View Full Version : Wattled cotes

10th Dec 2006, 14:36
While most of you are engaged in the dialogue: "Switches on. Contact!", I and perhaps I underestimate the number of others, am devoting part of the day to The Scholar Gypsy, which begins:

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!

and there I pause. I would do it willingly, you understand, but never have I met, far less untied, a wattled cote. I might turn to Dr draper whose skill in practical matters is legendary. I fear, though, the wattled c. practice may fall beyond his maritime experience. Miss singaporegirl, too, is something of a polymath, but more, I hazard, urban than rural. I expect G-CPTN knows, and if not him then ORAC. How does one untie a w.c., so to speak, or even a cote that is only partly wattled, and what evil results from just ignoring it?

10th Dec 2006, 14:56
Ah well, I remember wattle and daub construction in early building...evidenced in the vale and downland museum.

could it be a wattle building meant for housing doves?

10th Dec 2006, 15:03
It's a kind of fence. You get willow or something bendy and weave it through uprights, that's the wattling, it can be used in building if you can't afford bricks and want to build a house with stick and plaster. Cote is just the enclosure I think, but you can't put a lock on these things, they come in sections about six feet long, so they're tied together with string or rope or wire.

So untie the wattled cotes means let the sheep out.


10th Dec 2006, 15:08
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!

Literally, I think; 'Shepherd get up that hill and let those sheep out of those woven willow (or hazel) pens, they're starving, I can hear them from here'.

10th Dec 2006, 15:08
Goodness me! and in less than 30 minutes, too. Many thanks, Gentlemen. Of course Foss has an advantage, being from Ireland. Seems they are never done wattling there:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

No doubt the bean rows were optional for the Scholar G.

P.S. I suppose I should preserve this in Adobe.

P.P.S. The Foss reference to "stick and plaster" takes me back to 1943 or so:

Addiewell schule's a bonnie wee schule
It's built wi' sticks an' plaister;
An' a' that's wrang wi' Addiewell schule's
The baldy-heidit maister.

That last comes with apologies to the late Hugh Graham, head teacher, veteran of the Western Front, and a fine man. Call it poetic licence.

10th Dec 2006, 15:12
according to Chambers dictionary, a cote is a place for sheltering animals, not just doves. It specifically mentions a sheep-cote, so I think that it is a sheep pen made from wattle (twigs or branches).

Makes sense, really!


10th Dec 2006, 15:12
I think Mr Foss has it.

Incidentally, wattled cotes pop up in Browning as well:

"Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,
Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread
Their gear on the rock's bare juts."

(By the Fireside)

10th Dec 2006, 15:30
There's gaelic for wattle, as well.
It's 'major pain in the arse.'
You've to get someone who's about a hundred to do it for you.
You sit and split all these bloody branches using a billhook, trying not to lose any fingers off your left hand.
Finish, and it looks like poo. Wobbly poo. So you end up driving to the garden centre and buying some.

10th Dec 2006, 15:33
I shall be guided, Foss, by your recommendation to caution. One of the jobs from which in youth I was nearly fired was assistant to the apprentice gardener at Camperdown Park, Dundee. I showed little talent, although my temporary secondment to Chipperfield's Circus as elephant cage cleaner brought out my inherent skills as stoker (put to good use in later years on a factory-installed marine boiler or, in the patois of Forfar, biler). I got along just fine with the elephants, and they seemed happy enough with me. Back to Camperdown: my work, as I laughingly called it, did bring me fairly close to hedges, but at an essentially junior level: we, and certainly I, did no hedgelaying, coppicing, heavy cutting, trimming, or brashing. Light snedding did not even come into contemplation. It was mainly raking.

P.S. The hazards were not unknown when shawing neeps, and the implement appears not dissimilar. This was the endeavour of yet another venture on the land from which I was actually "let go", well, demoted anyway, for lack of tenacity in the machine, a "seeder" I believe, they tacked on behind the tractor, driven by Dave, the iron aristo of the ferm.

