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.]
Sunday morning started out to be cool and damp, and became a great deal cooler and damper when the wild west wind swept mist and rain in from the mighty Atlantic ocean, which was only a bird’s hop away…
But Algy was not daunted. The one thing he had particularly missed during his adventures in the mysterious land of Patadragonia was his library of poetry books, and he was determined to spend his Sunday reading, come rain or shine (though preferably shine)…
So he settled down on the soggy turf and opened one of his fluffy-bird-sized volumes of verse, propping it up carefully on his knees in an effort to keep it away from the wet grass. The colourful leaves from the wee cherry tree had mostly fallen now, and he was delighted to observe that he was surrounded by a lovely patchwork quilt of colour.
Despite the weather Algy’s spirits were high, even though his tail feathers were decidedly cold and wet, and he turned the pages of his poetry book with glee, pausing at one point to read:
Bending above the spicy woods which blaze, Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the sun Immeasurably far; the waters run Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways With gold of elms and birches from the maze Of forests. Chestnuts, clicking one by one, Escape from satin burs; her fringes done, The gentian spreads them out in sunny days, And, like late revelers at dawn, the chance Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail, And conquering, flush and spin; while, to enhance The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a veil Of red and purple mists, the summer, pale, Steals back alone for one more song and dance.
Algy hopes that you can all spend a happy Sunday engaging in your favourite pastimes, and that the weather will make an effort to be kind to you ☀️
[Algy is quoting the poem October by the 19th century American poet Helen Hunt Jackson.]
AsAlgy surveyed his assistants’ garden from a branch of a silver birch tree, he noticed an interesting phenomenon on the ground some distance away. Fluttering over to that spot, Algy settled himself gently on the damp grass among the long autumn shadows, taking great care not to crush the myriad wee fungi which had sprung up beneath the trees.
Algy was fascinated by toadstools: they seemed to appear overnight for no apparent reason and quite often vanished again in an equally mysterious way. Although charming in their neat orange-brown dresses, these wee fungi were particularly modest and unassuming, and they reminded him of a quaint 19th century poem. Algy knew that many toads lived in his assistants’ garden, and he wondered whether that might perhaps account for the large number of toadstools…
There’s a thing that grows by the fainting flower, And springs in the shade of the lady’s bower; The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale, When they feel its breath in the summer gale, And the tulip curls its leaves in pride, And the blue-eyed violet starts aside; But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, For what does the honest toadstool care?
She does not glow in a painted vest, And she never blooms on the maiden’s breast; But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. And, when the stars in the evening skies Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, The toad comes out from his hermit cell, The tale of his faithful love to tell.
Oh, there is light in her lover’s glance, That flies to her heart like a silver lance; His breeches are made of spotted skin, His jacket is tight, and his pumps are thin; In a cloudless night you may hear his song, As its pensive melody floats along, And, if you will look by the moonlight fair, The trembling form of the toad is there.
And he twines his arms round her slender stem, In the shade of her velvet diadem; But she turns away in her maiden shame, And will not breathe on the kindling flame; He sings at her feet through the livelong night, And creeps to his cave at the break of light; And whenever he comes to the air above, His throat is swelling with baffled love.
Algy wishes you all a peaceful and happy weekend, and if you have a chance to wander in the woods, he hopes that you too may find some fascinating autumn fungi… but he says that if you are tempted to eat them, please be exceedingly careful
[Algy is quoting the poem The Toadstool by the 19th century American poet Oliver Wendell Holmes.]
The weather was in a highly erratic mood, swinging rapidly between glorious autumn sunshine which revealed a sky of a most unusual colour for the wild west coast of the Scottish Highlands, and huge sulky grey clouds which drained all the colour out of the landscape and brought yet more rain to the already sodden ground.
Algy waited patiently for one of the better moments, then hopped up into a wind-twisted silver birch tree. Although many of the trees were still green, the birches had already lost their leaves, and their delicate red-brown branches were swaying gently against the beautiful blue sky… at least until the next wave of clouds arrived.
Watching the last wee birch leaves flutter down to the ground, Algy remembered a lovely poem by Mary Oliver, who in his opinion had composed some of the most wonderful Nature poetry ever written. Opening his beak to its fullest extent, Algy recited at the top of his voice, for the benefit of any creature who might happen to be listening:
Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now how comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of the air and the endless freshets of wind? And don’t you think the trees, especially those with mossy hollows, are beginning to look for
the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep inside their bodies? And don’t you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond stiffens and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its long blue shadows. The wind wags its many tails. And in the evening the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way.
[Algy is quoting the poem Song for Autumn by the 20th/21st century American poet Mary Oliver.]
Monday morning was one of sudden changes in the weather, when drenching showers rushed across the sky chased by dazzling autumn sunshine, which lasted only a few minutes before it, too, fled away to the east, pursued by huge black clouds lit up from time to time by a beautiful rainbow.
