Adeline Smith Reid is a retired district nurse who was brought up in Portessie. She sent in a Doric letter with memories of her childhood…
“Up wi yer kwytes wir awa tay the brummles.”
Ats fit it wiz ah aboot, the eerly jaunt at the eyne a August. Wi athin deen an dichtet, brakfist bye wi, weerin wir scuddlin duds, mither’s baskets, stappet wi picnic mait we nott nay mair. Awa ootgaan, wi geed.
A bonny sunny mornen hyne awa up ower the heilan briggie, traipsen enn atween the weel trodden nerra roadies, kynipen ower the knowes an the lang girse yabblin awa, singing lik lenties, kekklin an lachen.
Takkin a short cuttie ritooerin throuw the craa widdie, aiten a haan fay o crisp sucky sooricks still weet fay mornen douw, a sicht o wild flooers, ill trikket baby rabbits playen takkie atween the trees, forced a lach made wir ootin shortsum. A reeshlin soon fay the paper pyokkie stappit full wi the “Aul Wifie’s sookers”, (pandrops), kirk sweeties (butter baas) gart wir tongues takk a rest.
The Kythe wiz there a sicht fur sair een, we wir ettlin tay git yokket. An nay dibber dabberin jeely jars in haan. Breengin en atween the happit ower growen bushes. Dodgen prickly briars, sticky willies, dobbie nittles, an funs the air hoachen wi midgies, ower the kweets in weet girse ah tay makk enroads tay reet oot the byge buiket, glossy black gems aswarn as byge as yer thoom an lippen wi jooce. The kenspecklet ains wir aye hyne awa an heich up abeen.
Thir wiz reed ains as hard as knots, green ains an ah, bit the sicht, an first tasten, the sweet flesh, squasht roon the moo, the bree bursten an treeklin doon ower the chin, we kwidna git wir wills. Cloartin ower the face, is a memry nivver forgetten.
Wir pickens aboot deen, fin the mait cam on the go, a dry stane dyke an a curn louws stanes near at haan wiz the sitten fur a weel ernt cuppie a het tay fay the flask, safties stappet wi bylt ham, a fine piece, a baggie o tattie crisps fur hez bairns fit mair kwid a budy wint, the sun birslin wir skin, mithers keepin tee wi clishmaclave an claik. We thocht we wir Airchie, easy tay please it wiz fun.
Baskets reemin foo, ettlin tay git. Hame afore the gloamin. Trauchlet, bauchelt, an bavard nay sae swack. Duds rippet wi thorns, faces perpell wi berry bree, sticky fingers an haans sair wi stobs, nay myouws an a sotter nay handy, kwait an tired bit a graan ootin wi neepers.
Neesht mornen, the jars ah sitten lik sodjers wytin tay be fult, berry pan hottren awa the warm sweet yoams o brummles waften throuw the hoose. Hez wytin tay saur the taste o a bap cloartet wi brummle jam a curn jars tay a dowie or aul budy in the toon. A memry tay treasure that ye canna takk awa.