smile – a pine marten, indeed the pine marten, I think there’s only one family of them in my part of the Forest this year.
When I get back to the den I’m a bit startled to see a figure inside, but it whispers “Hi!” and I know it’s Anna. Good, she’s made it safely. She came up from the Bottom Park early, her Dad dropped her off. She whispers “A saw twa chiels wi twa couple o dugs in the Perk, a’m siccar they didna vizzie me, but the dugs looked liked they were snoking.[1] So a’ve burnie-rin up the Back Burn to mek siccar they couldna folla ma drag.”[2] “Rats nae doot, they’re oot gey early. Did ye ken em?” “A didna, strangers a jalouse.”[3] I shake my head “Aye, there’s too many o them muscling in. It’s legal gin they’ve paid their cap to the Maister o’the Whup,[4] bit it’s nae guid, men from God-knows-where turning up at the crack o day-daw to rug us game-burds.”[5] I lower my voice even quieter, signalling I’m sharing a confidence, “Dad disna trust the Maister. The cap for linkie-rugging on this furst day is £300, £100 thereafter, but Dad reckons he’s gittin offers four or five times that, and pocketin the difference.” Anna’s wide-eyed, “Hey,” she says, “D’ye reckon we’ll be rugged by Russian oligarchs, or Arab oil-sheikhs?”
We’re tucking into a quick breakfast, just fruit-juice and some nuts, when I hear soft footsteps outside. I peer out, it’s Sheila, running nimbly, looking a wee bit anxious. “Hi,” she says breathlessly as she dives into the den, “There’s yirders aboot areedy, they’re clearing a the rides so we can be vizzied, an seekin oot dens to brak doon.”[6] Fuck, I curse myself, I’d forgotten about the yirdin, “Weel, they haena foond oor den,” says Anna. “Not yit,” I say, “bit mind, they werna allood to dae yirdin afore cubbin, that wud hae bin ower herd on us whan we were cubs, but we’re nae cubs the noo.” My friends get the message.
“A jalouse we’d best be gaein, we dinna want tae get fankled[7] in oor den, that would be a big disgrace.” “Whit aboot Mollie and Una?” asks Sheila. “They shuld be here the noo.” “Mebbe they’ve vizzied the yirders and gane roond the lang way. They ken whit ta dae.”[8] They nod agreement, we pack away our snack. “Shall we gan doon tae Collie Water?” asks Anna, “We’d be weel placed for burnie-rinnin there.” “That isna sic a guid idea, the cover’s nae that guid. Better we gae ower tae the Back Burn – folla me!”
[1] Anna’s seen two men with two pairs of dogs in the Park (an enclosure in the Forest, originally for fallow deer), she’s sure they didn’t see her, but the dogs looked like they were picking up a scent.
[2] So she’s run up the Back Burn to make sure they couldn’t follow her trail.
[3] Independent hunters, no doubt; ‘strangers’, Anna jalouses (judges, reckons), from outwith the burgh.
[4] It’s legal if they’ve paid their ‘cap’ (fee for a day’s hunting) to the Master, but…
[5] Turning up at the crack of dawn to hunt us.
[6] Yirders = men chopping away undergrowth along the rides (tracks through the Forest) so the game-burds can be ‘vizzied’ (seen, spotted), and destroying dens where they might hide. This isn’t permitted before cub-hunts, but we aren’t cubs now! ‘Yirders’ are my own invention, based on the ‘earthers’ who blocked foxes’ earths (holes) before a hunt so the foxes couldn’t hide.
[7] Fankled = caught, trapped.
[8] Maybe they’ve spotted the ‘yirders’ and gone round the long way. They know what to do.
I am drawing on what little I've learnt about hunting -
not that it's something I've ever done or would want to,
it's the traditions and language that fascinate me,
and I'm trying to imagine myself and my friends
in the position of being the hunters' prey!
Quite a lot of Scots dialogue too -
I haven't translated every bit,
but hope my notes suffice to explain the hunting terms
and enough of the Scots to make it intelligible.
5
As I approach the fallen oak, a chocolate-coloured fur coat moves across the blaeberry bushes, a small head with pointy ears lifts up and gazes at me with an air of possession. I pause, give him a smile – a pine marten, indeed the pine marten, I think there’s only one family of them in my part of the Forest this year.
