A Scottish Storyteller

So a lot has happened since my last post!

Most importantly the sad loss of our good friend, Stanley Robertson. He was an inspiration to myself and my fellow storytellers and ballad singers and I was very privileged to be one of his "quinies" - Stanley always had time to teach a ballad or story!

Stanley's funeral was very touching and, as he was buried at Lumphanan and we were all there to sing at the graveside, a few of us made the walk up the Old Road past the great oak tree Auld Craobhie.

Stanley was due to be the guest speaker at GAS's October Friday Fling for Doricfest. Instead we have decided to hold the event in his honour and everyone is welcome to share a story or song of Stanley's. Gabrielle and Antony, Stanleys daughter and son will be there and I'm sure everyone will do what he taught us justice!


In the last couple of months, I've been telling stories at the Burn O Vat and in the Wee Wizards tent at Wizard Festival, so the next big event in the North East's storytelling calendar has sneaked up on me a wee bit!

I'm talking, of course, about Gadiefest 2009!

Having been a volunteer at Archaeolink for so many seasons I've lost count (8? 9?) and a member of the GAS (Grampian Association of Storytellers) comittee for a few years now, I'm delighted that Archaeolink and GAS are getting together to present our first storytelling festival - Gadiefest.

It kicks off this friday evening at 7pm with guest Colin McAllister and then continues on saturday and sunday at Archaeolink Prehistory Park, Oyne for a weekend of storytelling, songs, music, workshops, crafts, arts, drama - the list goes on!

But to save me blabbering about it here - have a look at the gadiefest web page: http://www.gadiefest.co.uk

Hopefully I'll still have a voice this time next week! ;)

What a busy summer this has been!

I've now been back from Glastonbury for a couple of weeks - what a great start to the summer! I was storytelling in the Kidz Field and the Green Futures Field and met some great people. At the Green Futures field I had the privilege of telling with Christine Willison, Anne Lister and Cath Little. I was also given an unexpected slot at the Kidz Field storytelling tent, run by John Row - which I enjoyed thoroughly! Next time, I'm determined to spend more time in the Kidz Field as there's always so much going on...

So since January this year, I have been doing a lot of puppet making and rehearsing for a blacklight and shadow puppet show - which is a totally new storytelling experience for me!

Along with Aberdeen Street Entertainers, I have been working on a 20 minute show called the Story of Evolution - This is just part of of A Night At The Museum II which will be taking place at Aberdeen University's Zoology Department on the 16th May - just under a week away!

We spent almost the whole day today rehearsing and putting the finishing touches to some of the scenes and we recorded one of the short sections - the dinosaur shadow puppet scene!

If you want to see our first rehersals (don't worry - it'll get much better over the next week!), have a look here -

During the past week I was looking for a classic "fool" story to tell at April's First Friday Fling (which I'm just home from!)

In the end I told Silly Jack, but one of the ones I considered was the Three Wishes. You know... man gets 3 wishes. Wishes he has sausages for his tea by mistake. His wife gets on to him for wasting a wish and wishes it was stuck on to his nose and they have to use the last wish wishing it off his nose... Classic story :)

And best of all - I found this animated version of it on The Reading Bus web page:

http://www.readingbus.co.uk/ReadingBusBlog/archives/category/animations/three-wishes

Read more about the Reading Bus on their web page and enjoy more stories and podcasts recorded by kids from Aberdeen!

So today I did my first stint in the round house and it was totally amazing! It was really busy - no idea how many people came through the doors, but we didn't stop all day even though it was a bit nippy outside.

I just checked and think I told 12 stories today - which is pretty good going for the old voice which has been out of use over winter.

Three were completely new stories - one of which I'd put together for the RGU project at Archaeolink (mentioned briefly in my last post) and one I'd written myself about the Northern Lights.

My favourite thing today was when I was asking the kids what they'd teach a Princess for her to be useful to her country and one girl was adamant she'd need to learn martial arts. Why? Because being a ninja princess would come in very handy.



I love it when kids come out with things like this - quite often it stays in the story the next time I tell it. And I made sure that the princess's ninja skills did indeed come in handy later on in the story!

Well - spring is coming and that means that for me, so does the storytelling season!

