Scottish Loch Quotes

Then, in the most beautiful French Harry has ever heard, the boy whispers, ‘Of course I can fucking swim, you great Sassenach idiot. I grew up in a tower in the middle of a loch.

And that infrequent and devastating smile—and eyes just the color of a Scottish loch at sunset, sort of green-gold, like summer bracken or polished cairngorm.

He couldn’t be— Oh, Lord. He was. He was going to kiss her. “Wait.” Panicked, Maddie put both hands on his chest, holding him off. “Your men, my servants … they could be watching us.” “I’m certain they’re watching us. That’s why we’re going to kiss.” “But I don’t know how. You know I don’t know how.” His lips quirked. “I know how.” Those three little words, spoken in that low, devastating Scottish burr, did absolutely nothing to ease Maddie’s concerns. Thankfully, she had a reprieve. He pulled back and peered at her hair. He looked like a boy marveling at clockwork, wondering how it all worked. After a few moments, she felt him grasp the pencil holding her chignon. With one long, slow tug, he eased it loose and cast it aside. It landed in the loch with a splash. His fingers sifted through her hair, teasing the locks free of their haphazard knot and arranging them about her shoulders. Tenderly. Like she’d always imagined a lover would. Sparks of sensation danced from her scalp to her toes. “That was my best drawing pencil,” she said. “It’s just a pencil.” “It came from London. I have a limited supply.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “It almost put out my eye. I’ve a limited supply of those, too. And it’s better this way.” “But—” Her breath caught. “Oh.” He bracketed her cheeks with his hands, tilting her face to his. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She stared at his mouth. A wave of inevitability washed over her. She whispered, “This is really happening, isn’t it?” In answer, he pressed his lips to hers.

OK, so which sound was it? Well, another problem here is we don’t even use that sound in English any more, except in a few cases, like for that sound of disgust, that back-of-the-throat rough vibration found at the end of the word blechhhh. Linguists call it a velar fricative. You’ll also find it in yech, ichh, and ughh, but you can hear it in a few more wordy kinds of words too—the composer Bach, words from Yiddish like tuchus or chutzpah or from Scottish like loch or the name Lachlan.

For example, Scotland's famous Loch Ness Monster is too often thought to be a recent product of the local Tourist Board's efforts to bring in some trade, yet Loch Ness is by no means the only Scottish loch where monsters have been reported. Loch Lomond, Loch Awe, Loch Rannoch and the privately owned Loch Morar (over 1000 ft deep) also have records of monster activity in recent years. Indeed, there have been over forty sightings at Loch Morar alone since the end of the last war, and over a thousand from Loch Ness in the same period.

Would you like to see where I will build your house, m’lady?” She grinned. “You mean our house?” He mirrored her smile. “Aye.” Taking her hand, he led her along the path to the mouth of the River Coe. They stood on a curved peninsula high above the river where it would be free from floods. Hugh spread his arms wide and looked across Loch Leven. “The hills of Glencoe will be our backdrop, the river of the Coe will be our music, and our galleys will sail through the water of the Leven to Loch Linnhe and out to sea. Mark me, my love, Clan Iain Abrach will rebuild, and will once again rule these lands.” He looked into her eyes and saw joy there. “And you will be my queen.

Kenzie Denune pedaled the bicycle harder, her thighs burning from the exertion. Thanks to a car that refused to start, she was going to be late for her job interview at Iverson Loch Manor. Grunting and pounding from the shrubs ahead, near the road's edge, snagged her attention. Naked shoulders glistened in the afternoon sun. Back muscles bulged and undulated with every thrust. “Bloody hell. Come fer me. Come.” In all of Mathe Bay in the Scottish Highlands, only one deep masculine voice had the power to raise the hair on her arms like this. A man with braided russet-colored hair that brushed broad shoulders inked with a bear's claw marks, woven into an intricate tribal design - Bryce Matheson. Damn him to hell. Who's he shagging in broad daylight? Out in the open, no less. Has he no shame? ... “I canna keep pounding at ye like this all bloody day. Me back is about to give out.” Bryce moaned and groaned again, obviously in the throes of ecstasy. The bear-shifting bastard. She eased up on the brakes to whiz past his love nest of bushes and brambles. “I'll not give up until I get ye wild cherry. Let me push both me thumbs and most of me fingers in here and....." My God, what's he doing to her? Kenzie couldna resist one fleeting glance over her shoulder. Her front wheel plunged into a pothole and the bike pitched... as she toppled across the grit. The force of the impact, combined with the slant of the narrow road, caused her to roll toward Bryce and his current conquest. No! No, God, no!

