HOGMANY
The origin of the word and custom is always under debate.
Did it come from the Anglo-Saxon word Haleg Monath, meaning
Holy month?
Did it come from the Gaelic word meaning New Morning—oge
maidne?
Did it come from the Scandinavian word Hoggo-nott?
Did it come from the French word Homme est ne,
meaning man is born?
Some believe it came with the Norsemen, the history based in
Celtic religion while others believe it dates back to the Picts.
Regardless of where it began it has been celebrated for centuries,
remains an important date on the Scottish Calendar, and is steeped in
traditions.
Perhaps the most common is First Footing. After
midnight neighbors visit each other bringing gifts. The first guest who crosses
the threshold, preferably someone tall, dark and handsome, brings luck for the
new year. They bear gifts of coal, black bun (fruit cake) shortbread and an
ample supply of whisky. If a red-haired man or worse, a red-haired lady is the
first to cross the threshold, it is considered bad luck.
As with many Celtic festivals, bonfires are lit as a means
of cleansing and to drive away evil spirits. Children visited neighbors hoping
for gifts.
Among the traditions is a good spring cleaning called redding.
Homes are cleaned, ashes removed from the hearth and debts paid. In
preparation for the new year.
And let’s not forget the singing of Robbie Burn’s version of
Auld Lang Syne.
Whether you celebrate a traditional Scottish Hogmany or have
your own New Years tradition Bliadhna
mhathùr! (pronounced BLEEne
vah OOHR)
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!
Author BJ Scott:
C.S. Lewis first captivated B. J.’s imagination in
the fourth grade, and her desire to write sprang from there. Following a career
in nursing and child and youth work, B.J. married her knight-in-shining-armor,
and he whisked her away to his castle by the sea. In reality, they share their
century-old home in a small Canadian town on the shore of Lake Erie
with four dogs and a cat. When she is not working at her childcare job, on her
small business, or writing, you will find her reading, doing a variety of hand
crafts, camping, or antique hunting.
For more on BJ's books check her out at
To win your choice of either of her books, be sure to leave a comment. The winner will be notified if contact information is left, or check the Winners' section on the right on Wednesday. Here is an excerpt from her latest book HIGHLAND QUEST.
Loch
Ryan Scotland, 1307
“Wa . . . water,” Bryce mumbled,
but there was no one there to listen.
His throat was parched and he ran his tongue
over dry, cracked lips, but his action offered no relief. An entire loch lay
only a few feet away, but he couldn’t muster the strength to drag himself to
the bank and quench his thirst.
“Cold . . . so cold.”
Despite the sun beating down on him, he’d
swear he was encased in ice. His life’s blood seeped from his wounds, soaking
the ground beneath him. He tried to raise his head, but the excruciating pain
radiating across his chest stole his breath away.
Was this what it felt like to die?
If so, he prayed the Almighty would be merciful and take him now.
Bryce moaned, a shift in his
position bringing on another nauseating wave of agony. He sucked in a
short, sharp, gulp of air and stretched his arm out as far as he could, his
fingers grappling in the dirt.
If only I could reach my sword.
Beads of perspiration dampened his
brow. As the strength slowly drained from his body, drawing a simple breath
became more difficult. The end grew near. No time to make amends for sins of
the past, and he had committed his share.
Regrets? He had those, too.
“Fallon.” He whispered her name then heaved a ragged sigh. He could see her
beautiful face, her soft, porcelain-like skin with just a sprinkling of
freckles across her nose. Raven tresses hanging loose in a riot of curls down
her back. Her petite, slender body had just the right curves to drive a man
wild with desire. Mysterious sapphire eyes that held him captive and a
heart-shaped mouth he’d never tire of kissing. If he had one wish before he
died, it would be to hold her in his arms one more time, to find himself nestled
between her thighs, making love until neither of them could take anymore.
But he’d missed his chance when she
left Fraser Castle after his brother’s wedding, returning with her clan to
their home in the borderlands. Determined not to allow Fallon, or any woman, to
breach the protective wall he’d built around his heart, he’d let her go.
A restless spirit, he longed for
adventure. While he admired his two older brothers, he was tired of living in
their shadows. Alasdair had turned down the position of Laird when their father
and older brother were killed at Berwick on Tweed.
