The last time I was in Scotland for any length of time was 20+ yrs ago when I spent much of a summer in a converted crofter’s hut way up in Caithness, on the far north coast of Scotland. Strange, empty country. The people speak with much less of an accent than the lowland Scots, in spite of being further from England. This is because English is their second, or co-first, language, since Gaelic (which they call “the Garlic”) is widely used. Main social event is the ceilidh (=dance party, pronounced “cayley”), of which there seems to be one pretty much every weekend, if you don’t mind driving 40 miles to it. *Lots* of drinking. Lots of road accidents too (wonder why?)–few cars in Caithness are undented. Sensational wildlife: Walking along the cliff tops, I saw foxes the way you see dogs in suburban New York. Wild cats, too (“Caithness” means “headland of the cats”). The farmers hate the wild cats–they kill sheep–and shoot them when they can, and cut off their tails and nail the tails to a wall of the barn, several in a row. Strange, wild place.

Here is an actual, original specimen of Scottish crofter humor.

Wee Hughie got tired o’ life, so he went an’ hanged himself in the loft when no-one was hame. His Ma and Pa cam’ hame an’ couldna find him. They called all aroond the hoose, and aroond the yard: “Hughie! Hughie!” but he didna show. At last they called the policeman. The policemen cam’ an’ sat in the hoose wi’ Ma and Pa takin’ details in a wee notebook. Well, just at that time, the rope slipped a ways, and Hughie cam’ crashing through the ceilin’, and hung there swingin’ afore the fooks, wi’ his eyes poppin’ an’ his tongue stickin’ oot an’ all. His Ma jumped up an’ creed oot: “Hughie, Hughie, are ye all reet, Hughie?”

It rains a lot up there.