My task was to stick my forearm in among whirling steel discs as we reached each furrow or dreel, grab some extrusion, and release a flow of seed upon the land. It was just like the hymn: "We plough the field and scatter the good seed on the land, and it is fed (?) and watered by God's providing (?) hand", save that I would pause just an instant to escape the very amputation against which Foss so kindly warns. This resulted in what the RN calls "holidays" (such a tactful phrase; much better than "gaps") in the flow. Since Dave was up front I thought he might not notice, but he did, and I was relegated to stacking sacks of tatties. The shame!

tony draper
10th Dec 2006, 15:47
Hmmm, the Rev E Cobham Brewer has nought to say on this matter,which is odd, one has neglected this gentleman of late,however in ones search one came upon.
"Wayzgoose", a annual dinner picknic or bean feast given to or held by those employed in printing houses.
"Wayz" a obsolete word for stubble,
Stubble Goose, properly the crowning dish of the entertainment, St Martins Goose.

10th Dec 2006, 15:49
You can also wattle the top of a living hedge, farmers round here do it. (below average finger count). Instead of completley cutting the wood, they half cut it then twist it into the next one and so on. Meant to make a sturdier hedge or something.

Can't believe we're talking about wattling.
You should try pollarding. Then you can fall and cut a limb off with a chainsaw. Yeah.

10th Dec 2006, 16:36
It all comes flooding back. At one time I actually owned a farm, well eighty acres anyway. The locals regarded me indulgently as a federal funding program. The driveway was one kilometre long and the chap with the snow plough told me he looked on blizzards as "pannies [sic!]from heaven".

I decided to till, as we say, the soil and off I went in my half-ton, for although I did not have all the equipment I did have that. I followed the mores closely, driving along the secondary road in a sin curve, chewing the straw, and indicating a left when my intention was to swing sharply right. My purpose was to rent a roto-tiller (it was the word "till" that captured my imagination. Camperdown lay far behind), and I did. I had two planks for rolling it up on to the platform of the half-ton. I also had a rope, for I was not without foresight.

Back at the ranch, farm anyway, Frau Davaar, a real stick in the mud, viewed my return with forced enthusiasm. It took a while to unload the roto-tiller but with the planks and the rope and the two us and all we managed. Eventually.

I do not know if you know how a roto-tiller works? At the time, I did not. It has a small gasoline motor that can sometimes be got to start, and that is connected to claw-like spokes set on a spindle. The idea is that the claws chew into the earth, much as your plough. The hymn came back to me again: All good things around us are sent from Heaven above, So thank the Lord, Oh Thank the Lord, for all His love. Yip.

Well I got the motor started and the claws engaged. Fantastic! I then tried to insert claws in earth, but a complication arose. Instead of digging in, they acted like a snow tire and pulled the contraption ahead. No digging. I am not just another pretty face, you know, so I thought about it. You remember that bit about equal and opposite forces? Sure you do, and I did too. What we needed, I calculated, was a rear-ward horizontal force D for drag equal and opposite to the forward force T for thrust. Stauns, as we say in Scotland, tae reason.

Well, I had the rope and come to think of it, Frau Davaar had slid off into the house (beautiful house it was). It was the work of a moment to invite her presence. I explained. I would tie the rope, one end anyway, to the roto-tiller and the other end to ---Ahhh --- her, and she could sort of lean back, as it were, against the forward pull of the machine, thus providing balance in the system of forces. You have to understand that Frau Davaar never studied physics, not to any depth, and she is a bit slow to follow this scientific stuff. In commerce they call it consumer resistance.

Of course I was carrying the whole load of responsibility so I had to explain to her, without being in the slightest bit testy, that we were pioneers in a new land, and that what I was asking was nothing to what was demanded of the Doukhabor women who thought nothing, nothing I had to repeat, of yoking up to the plough. That tipped the balance, and she took the rope, but it seemed to me that her heart was not really in it. Besides, that damned machine may have been defective. It did not seem to bite very well.

I took it back and the chap explained that there is a kind of anchor device that one kicks into position, and that provides force D. As I suggested to Frau Davaar when I got back home again, he might have told me that at the start, and besides it did confirm my intellectual analysis of the forces at play. I pointed that out to Frau Davaar and I thought she might have been a tad less withdrawn. I blamed the French.