I was shocked to calculate that I have now been volunteering at Archaolink Prehistory Park for 8 years now! This will be my 9th season at the park.

I've always had a keen interest in prehistory and archaeology, so when Archaeolink opened in 1998 and a workmate brought me along one weekend in 1999 to help with the preparation of thatching the round house, I knew then I wanted to spend more time doing this sort of thing. This was followed up by a couple of weekends at the dig on the top of Berryhill in 2000 where I was encouraged for the first time to explain to the visitors what was going on - back then I wouldn't have dreamed that some day I would have the confidence to stand up in front of over 200 people and tell a story or sing a song! (Incidentally, they discovered I was really good at turfing, so I never got to get in about with a trowel and paintbrush. Damn.)





I got my first car that year and at the start of the 2001 season, Baldrick (my rusty old E-Reg Golf) and I made our way out to Oyne. For the first couple of years I spent my time in the iron age round house or in other parts of the site (such as the mesolithic early stone age and bronze age) doing living history, talking to visitors and tourists about prehistoric life in Scotland and learning crafts such as dying, weaving and cooking.

Then in 2003 it was decided that for Wickerman (Archaeolink's yearly Samhain festival - Hallowe'en to anyone else!), storytellers would be needed to tell creepy iron age tales in the round house. Well, three of us volunteered. With no previous experience and no stories, we had to make up our own using our knowledge of ancient Celtic beliefs and superstitions and then practice, practice, practice!

The night before the big event I had been to see Sheena Blackhall telling stories at Fraser Castle and to say I was inspired was an understatement! People started arriving 10 minutes early for the storytelling and looked at us expectantly. We couldn't start our 3 painfully-practiced stories before the time was due - so I leapt up and told one of the stories Sheena had told the night before (which I now know to be one of Stanley Robertston's) - I'm very pleased to say that all our stories went down very well that afternoon and that I haven't looked back since!


At this point I'll mention that that first story I ever told has now become an Archaeolink Classic - Silly Billy is now the story of a boy from the Taexali tribe who disposes of a Roman tax collector in a rather accidental but amusing way. It's the first story I tell every year and will soon be part of a computer-based storytelling application at Archaeolink as the result of an RGU student's Honour's project. (Who's permission I will get first before mentioning his name here! :)

The park opens next weekend and will, on the 29th March be FREE! They've got Medieval Realm (of whom GAS Storyteller Sean Gordon is a member), The 9th Legion Roman Reenactors as well as the Bennachie Rangers, Bushcraft and heaps more.

And then on Sunday 5th April between 1 and 4pm , Anna Fancett and myself will be leading a Family Storytelling Workshop. Based on an environmental theme, the workshop will be targeted at children between primaries 4 and 7 but everyone will be made welcome! Featuring a trip up Berry Hill followed by the workshop in the main building, this will be a fun way to tell stories about the environment in which we live. Children should bring an adult with them and you can book in advance by contacting Archaeolink on 01464 851500. Entry fees apply.

An English doctor, being shown around a Scottish hospital, is taken into a ward with a number of patients who show no visible signs of injury.

He goes to examine the first man he sees, and the man proclaims “Fair fa’ yer sonsie face, Great chieftain e’ the puddin’ race!” The Englishman, somewhat taken aback, goes to the next patient, who immediately launches into: “Some hae meat, and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, and sae the Laird be thankit.”

The next patient sits up and declaims: “Wee sleekit cow’rin tim’rous beastie, O what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, wi’ bickering brattle. I wad be laith to run and chase thee, wi’ murdering prattle!”

“Well,” says the Englishman to his Scottish colleague. “I see you saved the psychiatric ward for last.”

“Nay, nay,” the Scottish doctor corrects him, “This is the Burns Unit...”

Labels: burns, joke

Being a storyteller and really into folklore, traditions and all that kind of thing, I do enjoy a good fire festival.

Labels: folklore

So, the other weekend, I was storytelling for Scottish Natural Heritage at the Burn O Vat.

For those of you that don't know, the Burn O Vat (part of the Muir Of Dinnet Nature Reserve) is just the most amazing place to go of a weekend - no matter what time of year it is. The Vat is a giant pothole carved by a huge meltwater stream during the last Ice Age, and the whole area is great to walk round, picnic in and so on. Whenever someone comes to visit me, we tend to take a visit there.

