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Peter Buchan was born in
Peterhead in 1917, the son of a fisherman. Educated at Peterhead
Academy, he was off to sea on a fishing boat as soon as he left school
at the age of sixteen and he spent most of his life amongst boats.
In 1940 he married Agnes Cowe, a Peterhead quine, and the couple had two
daughters.
After the war he started writing poems. A collection, Mount Pleasant,
appeared in 1961 and reprinted six times. He then started to write short
stories to portray the ‘middle ground’ in fisher life which had formerly
been portrayed at the two extremes of either drunkenness or religious
fanaticism and he found a large readership for his work at home and
abroad. He broadcast regularly on radio and was interviewed several
times on television. He was Vice-President of the Buchan Heritage
Society from 1988-1990, then Patron until his death. He also edited five
editions of the Society’s magazine, Heirskip, from 1987-91.
Peter died on 12 December 1991 and is buried in Peterhead.
His Collected Poems and Short Stories were published in 1992.
BOOKS BY PETER BUCHAN
Mount Pleasant, Buchan Observer 1961
Fit Like Skipper?, Aberdeen Journals 1984
Fisher Blue, Peter Buchan 1988
Buchan Claik (with David Toulmin), Gordon Wright Publishing 1989
Collected Poems and Short Stories, Gordon Wright Publishing 1992
Peter Buchan and it
Was a' for our Rightfu' King
By Franklyn Bliss Snyder (1911) (pdf)
Peter Buchan, and other papers on
Scottish and English ballads and songs
By William Walker, Dean of Aberdeen and Orkney (1915) (pdf)
The Peterhead Smugglers
With biographical notices by Peter Buchan (1834) (pdf)
Peter Buchan (1917 to
1991)
Born in Jamaica Street, Peterhead, in 1917, Peter Buchan was a
fisherman, poet, writer, broadcaster and a champion of local heritage
and in particular the Doric dialect.
Schooled at Peterhead Academy, Buchan went to sea aged 16 and was a
fisherman for over 30 years. He began writing poetry at age 30 and wrote
almost exclusively in Doric, his native tongue. Throughout his lifetime
he wrote over 70 poems as well as numerous short stories about the
fishing life in North East Scotland.
His first collection of poems, “Mount Pleasant”, was published in 1961;
other publications include “Fit like, Skipper?” and “Fisher Blue”, both
collections of stories and poems. Inspiration for his work came from his
daily life and surroundings, and the people he met along the way – as he
called it, “Human naitur”.
A champion of the traditional language of North East Scotland, Buchan,
along with David Toumlin, also wrote a compendium of North East words
and phrases, “Buchan Claik: The Saut an the Glaur O't”, which brought
together Buchan’s coastal Doric with famer Toumlin’s inland Doric.
Peter Buchan broadcast regularly on radio during his lifetime, and was
often described as the voice of the North East’s fishing community. He
was Vice-President of the Buchan Heritage Society from 1988-1990, and
Patron until 1991. To commemorate his importance in the North East, a
portrait was commissioned in 1991 by the North East Scotland Museums
Service (now Aberdeenshire Heritage) which is on display in Arbuthnot
Museum in his hometown of Peterhead.
Peter Buchan was a true guardian of the Doric tongue, presenting, and
preserving, this distinctive language through his expressive poetry and
prose, building a rich resource for generations to come. He died on 12
December 1991 and is buried in Peterhead.
Extract from “The Buchan Clan”:
Altho’ yer name’s nae Buchan if ye come fae Peterheid,
It’s surely mair gin likely ye’ve a drap o’ Buchan bleed,
For the Buchans thro’ the centuries, for better or for waur,
Hae mairrit into ither tribes till gweed kens fit ye are,
Ye’re a Pirate, or a Tinkie, or a Royal in yer pride,
Or ye’re come o’ auld man Noah, that shivved Buchan ower the side.
Collected Poems and Short
Stories
By Peter Buchan
Also by Peter Buchan:
Buchan Claik
(co-author)
isbn 9780903065771 rrp £16.95 hardback illustrated 432 pages
For many years Peter Buchan was the voice of Scotland's North-East
fishing communities, dispensing wisdom and good humour in his poems and
short stories which were published regularly from the mid-1940s to 1991.
This book contains 116 short stories, including all those which appeared
in Fit Like, Skipper?
A great interest in people provided the main source of his inspiration
to write: 'Human naitur', he called it, and his observations around his
home town of Peterhead, and further afield, in fishing ports such as
Stornoway and Yarmouth, resulted in the many marvellous character
studies now collected in this volume.
