Been very wet over the week-end and all hands about the steading. Why shouldn’t I run across the Border and see the crops there? While around us the fields are almost all cleared, there are many full fields on the colder side of the Solway.
I had a real Scottish tea — soda scones and “tattie” scones to the dear music of the Scots tongue discoursing upon harvest and troublesome servants, corn, kye, calves and pigs. I cannot make soda scones of just that quality peculiar to the Northern farm house and so I slip into the kitchen to watch the “lass” baking her huge “faur’les.”
“Some folk pits in a lock o’ soda,” she informs me complacently, “bit ah juist pit in a pickle, an’ nae cream o’ tartar.” Does a new atmosphere work with the imagination to produce a sort of romance of the palate?