Connor, the next in line, had accepted the responsibility and did the Clan
proud. He was happily married and Bryce was certain his wee son, Andrew, would
be raised to follow in his father’s footsteps.
Bryce held no land or title. Until he had made
a name for himself and earned these things, he had nothing to offer a wife. But
marriage and family were not part of his immediate plans. He loved women, all
women. Be they large, small, short, tall, fair, or plain, it made no difference
as long as they were willing to warm his bed, and expected no long-term
commitment in return.
A rogue many would say, but he made
no secret of his intentions. So far, this way of life had served him well, and
should he die in battle, he’d leave no one behind to mourn his loss.
When he was a lad of sixteen, he’d
made the mistake of falling for the daughter of the village smithy. Totally
enamored with each other, they’d vowed their eternal love and he believed they’d
marry some day.
He swallowed hard at the ball of
emotion rising in his throat, and clenched his teeth against the sudden ache
gripping his heart. He’d heard when a man is about to die, his life experiences
flash before his eyes. But some memories were far too painful to revisit.
He balled his fists at his sides,
his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to think about the past and
didn’t want a woman in his life. While Fallon was the only lass who had tempted
him to stray from his chosen path, she was better off without him. Or so he’d
told himself when he returned from a morning ride to learn she’d left Fraser
Castle without saying goodbye.
Clinging to the memory of their
brief time together, Bryce closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.
But distant voices and the sound of approaching footfall alerted him to the
fact that he was no longer alone.
“Over here,” a man shouted. “I
think this one is still breathing.”
“Aye, he’s alive, but for how long?
The lad has lost a lot of blood,” another man commented and clucked his tongue.
Hovering on the edge of
consciousness, Bryce heard the conversation going on between two men, maybe
more. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids proved too heavy.
Judging by the familiar burr, these
men were Scottish, but so were the traitorous bastards who had attacked them.
For a sennight, he’d ridden day and
night. However in the end, he was too late to warn the Bruce’s brothers and
their small group of Irish and Scottish islanders of the impending threat. Rushing
headlong into an ambush and outnumbered four to one, their fate was sealed.
This wasn’t the first time the
MacDougall Clan sided with the English. Staunch supporters of John Comyn’s bid
for the Scottish crown, they’d turned their swords and their loyalty against
their countrymen when Comyn was murdered at Grey Fryer’s Abbey and Robert the
Bruce was accused of the deed.
After the massacre at Methven—the
last major battle fought between the English and the Bruce before he went into
hiding—the buggers lay in wait, attacking the Scottish survivors as they tried
to make their way to the Argyle Mountains
to regroup. The battle of Dail Righ would forever be a stain on the
MacDougall clan’s name, and a battle Bryce would long remember.
Nor would he forget their leader.
Today he’d had the long-awaited chance to make good on his oath to see the
blackguard pay for his treasonous acts, but he’d failed. Instead, he’d found
himself on the receiving end of Dungal’s sword.
“I canna believe Scots would kill
Scots. These poor fellows dinna have a prayer of making it to shore unharmed,”
the first man said.
“Aye, the ship was run aground and
there must be at least fifty dead men on the bank of the loch. There appears to
be a mix of Irish and Scots, but nary an English soldier or a MacDougall plaid
among them.” The man speaking nudged Bryce’s shoulder with the toe of his boot.
“This appears to be the only one alive.”
A dizzying wave of excruciating
pain shot through Bryce’s chest as he was rolled onto to his side.
“What do you plan to do with this
fellow, Donald?” the second man asked. “We canna just leave him here to bleed
to death.”
“We’ll take him with us. My niece
has some knowledge of healing. She cared for my wife when she had the pox . . .
rest her soul.” Donald paused for a moment before he continued. “After Mairi
died, the lass decided to stay on for a while. Mayhap there is something she
can do for him. Best we make haste. I dinna want to be here if the bastards
return.”
“I’ll be surprised if he survives
the journey. But we can always bury him along the way if need be,” the second
man responded.
Strong hands slid beneath Bryce’s
shoulders, raising him to a sitting position, then someone grabbed his legs. A
few garbled words of protest were all he could manage before darkness closed
around him.
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