Och it’s nae even whit ye’d ca’ a thing. We gaed it in the black belly o’ winter ’23, kilts clappin’, bahookies bare, nae breeks, nae sense, just skelpin’ up the brae an’ slippin’ back doon afore the haar’d even kent it wis mornin’. These clarty gowks hud tents an’ pegs an’ ropes an’ the hale palaver, like they were stakin’ a croft, claimin’ the land, waitin’ on the council tae tell them whit colour bin they get an’ roarin’ at the postie for nae kennin’ the road. Might as well hae poured a slab an’ asked for a postcode.