When I get back to the den I’m a bit startled to see a figure inside, but it whispers “Hi!” and I know it’s Anna. Good, she’s made it safely. She came up from the Bottom Park early, her Dad dropped her off. She whispers “A saw twa chiels wi twa couple o dugs in the Perk, a’m siccar they didna vizzie me, but the dugs looked liked they were snoking.[1] So a’ve burnie-rin up the Back Burn to mek siccar they couldna folla ma drag.”[2] “Rats nae doot, they’re oot gey early. Did ye ken em?” “A didna, strangers a jalouse.”[3] I shake my head “Aye, there’s too many o them muscling in. It’s legal gin they’ve paid their cap to the Maister o’the Whup,[4] bit it’s nae guid, men from God-knows-where turning up at the crack o day-daw to rug us game-burds.”[5] I lower my voice even quieter, signalling I’m sharing a confidence, “Dad disna trust the Maister. The cap for linkie-rugging on this furst day is £300, £100 thereafter, but Dad reckons he’s gittin offers four or five times that, and pocketin the difference.” Anna’s wide-eyed, “Hey,” she says, “D’ye reckon we’ll be rugged by Russian oligarchs, or Arab oil-sheikhs?”
We’re tucking into a quick breakfast, just fruit-juice and some nuts, when I hear soft footsteps outside. I peer out, it’s Sheila, running nimbly, looking a wee bit anxious. “Hi,” she says breathlessly as she dives into the den, “There’s yirders aboot areedy, they’re clearing a the rides so we can be vizzied, an seekin oot dens to brak doon.”[6] Fuck, I curse myself, I’d forgotten about the yirdin, “Weel, they haena foond oor den,” says Anna. “Not yit,” I say, “bit mind, they werna allood to dae yirdin afore cubbin, that wud hae bin ower herd on us whan we were cubs, but we’re nae cubs the noo.” My friends get the message.
“A jalouse we’d best be gaein, we dinna want tae get fankled[7] in oor den, that would be a big disgrace.” “Whit aboot Mollie and Una?” asks Sheila. “They shuld be here the noo.” “Mebbe they’ve vizzied the yirders and gane roond the lang way. They ken whit ta dae.”[8] They nod agreement, we pack away our snack. “Shall we gan doon tae Collie Water?” asks Anna, “We’d be weel placed for burnie-rinnin there.” “That isna sic a guid idea, the cover’s nae that guid. Better we gae ower tae the Back Burn – folla me!”
[1] Anna’s seen two men with two pairs of dogs in the Park (an enclosure in the Forest, originally for fallow deer), she’s sure they didn’t see her, but the dogs looked like they were picking up a scent.
[2] So she’s run up the Back Burn to make sure they couldn’t follow her trail.
[3] Independent hunters, no doubt; ‘strangers’, Anna jalouses (judges, reckons), from outwith the burgh.
[4] It’s legal if they’ve paid their ‘cap’ (fee for a day’s hunting) to the Master, but…
[5] Turning up at the crack of dawn to hunt us.
[6] Yirders = men chopping away undergrowth along the rides (tracks through the Forest) so the game-burds can be ‘vizzied’ (seen, spotted), and destroying dens where they might hide. This isn’t permitted before cub-hunts, but we aren’t cubs now! ‘Yirders’ are my own invention, based on the ‘earthers’ who blocked foxes’ earths (holes) before a hunt so the foxes couldn’t hide.
[7] Fankled = caught, trapped.
[8] Maybe they’ve spotted the ‘yirders’ and gone round the long way. They know what to do.
A couple of questions:
Is there weapons allowed in this hunt, and if so what is allow?
Is trapping fair?
Tree
Is there weapons allowed in this hunt, and if so what is allow?
Is trapping fair?
Tree
or is this allowed...
???
Tree
...he didn't gut her at least... yet...
???Tree
...he didn't gut her at least... yet...
the left-one looks like vermin and thus shooting permitted but the one on the right seems a deer and need you a permission
patience, Tree - all will be revealed ...
Like I say, I'm basing the rules mainly on English fox-hunting, or even more closely, beagling
(hunting on foot rather than horseback, with beagle hounds, traditionally after hares,
but these days an artificial trail or 'drag' - so 'drag-hunting' doesn't involve cross-dressing
)That's a nice pic though, much what we lassies expect at the end of the day!
that one's very much in the spirit of the linkie-rug, I like it!
do you mean the viewer's left hand or the hunter's?
another new word,
Scots, but also from English deer-stalking:
the one with fur has been gralloched.
Necessary if you're intending to eat the quarry,
but that's not the objective of the linkie-rug
another new word,
Scots, but also from English deer-stalking:
the one with fur has been gralloched.
Necessary if you're intending to eat the quarry,
but that's not the objective of the linkie-rug
Last edited:
Necessary if you're intending to eat the quarry,
but that's not the objective of the linkie-rug- Eul
Tree likes eating pussy...
T
- Ulrika
but that's not the objective of the linkie-rug
- EulTree likes eating pussy...
T
- Ulrika