I never did get into the provincial reafforestation program. One of my neighbours did. He hired all the local kids and planted eighty acres of African black walnut. It takes eighty years to grow to maturity, but is very valuable. He was an engineer, an Irishman, and understood roto-tillers. He saw the trees as an investment for his grandchildren; but tragedy struck. As he explained it: "It wus rabbuts, Jum, rabbuts. The wan night Ah had twinty tousand African black walnut [that is how we talk in the tree business, as in twenty thousand "walnut", not "walnuts"] the next mornin' Ah had twinty tousand pincils". I think he blamed the French too.

I left the land, and I heard he had as well.

10th Dec 2006, 16:47
Cote wattling is child's play. It's dwile flonking that you could have a bit of trouble with.

10th Dec 2006, 16:59
Mr Davaar's pioneer skills
With wattling and roto-tills
Were the cause of much strife
Between him and his wife,
Who much preferred elephant spills.

10th Dec 2006, 17:01
They should be banned.
My respected father is all into growing his own vegetables and stuff, since I was a kid. He suggested turning part of his back garden into a veggie patch to grow potatoes, but it needs turned over, it's a lawn.
'Father, I shall hire one and I shall do that for you.'

Nearly get a hernia trying to lift this bloody thing into the car at the hire shop. Get it out of the car eventually at the folks.
Start it. No, try again. Start it. No, try again. Start it.
Then it takes off like a dragster, but I'm the one being dragged.
It took all my strength to hold it so it would bite into the ground, and it took ages to do the specified area.
No potatoes were ever planted, and I've gone through this process every year for five years. It's now lawn again.
He can go to the shop and buy potatoes.

10th Dec 2006, 17:09
There was even a song about it once........

"wattle I do, when you......."

spots homicidal glances and leaves....

10th Dec 2006, 17:15
Whittle your wattle, thread it together, then throw on some daubing and you have the perfect winter hideaway..............or winter cote

10th Dec 2006, 17:22
What an erudite crowd!

From W.B. Yeats's 'Sailing to Byzantium'

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.

So please give me the meaning of 'perne in a gyre' to the nearest decimal place. I believe it also derives from some obscure British practice.

10th Dec 2006, 18:52
My brother is called Robin,
So we called him Bobbin,
Then we called him Spool because he was always losing the thread of a conversation.
But now he's a scientist who travels the world and earns more money than me.
But when I phone, I still ask is Bob in?
He now answers to Bob.

Speaking of spools, this is massive thread drift. Sorry.

10th Dec 2006, 19:38
You shouldn't needle him so much.

10th Dec 2006, 20:34
Aye well, he was a bit of a prick.

Annnnyway, we should get back to traditional woodcraft techniques or get our coats.
Fos ;)

10th Dec 2006, 21:40
Annnnyway, we should get back to traditional woodcraft techniques or get our coats.
Fos ;)

Ach, those wattled cotes are for cissies, this is the real thing!


tony draper
10th Dec 2006, 22:28
In the North in the olden days there were special summer camps for shepards to go on holiday with their favourite sheep, they were called Shiels,ergo hense we have North Shields South Shields Gallashields ect.

10th Dec 2006, 22:37
That's not why Australian women are known as Sheilas, is it? :uhoh:

10th Dec 2006, 22:52

10th Dec 2006, 23:14
I notice that chuks is from Germany. One must never, carried away by Wattleangst, fail to acknowledge that land's gift of the hymn mentioned as my support in the dark agricultural days:

Wir pfluegen und wir streuen
den Samen auf das Land,
doch Wachstum und Gedeihen
steht in des Himmels Hand.

Matthias Claudius, 1740 - 1815

10th Dec 2006, 23:57

11th Dec 2006, 00:53
Davaar, please translate that, it's annoying me now. My German is self taught and terrible.
We plough the fields and something,
The good seed on the land
(guessing about seed there)
But it's fed and something something
But we are in God's hands
That's probably all rubbish, but you've got to try.

11th Dec 2006, 00:56

Loose rivets
11th Dec 2006, 02:48
Scatter...sort of streuen about.:}

11th Dec 2006, 08:28
Thank you Group.
I wasn't too far off, well, I sort of knew what it said. When are you ever going to use watered in general conversation, flip sake.
Fos ein volk, ein reich, ein dictionary

11th Dec 2006, 08:40
You could sum that one up by saying, 'Man proposes and God disposes,' I think.

The farmer puts in the effort of plowing and sowing but then 'Himmel' (which can mean both 'sky' and 'Heaven') determines the yield.