As a child, my parents would go walking a lot. I wasn't too fond of this generally, being particularly attractive to midgies for some reason... but getting me out of the house to go to places like Dinnet was just fine!

One year, on the September monday holiday my mum and dad took me, and a friend, to the Burn O Vat. To cut a long story short - we ran on ahead to the vat itself and as we got closer we could hear humming and chanting. On entering the Vat, we saw a group of pleasant looking grey haired old ladies (remember I was just a kid, so they probably weren't that old at all!) standing in a circle - clearly up to something mystical! The one at the head of the vat had a sort of staff thing which appeared to have mushrooms, leaves, flowers, little bones and stuff hanging from it and she opened her eyes, gave us a pleasant nod and then got back to it. Well, we legged it back to my parents and tried to get them to hurry up so that they could see them too, but when they got there? No little old ladies. They must have gone over the top of the Vat because we'd not seen them coming out - very nimble ladies!

Having spoken to people about this since then, it seems that we saw a gathering of one of the Deeside White Witch covens - apparently Deeside is just hoochin' with covens.

After all these years though, my mum still didn't believe me and thought we'd just made it up. So with my storytelling at the Burn O Vat Visitors Centre coming up and in a last attempt to get mum and dad to believe me, I wrote this:

Witches At The Burn O Vat

Many years ago when I was wee my parents would tak me walkin
One warm autumn day they took me here where I saw something awfy shockin

A picnic we hid packed that morn, wi bilt eggs, sweeties and aa sorts of riches
But a fine autumn walk was long forgotten, when I saw the burn o vat witches

My parents stopped to put on midgie cream, for fear they wid be bited
And my freen and I, we ran on ahead for we were fair excited

Us twa wee quinies ran by the burn til we were fairly pantin
Then in the distance we could hear some cacklin and some chantin!

We thought it might o been the Sweet Adelines testing oot the acoustics
Until propped up against the entrance stone, we saw the witches broomsticks

Of course one of them had a dyson, a posh witch fae Bieldside
Cause maybe your mode of transport, depends on whaur ye bide

So we then sneak close tae nosy in, as bairns are wont tae dae
Nae kennin fit weird things we’d see, my wee friend and me

And so as we enter the vat itself the music then begins
And half the witches sing and play and the rest dance widdershins

A fire lit in the middle, the crones dance roon about
And in the trees above us all the hoolits dance and hoot

The beat wis fairly catchy and my foot tapped tae the beat sae fine
And one auld crone beckoned tae me and sez “ weel come and join us quine!”

And the jigs we danced! The eightsome reel, we danced and danced til we was fiel
And my freen almost tripped on a witch’s cat, while we were dancing in the burn o vat

Weel back to my ma an da my freen an I went, for tae show them the witches we were baith hell bent
And we tugged and hauled them “Will yes jist come ON!” But when we finally got there, the witches were aaa gone.

“They were here! We saw them! Aa duncin and chantin!” and they listened tae us and our childish ranting
“Aye aye!” sez ma mither and rolls her eyes, and now at least 20 years has now passed us by

And I say to my mither “div ye mind that day? When I saw the witches, but they flew away?
Afore ye could see them dancing there” And I tell ye no matter how much I swear

That it happened that day at the burn o vat my mither won’t believe me and that is that

Download as a pdf from the SNH web page.

Labels: storytelling, witches

And now head over to The Other Scottish Storyteller's blog to read about the concert party (entitled "A Scots Handsel - Traditional Scottish Concert Party") she organised to raise funds for Ellon Academy pupils' trip to Ecuador.

It was a great night and now that it's over and the sweaty hands and dry mouth have gone, I can say I had a brilliant time performing Hazel Murdoch's doric song "Learning To Be A Fairy."

The acts were all really entertaining and Storyquine did an amazing job of organising the whole thing!

(P.S. Thanks for putting up flattering photos of me Storyquine! ;)

Aye, The Ither Scottish Storyteller and myself will both be taking part in AROHA's Traditional Concert Party this Saturday 17th November.

I will be a fairy. Stop laughing.

Here's the link - http://www.arohascotland.org/news/eventdetails.php?id=25

The autumn edition of the Grampian Association of Storytellers newsletter (GASlight) is now out! click here to see it.

