It was a damp, dark and dismal sort of day, and Algy had that inevitable “HOW long did you say

It was a damp, dark and dismal sort of day, and Algy had that inevitable “HOW long did you say it was till spring?” October Tuesday feeling…

When he could see the sky at all it was a uniform pale grey from edge to edge, but that was only when it was not obscured by a thick blanket of fine Scotch mist, which descended at intervals throughout the day, sprinkling everything with minute drops of water, lifting only briefly from time to time to reveal the blank sky before it settled down again.

Looking for a place which provided sufficient shelter for a fluffy bird to relax and ponder on life, the weather, and the seasons, Algy spotted an inviting ivy-covered nook by an old stone wall, and there he reclined, tucking himself in among the dense foliage which, owing to the “mild” temperate Celtic rainforest climate, was still lush and green.

For once there was no wind… no wind at all… and everything was muffled and hushed by the dense Scotch mist, with the silence broken only by occasional faint and muted natural sounds. At odd moments the robins tweeted snatches of unfinished songs, and twice Algy heard geese calling as they flew overhead. He would have loved to see them, for the arrival of the migratory geese in autumn was something to celebrate, but on the first occasion he could see nothing at all but the mist, and the second time he saw only some faint, shadowy shapes passing high overhead.

And then suddenly the silence was broken by a quiet but insistent and strangely ominous rumbling, which quickly grew rather louder and nearer, then just as quickly rolled away again, with a faint trembling of the ground as it passed. It lasted for only a matter of seconds, but Algy felt rather shaken even so, for all creatures respond instinctively to an earthquake, even if it is only a tiny wee one. (Algy is quite sure that his Californian friends, and others who live in earthquake zones, would laugh at the trifling shakes experienced in the Scottish Highlands!).

Once he was sure that everything was calm and still again, Algy leaned back in the ivy, wondering what poems had been written about such a plant. He searched the recesses of his fluffy bird brain, and for a while he could think of nothing, but then some old verses by one of Britain’s most famous authors came back to him:

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
   Creeping where no life is seen,
   A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
   Creeping where grim death has been,
   A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
   Creeping on, where time has been,
   A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

[Algy is quoting the poem The Ivy Green by the 19th century English author Charles Dickens.]