A Brief Guide to Welsh Pronunciation c a hard ‘c’ sound (Cadfael) ch a non-English sound as in Scottish ‘ch’ in ‘loch’ (Fychan) dd a buzzy ‘th’ sound, as in ‘there’ (Ddu; Gwynedd) f as in ‘of’ (Cadfael) ff as in ‘off’ (Gruffydd) g a hard ‘g’ sound, as in ‘gas’ (Goronwy) l as in ‘lamp’ (Llywelyn) ll a breathy ‘thl’ sound that does not occur in English (Llywelyn) rh a breathy mix between ‘r’ and ‘rh’ that does not occur in English (Rhys) th a softer sound than for ‘dd,’ as in ‘thick’ (Arthur) u a short ‘ih’ sound (Gruffydd), or a long ‘ee’ sound (Cymru—pronounced ‘kumree’) w as a consonant, it’s an English ‘w’ (Llywelyn); as a vowel, an ‘oo’ sound (Bwlch) y the only letter in which Welsh is not phonetic. It can be an ‘ih’ sound, as in ‘Gwyn,’ is often an ‘uh’ sound (Cymru), and at the end of the word is an ‘ee’ sound (thus, both Cymru—the modern word for Wales—and Cymry—the word for Wales in the Dark Ages—are pronounced ‘kumree’)

This is ridiculous. Will either of us ever finish a sentence ever again? We’re like dunderheid teenagers. She at least has an excuse, only being two years more than that age. I’m forty. I’ve been the kingpin of Blackstone for a decade, and I’ve fallen for this girl like rock tossed into a loch.

Besides, my too anxious mother, look at our country: God's gift of freedom is stamped upon it. Our mountains are his seal. Plains are the proper territories of tyranny; there, the armies of an usurper may extend themselves with ease; leaving no corner unoccupied, in which patriotism might shelter, or treason hide. But mountains, glens, morasses, and lakes, set bounds to the conquest; and amidst these is the impregnable seat of liberty. To such a fortress, to the deep defiles of Loch Catherine, or to the cloud-piercing heights of Corryarraick, I would have my father retire, there watch the footsteps of our mountain goddess, till led by her immortal champion, she plants her standard forever upon the summit of Scotland's proudest hill!

The Great Lake (which is really a Scottish loch, apparently freshwater and landlocked) never did develop as a portal to other seas or rivers, although the appearance of the Durmstrang ship from its depths in Goblet of Fire hints at the fact that if you are travelling by an enchanted craft, you might be able to take a magical shortcut to other waterways. Giant squid genuinely exist, though they are most mysterious creatures. Although their extraordinary bodies have been washed up all over the world, it was not until 2006 that a live giant squid was captured on film by Muggles. I strongly suspect them of having magical powers.

Inexplicable by Stewart Stafford I ran into Bigfoot, Or John Paul Yeti, Told me of aliens, Found by SETI. E.T.s kidnapped me, And I lost two hours, Hurts to sit down now, They never sent flowers. Nessie gives the hump, Or is it a boat’s wake? So proud to be Scottish, Bagpipes in the loch/lake. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

took a short break for a different underwater quest that probably drove my more traditional colleagues crazy: I helped National Geographic on an article about the Loch Ness monster. Emory Kristof said I should apply my scientific know-how to the hunt for this mythical beast, and I thought, Why not? There were good reasons to take up the challenge. I had never seen the Scottish Highlands, and this was a chance for Margie and me to do it on someone else’s nickel. We also needed the money that the Geographic project would provide. And, honestly, sometimes it helps not to take yourself too seriously—or so I told myself.

The ideal coorie scene should reflect a balance of the outside and in. Bring to mind a day spent Munro-bagging or loch swimming, bookended by a bowl of something hot and nourishing as you dry off next to a heat source with a contended dog at your side. Don't forget smell: faint lanolin clinging to woollen blankets, cinnamon dissolving into porridge cooking slowly on the hob, the frosty pinch of winter air when you step into a Trossachs morning. If a King Creosote album is playing as you road trip across the humpbacked north-west Highlands then all the better. The more homegrown ingredients are added to the mix, the coorier life will be.

LOCH NESS Nicknamed Nessie, the Loch Ness monster is described by the Scottish as a shy plesiosaur-like creature with a long neck and humps protruding from the water.

2. Thou shall not fear the cold. So many coorie activities involve being outdoors: hiking demands a steely core and constitution, exploring the woods for crafty finds requires sturdy footwear - even skiing in the Cairngorms requires patience. All these pursuits offer the chance to clear the mind and get to know the country from within. Wild swimming in Scottish lochs is having a moment. Its beauty, swimmers claim, lies in the restorative nature of an ice-cold dip set against a backdrop of Scotland's most idyllic scenery. Nobody promised Barbadian temperatures, or clear blue seas, but for enthusiasts the appeal lies in testing yourself to your furthest limits.

Fell opportunity that has so often turned saints into sinners could have had no place upon the rocky islet in the lake. The voices of the sisters singing in the choir must have been scarce distinguishable from the lapping of the wavelets on the beach, or blending with them, made up a harmony, as if nature and man were joining in a pantheistic hymn. Nuns may have lived upon the Island with, or without vocation, have eaten out their hearts with longing for their lost world, or, like the Saint of Avila, in mystic ecstasy have striven to be one with the celestial spouse. All this may well have been, but the dim sisterhood has left no record of its passage upon earth, except the name Inch Cailleach, beautiful in its liquid likeness to the sound of the murmuring waves, and the wind sighing in the brackens and the bents.