I read Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s A Scots Quair in the summer between high school and college. It is three books – Sunset Song, Cloud Howe and. Title: A Scots Quair Author: Lewis Grassic Gibbon * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: Language: English Date first posted . Lewis Grassic Gibbon (James Leslie Mitchell) was one of the finest writers of the twentieth century. Born in Aberdeenshire in , he died at the age of.

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Rereading: Life on the land | Books | The Guardian

He’d feed’d at Netherhill when he came back from foreign parts, had Chae, and there had been but two daughters there, Kirsty and Sarah, her that played the kirk organ.

Or maybe I’m so traumatized from slogging through Freedom that I’ll never enjoy reading again. And Kirsty said No, and gave her mother a sly bit look, and off the old mistress went up to her room and then Kirsty began fleering and flirting with Chae and he was a man warm enough and they were alone together and maybe in a minute he’d have had her couched down right well there in the kitchen but she whispered it wasn’t safe.

He gave her a lift from the station, did Chae, and on the road he spoke but once, to himself it seemed, not Chris: This trilogy is composed by the following books: Sunset Song Fiction features. And if come it never did she wasn’t to seek out qusir anyway, she was off to be trained as a doctor, Chae said that life came out of women through tunnels of pain and if God had planned quari for anything else but the bearing of children it was surely the saving of them.

So that was their coming to Blawearie, fell wearied all of them were the little of the night that was left them, and slept late into the next morning, coming cold and drizzly up from the sea by Bervie. I hate to be fancy, but I think it is probably a masterpiece.

So that was the college place at Duncairn, two Chrisses went there each morning, and one was right douce and studious and the other sat back and laughed a canny laugh at the antics of the quait and minded Blawearie brae and the champ of horses and the smell of dung and her father’s brown, grained hands quaig she was sick to be home again. Grassic realname James Leslie Mitchell tells the story through an almost impressionistic lens, where the landscape of the Mearns area of East Scotland evokes the moods which dominate ther lifes of the main characters in Chris’s life.

Who could be larger or longer than Long John o’ the Mill? It’s nothing much at first, but it changes everything forever. The bothy men heard the ongoing and came tearing out but soon as they saw it was only young Gordon that was being mischieved they did no more than laugh and stand around and cry one to the other that here was a real fine barrow-load of dung lying loose in the greip.

For me Chris Guthrie was, and remains in quaid head, the Scottish Tess! And when the First Reformation came and others came after it and some folk cried Whiggam!

And the second, it was What Katy did at School, and she loved Katy and envied her and wished like Katy she lived at a school, not tramping back in the spleiter of a winter night to help muck the byre, with the smell of the sharn rising feuch! And out she’d get, and into her clothes before you could whistle, and out into the cold of Kinraddie night and go whipping through it like a futret, and soon be snapping her orders round the kitchen of the house she’d been summoned to, telling the woman in childbed she might easily be worse, and being right brisk and sharp and clever.


Mistress Gordon was a Stonehaven woman, her father had been a bit post-office creature there, but God!

And only when she came home that qjair did she tell the story of her meeting with Cuddiestoun’s Andy. The emotion of the book carries you along and you simply GO. He was a harmless stock, old Sinclair, and had began to doiter and Mistress Sinclair would push him into his chair at night and take off his boots and put slippers on him there in front of the kitchen fire and say to him You’ve tired yourself out again, my lad.

It’s hard to believe that this is an accurate rendition of this period in Scotland’s history even though I know that WWI, the Depession and the 30s were very troubled times.


Other books in the series. I’m not sure that it ever stops altogether, but you do become more realistic about your own qualities.

Alec himself had such lugs that they said he flapped them against the flies in the summer-time, and once he was coming home on his bicycle from Laurencekirk, and he was real drunk and at the steep brae above the Denburn bridge he mistook the flow of the water for the broad road and in between coping and bank he went and head over heels into the clay bed twenty feet below; and often he’d tell that if he hadn’t landed on a lug he might well have been brained, but Long Rob of the Mill would laugh and say Brained?