You guys sure made quick work of 'perne in a gyre,' by the way. I must find something Google knows nothing about! I wonder what that could be.

tony draper
11th Dec 2006, 08:58
Speaking of obscure words and phrases one has oft wondered from whense came the phrase "Okie Dokie",(sp?) meaning "all right" or "I understand"or "very well" someone has just used the phrase during a communication of a telephonic nature to me.
Twas a phrase one's old dad used a lot,sounds vaugely American,perchance it came over in wartime along with nylon stockings candy and overpaid oversexed military chaps.

11th Dec 2006, 10:05
Speaking of obscure words and phrases one has oft wondered from whense came the phrase "Okie Dokie",(sp?) meaning "all right" or "I understand"or "very well" someone has just used the phrase during a communication of a telephonic nature to me.
Twas a phrase one's old dad used a lot,sounds vaugely American,perchance it came over in wartime along with nylon stockings candy and overpayed oversexed military chaps.
:rolleyes:Eddy Hitler repeatedly mentioned that to Richard Richard and I know a Dutch show jumping horse called "Okidoki" on which somebody from the US offered a staggering sum of 4 Mio!

11th Dec 2006, 11:25
Apparently, (good let-out clause that) folk used the word "Ahoy" when first answering the telephone.

Of course, early telephone development was at a standstill for years until they made the second telephone and then came up with the idea of wiring it up to the first one.

11th Dec 2006, 11:29
All that poetry, and nobody's mentioned:

This here's the Wattle
Emblem of our land
You can stick it in a bottle
Or you can hold it in your hand

Bruce ?, Australian philosopher

11th Dec 2006, 12:19
According to Wikipedia, OK in various modes goes back to newspapers in Boston, Mass., presumably, not Lincs., in 1839. In those days misspelling -- My! How we all laughed! -- was deliberate and considered the height of "humorous", whereas today it is the normal product of education. "O.K." was a "conscious misspelling of "all correct", a real knee-slapper of the genre. "Okay" appeared in print in the UK around 1860. Sometimes, it tell us, with what comes to appear a fixation, a "humorous" form okee dokee (or, in case you miss the point, "okey dokey") is used, as well as "A-ok".

Moving right along, I believe we owe, although Wikipedia is silent on this, A-OK to NASA. I recall from somewhere or other that they found A-OK more easily grasped in truly long-distance telephony than a measly OK.

I can't leave this without mention of the "OK Supreme", a British motor-cycle, florebat the early 1900s until 1939, powered by various marques from about 250 cc to 500 cc. The most common was the JAP. They were raced in the IoM TT for years. One was for sale in Dundee in 1952, but I did not have the money then. I still don't, and the good Frau and Frauelein Davaar are streng prejudiced against motor-cycles, and also question my sense of balance. This goes back, of course, to the day I entertained the kids with the pogo-stick. As I explained at the time, it could have happened to anyone, and I left Emergency without a stain on my character. Still, if you hear of an OK Supreme on the market let me know anyway. Just between us girls.

tony draper
11th Dec 2006, 13:20
Then of course we also have a altercation at a certain Corral involving a constable his brothers and a Dentist chum on one side, and some people involved in the cattle transport business on tother.

11th Dec 2006, 14:21
Better known in Britain as "The Gunfight at the O K Wattle Cote". Rather sheepishly, of course.

11th Dec 2006, 14:38
With all this building of wattle it strikes me that poets are crap builders.
Yeats at least should have known better, being one of us Micks.
"a small cabin build there, of concrete and nine-inch solid blocks made"

Looking forward to seeing Davaar in the next series of "Pimp my Roatavator"

tony draper
11th Dec 2006, 15:14
Mr Davaars rotovator adventure reminds me of a similar demonstration of the conservation of angular momentum(err I thinks) one had cause to drill down through eight inches of concrete into a bank vault,perfectly legitimatly one hastens to add,one's own drill mighty though it was would not look at same, so one ventured forth and hired a vast rotory Quango hammer,one dragged it through the office earning many admiring glances from ladies behind desks, plonked the diamond tipped business end into position pressed the trigger,the drill bit remained stationary but Draper did three full revolutions before being flung off (at a perfect tangent of course in keeping with the laws of physics)
Tiz difficult to retain one's dignity in such situations.
:( :rolleyes:

11th Dec 2006, 15:32
Despite the scepticism, Dr draper, which you occasionally profess, we may all venture thanks to -- shall we say? -- Providence that the result in your case was not fatal. The equivalent in aviation is the torque stall, in which the aircraft attempts to rotate around the propeller. This may not be a biggie in terms of your Gypsy Major, but try it on finals with the Merlin or the mighty Griffon and it may hurt; but not, as the man said, for long.