Peter Buchan was unique, writing mostly in the North-East dialect,
exactly as he spoke it every day of his life. He was one of the
caretakers of this rich and beautiful language and he used it with great
skill to describe the lives of fisher folk.
Sample Extract...
The Ghost in the Fite Seemit
Skipper Bob McTurk 'The Turk' had suffered a major defeat at the hands
of his better half.
For years she had begged him to change into lighter clothing when the
bonny days came round, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
Now, her patience finally exhausted, she sailed in with all guns
blazing.
'Ye great greasy clort that ye are! Ilkie time I wash yer shift the
claes-tow braks wi the wecht.
'Ye should ging up to Jimmy Reid's an get a horse then get a soord an a
battle axe fae the museum. I'll gie ye my ain coal-pail for a helmet but
ye winna need armour! Nae wi a shift like that! Then ye can flee the
hills like Sir Lancelot'
Under such an onslaught, the poor Turk wilted. But on one point he was
adamant. He would on no account wear shorts.
'They micht dee for liftin a het kettle but they wid nivver hap me!'
Neither would he visit a shop. So, in view of his enormous girth,
nothing would suffice but to get a sicht o drawers an seemits fae the
shop so that he could wale among them at his leisure.
But still there was one great problem. Any drawers that fitted his
middle would need a fathom cut from the legs: if they fitted his legs
they would need a yard of elastic at the top! No seemit would fit him
athoot a great muckle gushet shued into the front.
Fit a maneer! Claes aa ower the place, like a stallie on the Broadgate!
It took a long time to reach a happy compromise but at last the mannie
wis riggit oot and the unwanted garments were baled in readiness for
their return to the shop.
On the Monday morning our gallant hero left the house to go to the
harbour.
Oh boys this wis fine! Pure fresh air wis circulating where fresh air
had seldom been afore.
This wis life, this wis freedom as if a door had been opened!
Then in one blinding second panic filled his breast.
There couldna possibly be such a free flow of air unless there wis a
doorie open!
Good grief! Had he forgotten to fasten certain vital buttons?
A quick downward glance would reassure him, but his washin-hoose biler o
a belly decreed that this wis impossible.
He could hardly ficher wi buttons in the street so he would turn back.
Turn back on a Monday? Never! All the bad luck in Scotland would be his
if he did that.
He could stop a passing boy with a question, 'Hey my loon! Is my shoppie
door open?' but he didna like.
Were he to venture up a close for a quick check, some wifie would be
sure to doubt his intentions and would chase him wi a broom bidding him,
'Ging an dee that at yer ain gate en'!'
The situation was critical but not entirely out of hand.
The Turk's mither wit led him to the nearest shop window where his own
reflection assured him that all was well.
So the gentle breezes were part and parcel of his new found freedom?
Great!
Thus, in a happier mood, he reached the pier where his own darling
Meadowsweet awaited him.
Oh, fit a steer! Horses an cairts by the score.
At least a hunner crews busy at their nets.
Coal-heavers walking the precarious planks with ten stone bags of coal
on their backs, just like black ballet dancers on a heaving stage,
dropping their load with unerring aim into the pit of the drifter's
bunker.
Message boys with their baskets and watermen with their hoses; it was
all go, for the armada was preparing to sail in the afternoon.
Fit a bonny day it wis! Half the toon wis on the pier to see the
shippies gaan oot.
Since it wis Monday, the guttin quines half day, scores of them were
doon to wave cheerio to their lads and husbands.
Even Mrs McTurk wis there, wi twaa bairns at her tail an twaa in the
coach (Pram).
As the Meadowsweet rounded the jetty, the Turk stuck his arm out of the
house window to wave to his excited offspring and in so doing he got a
welcome blast of fresh air aneth his oxter.
Late that evening the Meadowsweet lay at her nets some forty miles
east-by-north off Peterhead. She lay head to wind at the leeward end of
a mile of nets which hung like a great curtain two fathoms below the
surface. The shippie was tethered by a thick tarry rope which ran the
whole length of the nets and on this rope she would be heaved ahead in
the morning when the process of hauling would begin.
It was a lovely evening with the sun sinking behind a low bank of dark
cloud, a sure sign of westerly wind to come.
Close astern a great white carpet of birds had settled on the calm
waters to await their breakfast from the nets. Now and then the silence
was gently broken by the soft 'Whoo-oof' of a herring whale.
Monday night meant that there was no back-log of sleep to catch up on so
the crew were rather slower than usual to turn in. They sat for a while
behind the wheelhouse discussing the past weekend and vying with each
other in identifying the vessels nearest to them.