The Rhynie Man is a pictish stone carving of a fierce man with sharp teeth and an axe which was ploughed up in 1978 at a farm at Barflat, Rhynie. (A good description can be found here http://www.aberdeenshire.gov.uk/archaeology/sites/pictish/rhynie.pdf)

Now I always wondered why The Rhynie Man was so angry looking, until I heard a couple of neighbours arguing one night and was inspired to write the following poem.

THE RHYNIE WIFE
- by Pauline Cordiner


He bade up there on the Hill at Rhynie:
A fearsome giant that wis far fae tiny!
He wiz 12 ft tall, or mair, I’d say
And he reeked of stale sweat and decay

It could be said that his farts smelt like death
But that wis nithin when compared tae his breath!
For a’ hopes of dental hygiene were lost
For the Rhynie man never, ever flossed.

His stinkin feet were a sicht tae be seen
The corns and the bunions were jist obscene
And a terrible insult to anyone’s nose
And he had puir squished sheepies between his toes!

He’d stomp a’ roond the surrounding land
Wi a great bloody axe hud in his haund
Wi’ his sharpened teeth and his tangled beard
For miles around, this giant wiz feared.

First they’d smell him coming for his stench was foul
And then they’d hear him stomp and they’d hear him growl
And alarms would be raised down in Rhynie village
That the Rhynie man had come to pillage

The villagers would run and try to hide
But couldnae, nae matter how they tried
For he’d smash right through the cottage roofs
(For thatching isnae giant proof)

And then he’d grab fitiver he’d want
That’s how this giant made his hunt
He’d take their sheep and he’d tak their food
And he’d terrorize the neighbourhood!

The corn he’d ran aff wi, the neeps he had thieved
Til the bairns in the village were hungry and peeved
He’d ta’en mair than they could afford tae lose
Until a’ that wis left wis twa boney coos

Now ab’dy wundered why he stole so much food
And why he aye ga’ed aroon in sich a bad mood
Until a great howlin’ cry which they a heard one day
Let slip the secret and gave it away!

This scream could be heard fer miles aroon,
In Alford, Kennethmont and in Huntly toon
In Insch ye could hear it, Monymusk and Premnay
Even a wee murmur, way aff in Kemnay!

A screeching ogress’s cry – high pitched (not a tenor)
Bellowed out “I’M HUNGRY! NOO FAR’S MA DENNER!????”
And they all knew the reason for Rhynie Man’s strife
For he’d gotten himself a Rhynie Wife!

A terrible wumman aye greeting and grumblin’
Wi a stomach so huge, it was ayeways rumblin’
And she nagged him, and beat him, The Rhynie Man
Though he tried as best as any man can

He’d cook for her sheepies: boiled, roasted and fried,
But her stomach was never satisfied!
Still she’d hit him and he’d yell out for his mummy
And his cries could be heard, far off in Kildrummy!

His family had warned him over and over
That no self respecting giant should marry an ogre…
But marry her he did, and how she’s his wife
And he’ll have to put up with her for the rest of his life

And so off he goes, once again, doon tae Rhynie village
Where to feed his giant wife he must plunder and pillage
I Feel sorry for him and his ogress quinie
The tormented, hen-pecked Giant of Rhynie

I have heard this story told many times. Sometimes the story is attributed to "a stone circle in Auchterless," but in some versions the stone circle involved is the Hatton of Ardoyne recumbant stone circle on the road from Oyne to Old Rayne in Aberdeenshire. This is interesting as one of the circle stones has been used as a gate post - and has been returned to its original place! Nine stones of a possible original thirteen still stand. Only one flanker remains.

The story is set in relatively modern times - in the last 100 years or so when farming methods were becoming more modern, yet animals were still used to pull things. And perhaps when attitudes towards the old traditions were becoming more modern, yet some superstitions held fast.

There was once a farmer who lived a hundred years ago or so, at a farm not too far from here. The farm had been left to him by his father and he was becoming a wealthy man. He grew crops on his land and kept sheep, cows and had a couple of horses and oxen for use on the land. His family was growing! He had a fine son to inherit the farm from him when he grew old, and another child on the way.