11th Dec 2006, 15:54
Mr Draper lost his enamour
Of his rotary quango hammer
When its angular momentum
Forcefully sent 'im
Flying, with a bit of a clamour.

tony draper
11th Dec 2006, 16:11
Something else strange,one has just returned from the corner shop bearing freshy killed mushrooms,(one is in a mushroom omlete mood)when one became involved in that wierd ritual of the narrow path two step, bloke rather broad of beam approaching from opposite heading at a fair closing speed, at two yards one steps to one's right as he steps to the left,we correct, he steps to the right as one steps tot the left, stalemate,two more moves ensue, so one decides one of us has to take the initiative,so one gestures for him to pass on my right just as he gestures for me to pass on his right,the situation is of course eventualy resolved,but it made one think there should be some hard and fast rules of the footpath for pedestrians,one should always pass on the right thus leaving the sword arm free to grope for ones cutlass should the other pedestrian prove to be a footpad cutpurse or the like.

:uhoh: :rolleyes:

11th Dec 2006, 19:50
er, what kind of mushrooms did you buy, since you seem to have a potentential sword fight on the way home from the shops, must have been a magic trip. Just asking.

11th Dec 2006, 20:32
there should be some hard and fast rules of the footpath for pedestrians,
I believe it's called the pass a doblee. Keep to left, as in the rules of the road usually works for me.

11th Dec 2006, 22:19
Hey, I remember cotes and rotavators. I was a farmer's boy!

There's a parallel activity to making cotes, called "hedging and ditching". It's no longer practised in the agricultural South-East of the UK because it's immensely labour-intensive. It involves (as mentioned above) splitting the stems of the hedgerow and layering it so that it's all lying at a nice consistent angle, niftily interwoven, and at the right height to be a proper hedge. It produces a nice,thick, strong hedge that keeps small boys from climbing through the hedge on their illicit pursuit of the local pheasants, partridges, and rabbits. Fortunately, the blokes who did it round my usual shooting grounds weren't that good - they left holes for me :)

The ditching bit involves clearing out the debris from the ditches while doing the hedging, and applying it to the bottom of the hedging, to glue the branches more firmly in place and to allow the water to flow. I was told (by them as should know) that you could measure an agricultural labourer's skill by how many yards of H&D he could do in a day.

Nowadays, a bloke with a tractor drives along the hedge with a sort of vertically-mounted giant lawnmower, which mangles the hedge and leaves it looking a right mess. He usually also cuts the local telephone wires with his device, removes gateposts, and much more. But he can "do" in ten minutes the hedge that would have taken the old skilled man all day. The ditches don't get cleared out, which is why half the country gets waterlogged when it rains.

I was very handy with a rotavator (well, this one was called an Auto-Culto, but it's the same concept). I learned a lot about physics from that device. It had thrust equal to many times the weight of a young Keef (it would be a different story now) so I had to make very deft movements of the various levers and throttles to control the beast. It was a bit like a Sukhoi 26 in the hands of Svetlana, but not so attractive. I once did a large chunk of a 2-acre plot in an afternoon. I did't walk straight for a week after that, mind.

Rich Lee
12th Dec 2006, 00:36
Mechanized farming .... Bah! Bring back the dung cart I say!

12th Dec 2006, 00:47
Bring back the dung cart I say!

.............. in common, I believe, with your former President Truman. A friend of Bess asked if she could possibly prevail on Mr President to leave off the "dung" and say "manure". "My dear", replied Mrs Truman, "If you only knew how hard it was to get him to say "dung" ............"

