Foggie
Some places don’t shout. They don’t demand attention or dress themselves up for the camera. They just are. Quietly. Proudly. Foggie’s one of them. The first time I heard about it was back in ’96, not long after I’d moved to Aberdeen. Someone told me the story, how the village had taken on a new name, accepted it on paper, but quietly kept hold of its soul. I remember thinking, that’s actually quite something.
Because in a world that can sometimes feel like it’s shouting over itself, there’s something quietly radical about a village that adapts… but doesn’t lose itself. Foggie’s proof that identity doesn’t have to be loud to be strong. This song is a tribute to that polite revolution. A little reminder that peaceful change and deep roots don’t need to be in conflict. That they can sit side by side, just like they do in this little Scottish village.
There’s something about the place. It makes you feel good when you’re there. Like you’ve arrived somewhere that knows exactly who it is and doesn’t feel the need to explain. That’s what Foggie carries for me. A message for anywhere that’s ever had to bend without breaking. A tune for people who believe you can shift direction without losing your way.
If it’s heard, seen, or even just quietly considered, then 'Foggie' has it’s done what it was created to do.
Finn Moray
Song Lyrics
[Verse 1]
They drew the lines in seventeen sixty-four,
Gordon’s grid across the peaty floor.
With flax and stone, he built it square,
each house with garden, each street laid fair.
No spires to boast, no marble frame,
just soil and skill and a working name.
[Chorus]
We still call it Foggie when the light runs low,
when the sky turns pink and the lamplights glow.
You can change the sign or the name on the bus,
they call it Aberchirder, but it’s Foggie to us.
[Verse 2]
It once was Foggieloan, the moss made clear,
where people help and folk stayed near.
A place for craft, kirk, and trade,
for stories born and stories made.
Then came a name with noble sound,
but roots run deeper than what's crowned.
[Chorus]
We still call it Foggie when the light runs low,
when the sky turns pink and the lamplights glow.
You can change the sign or the name on the bus,
they call it Aberchirder, but it’s Foggie to us.
[Verse 3]
The mill is gone, the burn runs slow,
but gardens bloom where turnips grow.
A takeaway now stands where tales were spun,
and bairns play on where the flax once run.
The old folk nod, the young folk roam,
but the town still pulls, ’cause the town is home.
[Final Chorus]
We still call it Foggie when the light runs low,
when the sky turns pink and the lamplights glow.
You can change the sign or the name on the bus,
they call it Aberchirder, but it’s Foggie to us.