Now, one day this farmer had been hard at work in the fields. He'd hired in some help to repair the old dry stane dykes and some new gateposts were needed to finish the job off. Luckily, on his land there was an ancient recumbant stone circle - the type that is very common in the north east of Scotland - which had a couple of tall stones of perfect girth that would do the job just fine!

The farmer took his two strongest oxen up to the top of the hill and, despite the warnings from his family and neighbours, used them to slowly drag the giant stones, one by one down the hill. The poor oxen were exhausted as the stones were very heavy indeed but the farmer was happy with their work and had his son feed them well and rub them down while he and the stone dyker (who was muttering words of warning) put the new gateposts in place.

Well, it wasn't long before the fortunes of the farmer and his family began to change. The once profitable farm fell to a series of droughts, blights and terrible weather. Soon all that was left of the original farm animals, was one boney old mare - the farmer and his family had been forced to eat or sell the other farm animals just to survive! His wife had lost her child and his son was ill and weak.

Finally, after much persuasion from his friends and neighbours, he pulled down the two gateposts and with a great sigh, tacked up the horse ready to drag the stones back up the hill to what remained of the circle. He truly expected the old mare to die of exhaustion on the way. But to his great surprise, the horse effortlessly pulled both stones up the hill to where they belonged! With the help of a neighbour, the stones were stood upright in their original places and the farmer returned to his home.

In no time at all his son recovered and his crops grew once more and, within time, his fortunes were restored.

The story of the farmer and his experiences with the stone circle spread and perhaps stone circles are protected today by superstition as much as they were in days gone by!

Labels: folklore, stone circles

It was a cold spring morning when my friend and I stopped off in Inverurie on the way home from a party the night before. We got some snacks for breakfast and made our way to the old graveyard in the hope of finding some of the old pictish carvings that have been moved there for safekeeping.

We found them and were just considering climbing up the old Motte which is situated within the graveyard when there was an eerie voice coming seemingly out of nowhere...

"Mornin'!!! Huv ye ever heard the story o' twice buried Mary?" (When I tell this story, he sounds a lot like Private Fraser from Dad's Army. That might help you hear him in your mind). We looked around and first of all saw no-one, but eventually, just over the dyke of the kirkyard, we saw a wee grinning mannie, walking his dog by the burn. He then told us the story of Mary Elphinstone...

Well, many years ago in the village of Inverurie, there lived a young lassie who had been happily married for a good few years to a very handsome man (some versions of the story have him as the local minister) with whom she was very much in love. Things were going well and some say she was expecting her first child when poor Mary became very unwell. Despite the best of care and prayers from friends and family, Mary's condition declined until finally, one night, she slipped away.

Her husband was absolutely distraught and couldn't think of a life ahead without his beloved Mary! He was so distraught in fact that after the funeral, he couldn't even bear to go to his wife's wake, let alone stay with her body for the next few nights. For you see, this story takes place at a time when The Ressurectionists were hard at work in Scotland's Graveyards. These were grave robbers who would secretly remove the newly-deceased from their graves, cart them off to the nearest university town, and sell the bodies to the medical school who would then use the bodies in anatomy lessons. Of course, all this was highly illegal! It had only been a few months since Burke and Hare had been punished for their part in the sale of cadavers to in Edinburgh.* With Aberdeen University not too far away, the guarding of the body of loved-ones was common in this part of Scotland and mortsafes and watch houses can still be found in graveyards in this area today (Banchory Devenick and Cluny are just two).

But back to our story... The local inn that night was busy, with many wishing to raise a glass (or two!) to young Mary's memory. How tragic to die so young! And her poor husband! He won't leave the house you know! Too upset to come to her wake or to stay by her body!

Now let us picture a couple of dark characters... sitting in the corner of the inn drinking their ale. Let's call them Big Jimmy and Wee Jimmy. They aren't graverobbers really - just opportunists! They're a bit down on their luck, they've been out of work for a while and have spent the whole day in Inverurie looking for houses that seem easy to rob. Just imagine their ears pricking up at this! Poor Mary Elphinstone... Buried just today in her wedding finery! And no one to guard her grave?