Rich Lee
12th Dec 2006, 01:01
Yes, I see her point. Only a Republican would use 'manure cart'.

tony draper
12th Dec 2006, 08:15
There still are dung carts,or at least dung spreaders, one knows this for a fact after being stuck behind one for about three miles on a narrow Yorkshire track on a very hot summers day,they appear to have a top speed of about 5 MPH,one discovered is impossible for one to hold one's breath for more than a quarter mile.

henry crun
12th Dec 2006, 08:28
At 5 mph it would take 3 minutes to cover a quarter of a mile.

Tis a fine pair of lungs you have Mr D. if you can hold your breath for that long. :)

tony draper
12th Dec 2006, 08:39
Its supprising how long one can hold one's breath Mr Crun especialy if one is hiding in a ladies wardrobe because her hubby has suddenly returned.

12th Dec 2006, 10:46
Muck spreaders
Invented by Satan to annoy people. You go out into the back garden and it's 'ack ack it stinks' back inside.
Spreaders go about 2 miles an hour on the road flinging cow crap onto your car and you can't pass them, and you can't shout abuse at the driver because he lives about 500 yards up the road.
Then someone aged about 120 inevitably says it's a good country smell.
Well I don't fancy coming across the bad country smell.

12th Dec 2006, 13:04
Muck spreaders
Invented by Satan to annoy people. Fos

Annoying, Foss, I think we must all grant without question; but yet how instructive, in view of your field work and of the essentially literary origins of this thread, bringing home from real-time observation of local hazards, albeit subject to the old "cow" caveat, your monograph in support of traditional a priori insight as to the merit of the Scottish simile: "As Irish as the pigs of Docherty".

12th Dec 2006, 13:28
Mornington Crescent!

12th Dec 2006, 13:38
Cote wattling is child's play. It's dwile flonking that you could have a bit of trouble with.

Ah yes, a traditional Olde Englyshe country pastime invented in around 1965. (Although the name may be much earlier, associated with the Bard, Kenneth Williams)

12th Dec 2006, 16:16
That might be Drogheda, which is across the border, and therefore does not exist, because it's down south. Unless you're going on a motoring holiday.
And it's full of retired terrorists. Well, a few, I'd better shut up now, before I get in trouble.

There's a blind corner up the road and you can tell the seasons by it. Drive round it and nearly get run down by a combine 'ah it must be harvest time, how quaint,'
Drive round and there's a tractor with a massive plough on the back. 'Ah, it must be late Autumn.'
Drive round and there's a huge lorry full off sheep. Right that's Spring then.

I be living in tha contry ah do

17th Dec 2006, 16:10
That might be Drogheda, which is across the border, and therefore does not exist, because it's down south.

No, Foss, not Drogheda, which rightly or wrongly I associate with Cromwell and by later implication the "Shan van Vocht".

But to my present purpose. While I am not your great party-man, the distaff side sometimes mumps on and on until one does the Right Thing, and so it was last evening, bidden as was she and, probably with reluctance, I to M's place.

This soirée was attended in the main by nouveau-Lucky-Jim academics of the second rank, clad à la mode in the T-shirt, the moccasins, and the jeans of their sordid trade, the women more boldly than the men attempting to score over the others. The one in the leather ****** had spent the most, it appeared, but that was not enough. In one’s own eccentricity of suit, white shirt, tie, and brogues or “wing-tips” (recently, Gasp!!! polished!!!!) one stood, as it were, out; as so often, the bump on the log. I had warned the distaff it would be even so. These are the fashion-notes.

Then came my moment: the Associate Professor of ****** ******* dropped a word into conversation: “wattles”.

Well! Let me tell you! How rarely come such moments! Fate had brought der Tag! I fell short, perhaps, of holding them spell-bound, but I can fairly claim that eyes glazed over as I descanted on the wattle wissenschaftliche Arbeiten, the recent focus of these very pages. Up and doon I took them, an’ roon’ an’ roon’ the toon.

But revenons, as almost inevitably we must, and appropriately too, given the cote-link, à nos moutons. The good Professor rallied: I had to hand it to him. There is a verb, he said, bravely attempting to wrest back the initiative, in Welsh Wales: “bangori”, which means, in short to “wattle” or more completely to fortify or surround with a fortification of wattled wall. From this we, or they, derive the name “Bangor”. Little wonder, you may say, the feelthy Eeeenglish hammered them if they put their trust in a wattle-wall, of as much use as the Maginot Line; but that came later and would have meant nothing to the ancient Welsh. Let's be fair.

