Boswell On Puffin Frottage

So at last young Sassy's eyes have been uncovered and she becomes aware of that deliciously tactile French term for "rubbing" (we shall ignore the appalling "modern" usage of the term "dry hump").

The more observant among you will have noticed the occasional reference in this blog to "puffin frottage", an arcane Hebridean practice which, when introduced to Norfolk, with its singular lack of puffins, has led to the almost total extinction of the delightful bittern.

Digging through my second edition of Boswell's Travels With Doctor Johnson, I stumble upon the earliest known literary reference to the practice of puffin frottage.
This passage was mysteriously omitted from subsequent editions, much - in my view - to their detriment.

To further my young colonial correspondent's education on the subject (notwithstanding and acknowledging her Masters Degree in History), I shall now quote verbatim from Boswell's admittedly verbose chapters on Scotland:
(the following passage to be proclaimed slowly and in a pompous voice):

"Our second day upon these desolate Northern Isles sees the inestimable Doctor Johnson engaged in financial negotiations with one of their fiercely parsimonious inhabitants, that we may bear witness to an arcane practice of these shores, the viewing of which the Good Doctor, in his immeasurable wisdom has long since desired.

Presently, negotiations concluded, we are ushered in to a rude stone hut under a turf roof. Inside, peering through a stygian gloom, I behold a circle of thickly clad women, of varied yet indeterminate age, surrounding an open peat fire, the smoke from which tears mine eyes.

The women sit upon crude rocking chairs, excepting the youngest, who is seated by long custom upon a tussock of peat. Beside the hearth lays a rough sack, the contents of which appear in constant and agitated motion.
These are the "Puffins". For we are here to witness that most secretive of all winter practices in these barren Northlands; that of "Puffin Frottage", a traditional and communal afternoon's diversion for those of the Island's women who are unable - through injury or lack of wit - to knit.

The puffins have been brought here as every morning by the men of the broch; said birds being simple creatures to capture by the very method of placing netting over their burrows at night. They are a smallish seabird with a white breast, but are possessed of a fearsome beak disproportionate to their size.

At a given signal the eldest woman reaches into the sack and produces a puffin. We see that - to protect the participants' "delicacies", each bird's head and beak is encased in a decorative padded leathern hood, or "hoood" in the enchanting dialect of this outlandish folk. The puffin is apt for use, being easy to grasp in one hand, even for so delicate a creature as one of the fairer sex, and the bird appears soft and downy, yet with a firmness of body within.

The Good Doctor and myself are seated at either side of the hearth and watch, transfixed, as bird after bird is revealed from within the sack and passed around the circle until at length all but our good selves are possessed of the means to "frot".

By and by, using their free hand, the women lift their heavy skirts and - eldest to youngest and always in a clockwise direction as tradition dictates - the "frot" commences. The hooded puffins are at first rubbed vigorously to excite and agitate them to frenzied movement and then applied to the womens' delicate regions where a more gentle motion is subsequently pursued.

Propriety forbids me to elucidate further, yet I may inform you with some authority - for we witnessed this activity daily during our stay - that the "frot" continues for some hours, the womenfolk whiling the afternoon away in traditional song, or by turns chattering and gossiping among themselves in their soft brogue, only interrupted by the occasional strangled gasp or squeak from one or other "frotter".

Custom further dictates that if, during the "frot" a puffin should become asphyxiated by one of the younger and less experienced "frotters", this unfortunate woman shall be summoned forthwith to the hut of the "Puffin Catchers" where she shall bare her nethermost region and endure summary and severe chastisement with leathern strops, and after, be constrained to wear the deceased bird hung around her neck until two full moons have passed.

Doctor Johnson later became unduly distressed when, during our entire week's sojourn in the Isles not one bird was lost; as he had expressed a passionate interest in witnessing this quaint local custom.

Upon our return to the Metropolis, the Good Doctor attempted - with limited success - to introduce the practice to London Society, utilising the common pigeon as a device of "frot" due to the paucity of puffins hereabouts."

A bit of a pompous windbag, our Bozzer, but 'twas the spirit of the age (or something) …

Apparently - and I would ask our esteemed Mister Knudsen (the Doctor Johnson of our generation) to confirm this - the practice is still current in the nether reaches of Scotland and the Isles.
I would advise anyone wishing to try it at home, however, to Watch That Beak!

So it was a boring train journey last night.
I did what any sane man would do and wrote about frottage.

Normal blog service will be resumed if I ever get out of the seminar I'll be stuck in all day today.
Meanwhile, here is some light music …