Preamble ...
... postamble?

Fife's a place on it's ane. It's no th Hielands, an it's no whit ye caw 'Th Central Belt', though there's mony a bairn wishes that they'd never heard o th belts fae Lochgelly! An yet, in wan wey, it's like awplace else. There's th Fife that ye'll fund in th glossy brochures, th wan that th Tourist Boards try tae sell. An there's th ither Fife, th wan ah grew up in. No fur me are th golden saund, th green hills an th white-washed hooses. Fur me, it'll always be auld railway lines, th faun doon auld hooses, an th pit bings - the Grey Hills o Fife. Come the Seturday, we wis free tae dae whit we wanted. Nae skale. Mum awa doon tae th co-op at Crossroads or doon lower Methil fur wan o Gordon Allen's steak pies an buyin workin claes at th Wonder Store. Dad w'd be awa tae his work at th Michael. So it wis time tae get yer pals th gether tae decide whaur tae go. Could be onnyplace. Mebbe th Kirklands, or th Black Dub. Methilhill, wi th Pirnie bing an th swing park. An, of coorse, there wis ayewis th cowp! Wan thing Methil wisnae short o, it wis bings an cowps. Usually it wis jist as th mood took us. Tak a typical day… Wance th gang got th gether, we headed aff tae th Black Dub. Swarmin ower th dyke at th bottom o th gairden, it wis cross th main road an doon th Fire Station brae. Quick glance at Lightbody's bakery as we turned doon Morar street. (Micht jist gie it a run through th nicht. Pit oot guid stuff did Lightbodys!) Comin oot at Byron Street park, ye could see across th gress tae th auld railway embankment. It's aw gone noo, an they cry it Savoy Park, but then it wis jist a bit o gress whaur th bairns fae th skales played fitba. Primary skales in thae days h'd playgrunds, no playin fields. Ye cannae scart th segs on yer shin an mak sparks on gress! They'd ta'en up th rails long since, an aw that wis left wis th cinder track bed on th embankment. On th ither side wis th Black Dub! Whit yaised tae be th Leven Number 4 pit, whit awboddy cryed th Klondyke, wis lang gone. But th concrete foonds wis still there an th grund roond aboot wis flooded, an yaised as a tip. Auld beds an bits o wid. Spring matresses an bits o prams. Doors an couches. Scattered aw aroond. It wis a magic playgrund. We built ricket bridges across th Dub, wi planks laid fae couch tae tea chest tae bits o corrugated tin. Ther wis bits whaur ye h'd tae jump on tae a soggy auld tyke, wi th springs pokin oot, an aff again, quick, afore it sank alow th surface o th Dub. We dug trenches on th embankment an roofed them wi boxes an bits o watchcloth. We focht, and refocht, evry battle o th last twa hunnert years. D-Day. El Alamein. Little Big Horn. Th Somme. Rorkes Drift. Ah must hae defended th best o western civilisation a thousand times, an died a thousand times tryin tae tear it doon. We werenae politically correct, an mony o th words w'dnae be richt these days, but th strange thing is - nane o us grew up hatin onnybody else in th world because o it. We kent it wis a game. We climbed aw o'er th concrete foonds, an tried tae jump across fae wan tae t'other. Skint knees, battered faces, bleedin noses. Dares an challenges. If th mooth o Hell wis there, we'd hae jumped it. Whit usually stopped us wis boredom. "Ah'm fed up bein a German!" "Well ah wis th Japanese last week, so it has tae be your turn!" "No it disnae! Ah wanted tae play Cowboys an Indians." Devastatin scorn! "Dinnae be daft. Indians dae fecht in trenches!" "Why dis it h've tae be in th trenches?" "Cause ah brung ma moothorgan tae play." "Let's go tae th cowp!" That decided it. We aw tramped along th auld railway tae th Sea Road. Only, there wisnae onny road an it wisnae near th sea. But it wis whaur th cooncil dumped aw th rubbish, an ye could get some guid stuff there. Look at Methil th day, an look at Methil on an auld map, an ye'll see that it must be th landfill capital o Scotland. Between th pits, th cooncil an th steelworks, whit ye see o Methil noo, is what wis dumped an covered up. There's a Sea Road noo, an ye can see flat fields on either side, but we saw th den that gi'ed Denbeath its name, an a pit bing next tae th brickworks. Ah discovered only a few weeks ago that th brickworks bing was there cause they thocht that dumpin th redd fae th pits on tae th shore wis pollutin th beaches. So they dumped it in Denbeath instead. That lasted aboot a year, then they got back tae dumpin it on th shore again. Of coorse, we didnae ken this. We jist kent that a bing wis a great place tae play. Ye jist hunted aroond till ye fund a bit o enamelled tin. Ye ken th sort o thing ah mean. Thae advertisin signs fae th shops. 'Cadbury's Chocolate' an 'Woodbine' fags. Ah believe they're collectors items these days. Well, we made them a lot mair valuable, cause we made them a lot rarer! Ye took th tin sign an ye battered it wi a big stane till wan end wis curled up like a sledge. Then ye dragged it tae th tap o th bing, jumped on it, an tobogganned doon tae th bottom. Bit like slidin doon an avalanche, wi only a giant razor blade fur protection. We loved it! There wis bings awplace. Buckhind, Muiredge, Methilhill, Denbeath, Lower Methil. There wis wan in Lower Methil that wis th territorial boundary atween Methil Primary skale an Aberhill skale. Mony a turf war (or should it be a redd war) wis focht on that bing. It yaised tae cairy th railway fae th Leven pits (in Methil!) tae th docks. There wis a bridge fae th bing, across th road fae th High Street tae Innerleven. It's aw gone noo, but if ye fancy a drink in Lower Methil, ye can try th Brig Tavern. Jist dinnae look aroond fur th bridge, cause it only exists in th memories o th auld folk o Methil. Same wi th bings. Ye'll no fund onny reference in th guide books tae th Grey Hills o Fife. Maist o them are gone. But tae us, they were th grund we stood upon, an th land we focht fur.