Read Online A Croft in the Hills by Katharine Stewart - Free Book Online
Authors: Katharine Stewart
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cold and came home to a dinner of roast duck.
Then the ceilidhs began. Since the previous Hogmanay our neighbours had become friends and a good year’s work had established a firm bond among us. We knew our way about. To us there is no
place on earth so comforting as a croft kitchen on a winter night. As you approach the glow of the lighted window, the smell of the peat-reek comes at you in a waft of welcome, pungent and homely.
On reaching the threshold you brush the snow from your boots with the small besom provided for the purpose. Then the door opens and you’re bidden, with an outstretched hand, to ‘come
away in’. Inside, the flames are licking round the up-ended peats, there’s the hiss of the pressure lamp and the ticking of a huge, old clock. The pattern is the same everywhere. It
hardly varies, yet it never fails to delight. We’re a little company gathered in sheltering walls that huddle against the vastness of the night and of the cold. We’re supremely glad to
have warmth and calm and relaxation.
The men stretch their legs and slowly stuff their pipes. The women move quietly about, placing the kettle, the tea-caddy, the cups in strategic positions. The children sit, bright-eyed, on the
settle, hoping bed-time will be overlooked: at New Year, it usually is. The kettle is not brought to the boil till the men have had their dram, the women their glass of port and the children their
fruit wine, to wash down the raisin-cake and shortbread. Tongues are loosened at this time of year and throats well moistened. You can almost forget the wireless in the corner by the window, the
weekly paper stuffed under the chair cushions, and expect the ceilidh to resume its old character. You almost wait for the song and the story to come floating out of the shadowy corners of the
room, but of course they don’t. The stories are reminiscences, fascinating in themselves and never wearisome, however often they are repeated. They’re founded on fact and they
haven’t the wild sweep and gusto of the old, imagined tales. The song, too, has died. There is no longer even the cheerful scrape of a fiddle, though here and there a young lad will produce a
tune from an accordion ‘box’.
We spent many evenings at neighbouring firesides that New Year. Helen enjoyed them as much as we did and was indulged with sweets and oranges, and walked home across the moor at midnight without
a stumble, scorning to be carried.
The days were not arduous, for there was little we could do but feed the horse, the cattle and the hens, look over the sheep and split logs for the fire. Jim and Billy did, however, get ahead
with the fencing, whenever the weather allowed, and made several gates. I tackled the accumulation of mending and took advantage of the well-banked state of the fire to do some large bakings.
On the worst days, when all outdoor work was at a standstill and it was too cold even to work in the barn for more than an hour or two together, we all turned our attention to improving the
living arrangements in the house. All through the previous year we had used only the ground-floor rooms, for warmth in the winter and for convenience in the summer.
Now, however, we began to explore the possibilities of the upper regions. I scrubbed out the two bedrooms and the men shouldered the beds and furniture up the narrow stairway. The walls and
paintwork were shabby in the extreme, but decorating would have to wait until the better weather came. The rooms were clean and we installed an oil-stove in each, which we would light an hour or so
before bed-time each night.
Then we made the spare downstairs room into a second sitting-room, where we could relax, or so we hoped! The living-room had a felt-and-linoleum covering over the stone and we could go in there
gum-booted, dogs at our heels, without fear of doing damage. The new sitting-room we planned as a sort of inner refuge, snugly carpeted, its walls lined with the books and
Then the ceilidhs began. Since the previous Hogmanay our neighbours had become friends and a good year’s work had established a firm bond among us. We knew our way about. To us there is no
place on earth so comforting as a croft kitchen on a winter night. As you approach the glow of the lighted window, the smell of the peat-reek comes at you in a waft of welcome, pungent and homely.
On reaching the threshold you brush the snow from your boots with the small besom provided for the purpose. Then the door opens and you’re bidden, with an outstretched hand, to ‘come
away in’. Inside, the flames are licking round the up-ended peats, there’s the hiss of the pressure lamp and the ticking of a huge, old clock. The pattern is the same everywhere. It
hardly varies, yet it never fails to delight. We’re a little company gathered in sheltering walls that huddle against the vastness of the night and of the cold. We’re supremely glad to
have warmth and calm and relaxation.
The men stretch their legs and slowly stuff their pipes. The women move quietly about, placing the kettle, the tea-caddy, the cups in strategic positions. The children sit, bright-eyed, on the
settle, hoping bed-time will be overlooked: at New Year, it usually is. The kettle is not brought to the boil till the men have had their dram, the women their glass of port and the children their
fruit wine, to wash down the raisin-cake and shortbread. Tongues are loosened at this time of year and throats well moistened. You can almost forget the wireless in the corner by the window, the
weekly paper stuffed under the chair cushions, and expect the ceilidh to resume its old character. You almost wait for the song and the story to come floating out of the shadowy corners of the
room, but of course they don’t. The stories are reminiscences, fascinating in themselves and never wearisome, however often they are repeated. They’re founded on fact and they
haven’t the wild sweep and gusto of the old, imagined tales. The song, too, has died. There is no longer even the cheerful scrape of a fiddle, though here and there a young lad will produce a
tune from an accordion ‘box’.
We spent many evenings at neighbouring firesides that New Year. Helen enjoyed them as much as we did and was indulged with sweets and oranges, and walked home across the moor at midnight without
a stumble, scorning to be carried.
The days were not arduous, for there was little we could do but feed the horse, the cattle and the hens, look over the sheep and split logs for the fire. Jim and Billy did, however, get ahead
with the fencing, whenever the weather allowed, and made several gates. I tackled the accumulation of mending and took advantage of the well-banked state of the fire to do some large bakings.
On the worst days, when all outdoor work was at a standstill and it was too cold even to work in the barn for more than an hour or two together, we all turned our attention to improving the
living arrangements in the house. All through the previous year we had used only the ground-floor rooms, for warmth in the winter and for convenience in the summer.
Now, however, we began to explore the possibilities of the upper regions. I scrubbed out the two bedrooms and the men shouldered the beds and furniture up the narrow stairway. The walls and
paintwork were shabby in the extreme, but decorating would have to wait until the better weather came. The rooms were clean and we installed an oil-stove in each, which we would light an hour or so
before bed-time each night.
Then we made the spare downstairs room into a second sitting-room, where we could relax, or so we hoped! The living-room had a felt-and-linoleum covering over the stone and we could go in there
gum-booted, dogs at our heels, without fear of doing damage. The new sitting-room we planned as a sort of inner refuge, snugly carpeted, its walls lined with the books and
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