As far as the eye could see, there were ships on the same errand as
themselves. Each one had her mizzen sail set and her two paraffin dig
lights becoming more readily visible in the gathering dark.
Then, as if by common consent, all hands went below to turn in, leaving
one man to keep watch.
There would be three one-hour watches and the last man would make tay at
1 am.
In the cabin there was a shocked silence as the skipper removed his
briks afore turning in.
'This is something new, boys! Here's a man gaan in ower athoot 'is briks!'
'The days o miracles is surely nae past efter aa' An fit's this he's
wearin?'
'Surely nae fite drawers an a fite seemit? Ye never saw the like afore,
did ye?'
'Nivver! It's a mercy we're aa spared!'
Of course Jeemsie the cook started to snicker and when he whispered
'Moby Dick, the great white whale!' the dam burst and the crew laughed
themselves silly.
'Folk'll nivver believe this!' But the amusement faded rapidly when the
Turk disappeared into his bunk, treating his men with silent contempt.
The man on watch in the wheelhouse knew nothing of this. Nor was he
aware that about eleven o'clock the Turk had come on deck in his new
outfit to hae a look at the nicht an to listen intently for the quiet
'plop' o herrin loupin.
The watchman came aft at his appointed time to call his relief. Then
suddenly his hair stood on end for there on the starboard quarter stood
a ghostly figure, 'clothed in white samite; mystic, wonderful'.
The poor deckie gave one piercing yell of terror and bolted!
'Od, there maun be something wrang wi that loon!' says the Turk and he
ambled forrard in the wake of the terror stricken youth, whose yell had
brought three of his mates on deck in a state of alarm.
But when these fellas got on deck, the sound of running feet was away in
the fore part of the vessel, so they set off to investigate.
At the end ofthe first lap, the thunder of feet brought the rest of the
crew on deck in a hurry and they too joined in the hunt.
Towards the end of the fourth lap, the Turk tripped on a pond board and
fell clyte on his belly.
His crew promptly fell on top of him and there was a great stramash.
The sole survivor had scooted down to the cabin and into his bunk like a
frightened rabbit.
It was a gey sheepish and tired crew who silently took their tay at 1
am. The skipper, for all his bulk, was the fittest of the lot.
'Now, lads,' says he, 'if ye're gaan t' run a marathon ye're better t'
weir the richt gear for't. Ye'll nivver see the winnin post wi hairback
briks an worsit drawers on!'
'That's fit I had on,' says the watchman, 'an I bate the hale lot o ye!'
From the book A
Fisherman’s Reflections on a beautiful but troubled world
Peter Buchan – “Oxo” to his friends, -
was a fisherman from Peterhead who served on line boats, steam drifters,
and seine net boats, the family ones named Twinkling Star, and Sparkling
Star. He possessed a natural gift for poetry which he wrote mostly in
the ‘Doric’ tongue, the dialect of the Aberdeen / Buchan area. Peter
Buchan is to the fishing communities of north-east Scotland, what
Charles Murray of “Hamewith” fame is to the farming towns of the same
region. I was privileged to be involved in the publication of some of
his poetical works which were published under the title “Mount Pleasant”
after a location where he spent many happy boyhood days.
Among his best loved poems are; The
Mennin’ Laft; Not to the Swift; Best o’ the Bunch; Home Thoughts at the
Haisboro’;
The Skipper’s Wife;
Hame Comfort, and Buchan Beauty. Peter also wrote some couthy
stories, and contributed to local publications on the Doric dialect. It
is very difficult to select a few lines from Peter’s work, since each
poem has merit. But here are four verses from Home Thoughts that
describe the close of the annual herring fishery off Yarmouth and
Lowestoft in the late autumn of the years from 1890 to 1930. For the
sake of non-Aberdeenshire people, this poem is in English!
November’s moon has waned; the sea is
dreary,
December’s greyness fills the lowering sky;
But we are homeward bound, our hearts are cheery
For far astern the Ridge and Cockle lie.
The silver harvest of the knoll’s been gathered;
The teeming millions from their haunts have flown,
From Ship to South-Ower Buoy, the sea’s deserted,
And we have reaped whereof we had not sown.
When snow lies deep, in cosy loft a-mending
Our nets, the times of danger we’ll
recall,
The days of joy, the nights of disappointment,
Each silver shimmer and each weary haul.
And children, sitting chin-in-hand, will listen –
Forsaking for the moment, every toy;
For there’s a deep and wondrous fascination
In sea tales, for the heart of every boy. |