Well, the two of them quickly finished their drinks and in the silence of the night, they picked up their old cart and horse and made their way through the streets to the graveyard. By now the moon was up and there was just enough light to see Mary's newly dug grave. Shovels were taken from the back of the cart and they begin to dig. Well, it wasn't not long before they reached the coffin, hauled it out of the ground and prised the lid off... and there lay Mary in her wedding dress, pale and beautiful in her endless sleep. Wee Jimmy grinned at Big Jimmy as he spied a big shining red ruby ring on her wedding finger, "Just imagine how much money we can get fur that! We'll eat like kings for a month!" he said and Wee Jimmy started pulling it off her finger.

Well, he tugged and he tugged, but it just wouldn't move. "Haud on there," whispered Big Jimmy, and off he went to the cart where he found a small hand saw. Surely the anatomists wouldn't take much off the price for a missing finger! "If we can't haul the ring off, we can cut if off just as easily!" said Big Jimmy, eyes gleaming.

Well, dear reader, I can let you in on a secret now... For Mary wasn't actually dead! She had merely slipped into a coma, and I suppose it was quite lucky for her that these grave robbers had come along - otherwise she might have ended up buried alive! Of course, when Big Jimmy started to saw at her finger, the pain was enough to shock her out of her unconsciousness. Waking up in a coffin, in the graveyard, in the dead of night, having her finger sawn off by a man stooping over her as another stood by in the moonlight with a shovel over his shoulder? Well it was all Mary could do to let out a bloodcurdling scream! What a shock for for Wee Jimmy and Big Jimmy! A screaming corpse!? They had never been so terrified in their lives! Dropping their tools and leaving the cart behind, they ran away so fast they didn't even bother to use the gate. Heaving themselves over the wall of the kirkyard, they vowed that this graverobbing business was bad for the heart and that they might just move out of the area and find a nice respectable job somewhere else... I'm glad to say they weren't seen again in Aberdeenshire.

For Mary, stranded in the kirkyard, there was nothing to do but to head off home in her bare feet.

At home, her husband had been drowning his sorrows (as one might have expected!) and had nodded off in front of the cold hearth. A frantic knocking at the door woke him from his slumber and he shook his head muttering "If I hadnae jist buried my beloved Mary, I'd swear that was her knockin'!" He put it down to the drink and the upset and tried to go back to sleep in his armchair. But the knocking continued. Eventually he dragged himself to his feet and went to answer the door.

Well! Imagine his shock when he opened the door to find Mary standing there in the moonlight - pale as pale could be, with her feet all dark from the mud, bedraggled hair, moaning his name softly and holding up her cut finger from which the blood had started to run. It is said that Mr Elphinstone fainted from the shock!

And Mary? Well I'm glad to say she returned to full health and went on to have a fine family and live a long and healthy life. And when she died? Well, she was buried in just the same place she'd woken up in all those years before.

If you go to the old Inverurie Kirkyard today, you can still see Mary's grave. And if you put your ear to the gravestone? Well you might just hear her knocking!**


Inverurie Kirkyard - showing the motte and the carved stones in the foreground (closeup of the Inverurie Horse above). If memory serves me right, Mary is buried near these three stones (away from the motte).


* Burke and Hare weren't actually guilty of grave-robbing, but of multiple murders. But that's another story...

** I kid you not! Leave a comment if you want to know why ;)

Labels: Grave robbers, inverurie, Mary Elphinstone, story, storytelling

Hi Folks!
Long time no post, eh?

I'm sure I'll get back to this at some point when things are not so hectic, but in the meantime, I'd like to direct you all to my new webpage -

http://www.paulinecordiner.co.uk

A most interesting thing to discuss in the pub! The Burry Man of South Queensferry

Labels: folklore

This is a bit of a tragic tale of childhood loss. Try not to cry, there's a dear.

So once I went to this place in northumberland with my parents on holiday when I was just a kid and there was a campsite with an adventure playground. Rope Swings! Bridges over muddy streams! And...a REAL HUMAN-SIZED hamster wheel!

The sad thing was that I couldn't go on it because the big kids were all on it. You know... the kind of kid that had hair like a toilet brush and a neat line in scars. They would be on there day and night, night and day. I'd scamper over there after breakfast, excited to have a go! and they'd be there... Rocking back and forth, thundering the thing round and getting into fights in the thing and thus getting more scars. I'd run over as soon as we got back from each tour of a castle, each walk along a seashore, and they'd be there. After tea, I'd rush down with the jam still on my face, desperate to scamper round like a happy hamster... and there they'd be. Jumping up and down on eachother and hitting eachother with a stick, snarling and baring their teeth, rotted to the stumps by too many Spangles.