I am sure the wattle-lobby will treasure this latest nugget of scholarship.

tony draper
17th Dec 2006, 16:21
Hmmm, the Rev E Cobam Brewer LL.D. only covers Watling Street,he opines that the name is a corruption of Vitellina Strada called by the Britons Guet'alin,so nowt ter do with yer actual Wattles.
Incidently one learned today that the Rev Brewers Tome is included in the list of ten books humans should take to a different planet

17th Dec 2006, 17:17
Where else, other than Jet Blast, would a thread entitled 'Wattled cotes' even appear, never mind run to 63 posts?

17th Dec 2006, 17:22
Just Googoo (http://www.google.com/search?sourceid=navclient-ff&ie=UTF-8&rlz=1B2GGGL_enGB175&q=wattled+cotes) and you'll find out . . .

tony draper
17th Dec 2006, 17:34
Hmmm, just realised there a place not five minutes walk from me called Shipcote,prolly a basardisation of Sheep Cote,and the main road at the top is call Cotesworth road,although now I think about it that is named after William Cotesworth who was a local 17 century scallywag and politician who was reputed to be so popular he had to carry two pistols about his person where ever he went.

17th Dec 2006, 18:02
I live in the Bangor area and the Vikings kicked the crap out us. Burnt down the monastry, one of the ancient seats of Christianity in Ireland.
Which must have been tricky since it was made of stone.
Big stones.

There's only about twenty foot of wall left.
Doing my tourism guide for visitors, 'And here is the monastry.' Gesture towards the monastry with a sweeping gesture.
'You are taking the piss, that's an old wall.'
It's meant to be the oldest brick structure in Ireland or something.
Well. stoney kind of bricks.

If there's a bloke tourist, I take them into the new Abbey, well couple of hundred years new and show them the battle flags.

17th Dec 2006, 18:20

17th Dec 2006, 18:49
Yeah, I've got a fair idea.
Go to the shore and turn left.
If you get confused and turn right, you'll end up in Donaghadee. That is a real place, honest. It's a fairly decent walk either way.

If you want sound local, then it's Banger. If you want to sound posh, then it's Bangoor.
Foswith helpful local advice. well maybe

17th Dec 2006, 18:53
Mr Davaar, in full throttle,
Elaborates on wattle.
The professor, back in anger,
Retaliates with bangor.
Who'd have thought a little fence
Would spark discussion so intense?

tony draper
17th Dec 2006, 18:55
One recals Nephew was thinking of going to the University of Bangor for his degree,but he decided a degree in micro biology would be more usefull that a degree in filling in one's crayoning book,so he went to Newcastle instead.

17th Dec 2006, 19:21
Yes, but is that the University of Bangor in Norn Iron, or the Coleg Prifysgol Cymru in Bangor, North Wales? There's a world of difference between the two towns...

No, I won't say it.

My elder daughter did a degree in English at Bangor in N Wales. Why she went to Wales to learn English baffled me at the time, and still does. But she got a 2:1 so it can't have been such a daft idea.

17th Dec 2006, 21:20
If you get confused and turn right, you'll end up in Donaghadee. [/SIZE]

Foss, surely everyone knows THAT:

"Tooraloo! Tooralee!
Oh! it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee"

[old ballad].

P.S. Oh Golly! Just checked in Google. Pehaps "The Ould Orange Flute" is not to everyone's taste.

tony draper
17th Dec 2006, 21:35
I remember a old fella used to get in a working mans club one patronised in one's yoof,one of these chaps who would get up on the stage and sing on a Sunday night,they tend to be very reluctant to perform at first but once one the stage they are difficult to stop,anyway his entire repertoire consisted of old IRA songs such as "All together in the green" which if I recall correctly mentions the echo of the Thompson gun and other such republican sentiments,nobody took much notice of these at the time and just regarded them as some kind of quaint folk songs,sadly toward the back end of the sixties his entire playlist became somewhat unusable,poor old buggah.

17th Dec 2006, 22:56
Together in the Green is a decent song, but I'd keep my head down if someone started playing it. I look like a soldier, they'd kick my head in. Oh, done that already.
Black Alice Band is good, and not exactly, well pro government.

Six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee was by Percy French I think.