The Brogue

The Whistle

He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden-tree,

He trimmed it, an’ he wet it, an’ he thumped it on his knee;

He never heard the teuchat when the harrow broke her eggs,

He missed the craggit heron nabbin’ puddocks in the seggs,

He forgot to hound the collie at the cattle when they strayed,

But you should hae seen the whistle that the wee herd made!

He wheepled on’t at mornin’ an’ he tweetled on’t at nicht,

He puffed his freckled cheeks until his nose sank oot o’ sicht,

The kye were late for milkin’ when he piped them up the closs,

The kitlins got his supper syne, an’ he was beddit boss;

But he cared na doit nor docken what they did or thocht or said,

There was comfort in the whistle that the wee herd made.

An instrument that weighs 1.5 oz is the right one for a nearly continental thru-hike. But when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. When I have a certain kind of day, I have to play Hank Williams, not a set of reels. So that lonesome whippoorwill is going to come off more like the lark in the morning sometimes. There’s not much I can do. With this one whistle I can play in three(ish) keys and twelve(ish) modes. But my Waynesboro is going to sound a bit more like Over the Moore to Maggie than it might on a fiddle or banjo. I can’t play the whistle without cuts and rolls.

So much of the whistling I do will to end up sounding like the Transatlantic Sessions, (Aly Bain’s great musical project from the 90s), i.e, they are going to end up sounding like they are suspended between one side of the Atlantic and the other. To one ear, it will be the music of the middle of nowhere; to another, a bridge between two distant shores.

Until such time as I get my hiking legs under me and have enough energy in the evening to play a bit, here’s the playlist that will be sustaining me on my journey - listen along with me, won’t you? https://open.spotify.com/playlist/27PWt3GKYcqgl2nPxNz9wp?si=9be26fad7b6643ed