However I was determined. One night, I formulated a plan to get to go on the hamster wheel when the big scary kids wouldn't be on it.

The next morning, I got out of my bed about 6am and got dressed and sneaked out of the caravan and ran off (feeling REALLY guilty that my Mum and Dad might panic that I was gone). I opened the latch, padded down the steps, ran past the cottage with the same washing that had been out drying for 6 days already, sped past the empty boating pool with the crisp packets floating in it and positively TORE round the hedge that sheltered the adventure playground.

Birds twittered in the early morning sun. Each and every limb tingled with excitement. And there I saw it. I saw the hamster wheel.....

It moved slowly. Tantalisingly. And with heart-wrenching dissapointment, I heard a cry of laughter. Slowly I walked towards it, not truly believing that someone else would be up this early morning and on MY hamster wheel... I came up to the wheel and , small and meek, peeked inside it.

And there I saw them.

Nuns.

Laughing and running carefully with their skirts hitched up. Having the time of their lives.

I left.

I never got on that hamster wheel. We left for home the next day.

There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories.”

I found myself telling someone about this piece of writing recently. Perhaps it was offshore, or perhaps it was Fudge that told me?

So I just raked it out of one of the books piled up behind my bed.

The aeroplanes I guess the author could easily have imagined... but the Channel Tunnel and phone lines accross the Atlantic! Coooo.

Anyway, I want you all to guess where it's from! i.e. When was it written? And by Whom? (Who? Whom. I dinna ken. We couldn't afford grammar when I were a lass)


IN A THOUSAND YEARS

Yes, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam through the air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America will become visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the monuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as we in our time make pilgrimages to the mouldering splendours of Southern Asia. In a thousand years they will come!

The Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course, Mont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the Northern Lights gleam over the lands of the North; but generation after generation has become dust, whole rows of the mighty of the monument are forgotten, like those who already slumber under the grave-mound on which the rich trader whose ground it is has built a bench, on which he can sit and look out across his waving cornfields.

"To Europe!" cry the young sons of America; "To the land of our ancestors, the glorious land of memories and fancy - to Europe!"

The ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers for the transit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire under the ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan. Europe is in sight: it is the coast of Ireland that they see, but the passengers are still asleep; they will not be called till they are exactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, in the land of Shakespeare as the educated call it; in the land of politics, the land of machinery, as it is called by others.

Here they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race can devote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journey is continued through the tunnel under the English Channel to France, the land of Charlemange and Napoleon. Moliere is named; the learned men talk of a classical and romantic school of remote antiquity: there is rejoicing and shouting for the names of heroes, poets, and men of science, whom our time does not know, but who will be born after our time in Paris, the crater of Europe.

The air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went forth, where Cortez was born and where Calderon sang dramas in sounding verse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in the blooming valleys, and ancient songs speak of the Cid and the Alhambra.

Then through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once lay old, everlasting Rome. It has vanished! The Campagna lies desert; a single ruined wall is shown as the remains of St Peter's but there is a doubt if this ruin be genuine.

Next to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top of Mount Olympus, to say that they have been there; and the journey is continued to the Boshorus, to rest there a few hours, and see the place where Byzantium lay; and where the legend tells that the harem stood in the time of the Turks, poor fishermen are now spreading their nets.

Over the remains of mighty cities on the broad Danube, cities which we in our time know not, the travellers pass; but here and there, on the rich sites of those that time shall bring forth, the caravan sometimes descends, and departs thence again.

Down below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of railways and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe sang and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony. Great names shone there, in science and in art, names that are unknonw to us. one day devoted to seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of old Oersted and Linnaus , and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and the young Normans. Iceland is visited on the journey home; Geyser boils no longer, Hecla is an extince volcano, but the rocky island is still fixed in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of legend and poetry.

"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe," says the young American, "and we have seen it in a week, according to the directions of the great traveller" (and here he mentions the name of one of this contemporaries) "in his celebrated work, "How to See all Europe in a Week."