But it wasn’t bad land the most of the Knapp, there was the sweat of two thousand years in it, and the meikle park behind the biggings was black loam, not the red clay that sub-soiled half Kinraddie.

Alec Mutch was farmer of Bridge End that stood beyond the Denburn head, he’d come there up from Stonehaven way, folk said he was head over heels in debt, and damn it you couldn’t wonder with a slummock of a wife like that to weigh him down.

But now it was a fair bit farm on its own, old Sinclair and his wife, a body that was wearing none so well–soured up the creature was that her eldest daughter Sarah still bided all zcots in the farm-house, and in ecots bothy was foreman and second man and third man and orra lad. By using this site, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy.

He wrote it in Welwyn Garden City, of all places, in the first years of the s, and looked back to the countryside he knew as a boy — the rich farmland of the Mearns, just south of Aberdeen, which stretches from the quir to the sea.

But ministers’ wives were aye folk to complain and don’t know when they’re well off, them and the silver they get for their bit creatures of men preaching once or twice a Sunday and so proud they hardly know you when they meet you on the road.

There are passages from their early married life reminiscent of Lawrence’s celebration in The Rainbow of lives lived in relation to the rhythms of farming: And Tony, though he wasn’t socts daftest, he was the queer one, too, right enough.

A Scots Quair: Sunset Song, Cloud Howe, Grey Granite

But if you went out of the kirk by the main door and took the road east a bit, and that was the road that served kirk and Manse and Mains, you were on to the quaur then.


I thought I would not like this Trilogy. Him and Chae had fought against Boers and British both, and beaten them, or so Chae said, but folk that didn’t like Chae said all the fighting he’d ever done had been with his mouth and that as for beaten, he’d be sore made to beat the skin off a bowl of sour milk.

Cloud Howe and Grey Granite take Chris from her rural homeland to life in an industrial Scotland and the desperate years of the Depression.

And John Guthrie said It’s your place that doesn’t suit me, let me tell you, you wee dowp-licking clerk. The writing style reminded me of Esther Waters by George Moore, though only in the sense that that novel seemed poised between the Victorians and modernism. The central paradox of the trilogy is that this is seen as a doomed mission but one it is vital to embark on. Aug 20, Ruth rated it it was amazing Shelves: Very interesting, although you’ll need an ear for the Scottis A Scottish classic, actually a trilogy, which gives a real feel for the difficult life in Scotland in that time.

But with one of them he’d met a sore stammy-gaster, her brother was a gardener down Glenbervie way and when he heard of it he came over to Upperhill and caught young Gordon out by the cattle-court. And Cospatric waited for the night to come and rode to the edge of Kinraddie Den and commended his soul to God and came off his horse and took his boar-spear in his hand, and went down into the Den and killed the gryphon.

But Wallace came through the Howe right swiftly and he heard of Dunnottar and laid siege to it and it scotd a right strong place and he had but small patience with strong places. He gave a bit jump, hearing Guthrie come, and then he swithered a laugh inside the foolish face of him, but John Guthrie didn’t laugh.

Anyway, nothing endures, as well we know, but thank god this book has, at least for a while. I don’t know how Gibbons did it. Folk said there hadn’t been such a drought since eighty-three and Long Rob of the Mill said you couldn’t blame this one on Gladstone, anyway, and everybody laughed except father.

I tend to prefer shorter chapters anyway, so it’s maybe just that – a preference. He’d fly in an awful rage at that, and once when they’d done it he came into the class where Chris was waiting her lesson and he stood and swore, right out and horrible, and gripped a black ruler in his hands and glared round as if he meant to murder a body.

This is not an easy book to read. Noooooooooooo, that’s not quate raight, he would flute, More like the head of one of Christie’s faaaaaaaather’s pigs than a heraaaaaaaaaaldic animal, I’m afraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaid. Now that was in summer, the time of fleas and glegs and golochs in the fields, when stirks would start up from a drowsy cud-chewing to a wild and feckless racing, the glegs biting through hair and hide to the skin below the tail-rump. Every week or so the drawing master, old Mr.