Algy hopped up into the wee cherry tree by the feeder for his smaller fluffy friends, and revelled in a short-lived burst of golden light. This poor wee tree had struggled for many years to grow in the challenging local conditions, and it was rare that it held its leaves long enough for them to “turn”, but this year had been kinder than most, and Algy was delighted to see that for once it had a chance to display its glorious autumn colours.
From time to time a golden leaf fluttered to the ground as the wee birds stocked up on supplies to get them through the chilly autumn night, and somewhere, hidden in another tree behind Algy’s head, a robin who was evidently more concerned with higher things was singing his autumn refrain:
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day.
[The robin is singing the poem Fall, leaves, fall by the 19th century English author Emily Brontë.]
The following day was somewhat calmer but continued persistently wet, although the rain was evidently getting fed up with falling the entire time, as it only dribbled aimlessly, on and off, in a decidedly half-hearted and desultory sort of way, no doubt having exhausted itself in the torrential downpours of recent days.
Algy reclined on the rough concrete step in his assistants’ new front gateway, gazing out across the still-green croft land to the brown peat bogs and hillsides beyond, wishing that his assistants had thought to provide some kind of waterproof cushion for the benefit of fluffy birds who did not much care for cold, damp tail feathers. The mist had cleared sufficiently to see the grey, blurry shapes of two out of the three islands which should be visible from that spot, although it looked as though they might vanish again at any moment, as things so often did on the wild west coast of the Scottish Highlands…
At first there was no sign of sentient life of any kind, and Algy contemplated the dreich October day alone, but eventually a lone wanderer ambled by and paused for a moment to exchange a few words.
“How’re ye doing?” enquired the sheep, adopting the form of greeting common to most local residents in that area.
“No so bad,” replied Algy, in the same manner. “And yourself?”
“Baaaaaaaaaaa!” bleated the sheep, and turning its head away it slowly walked away, leaving Algy alone on the step once again.
Algy hopes that if you should find yourself in a similar situation this Sunday, you will at least have the benefit of a wee bit of conversation with some fellow creature, even if it is only a sheep… but just in case you do not, he sends you all lots of damp but very fluffy hugs xo
It was the firsd day of October, and instead of the fine, dry spell which Algy expected in the west Highlands of Scotland at this time of year, the weather was increasingly stormy, with wild winds, torrential rain, and the occasional thunderstorm bringing battering showers of icy water and hailstones.
But in between the squalls there were occasional periods of calm, and Algy took advantage of one such respite to check on his assistants’ hydrangeas, which grew in a relatively sheltered spot. Algy loved the hydrangeas, for one variety produced the clearest powder blue, and the other had fascinating flower heads with deep, dense blue centres that attracted the bees when the weather was kinder, surrounded by lovely mauve bracts (or were they petals?) around the outsides.
It was a wee bit late in the season now, and the hydrangeas were obviously past their best, but Algy was very glad that he had not missed them entirely. Shivering slightly as he perched in the damp bush, Algy studied the flowers and reflected on the changing of the seasons. He was reminded of an odd wee poem by one of his favourite American poets, although his mood was by no means as sombre as that of Mr. Sandburg… and nor were Algy’s hydrangeas white, so they therefore faded rather more gracefully, the colour simply leaching out of them as the season advanced:
Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas turn rust and go soon. Already mid September a line of brown runs over them. One sunset after another tracks the faces, the petals. Waiting, they look over the fence for what way they go.
Algy wishes you all a safe and happy weekend, and hopes that you will be able to find some flowers to brighten your days, wherever you happen to live
[Algy is quoting the poem Hydrangeas by the 20th century American poet Carl Sandburg.]
Algy thoroughly enjoyed his wind-driven ride in the old downy birch tree, but after a while he began to feel hungry again, for he had only managed to eat a few rowan berries before the wind had defeated him.
Fortunately there was a handsome cotoneaster growing close to the birch, and it was absolutely smothered in beautiful red berries which the other birds had not yet removed. A single hop and a flutter took Algy into the centre of the bush, where, seating himself comfortably, he began to eat a very hearty lunch, reflecting the while on Nature’s generosity towards fluffy (and other) birds.
Algy was inevitably reminded of John Keats’ famous Ode, but despite the mellow fruitfulness which was so abundantly evident in his assistants’ garden this year, other aspects of the poem did not quite seem to fit the character of autumn in the wild west Highlands. Algy guessed that the young poet had had a more southerly clime in mind, for he knew that even back in Mr. Keats’ day the Hebridean coast and islands of Scotland were known for their stormy autumn weather. Algy recalled that entries for September days in James Boswell’s 1773 diary The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson (published in 1785) were full of observations such as “It was a storm of wind and rain; so we could not set out“… and very little seemed to have changed in that respect as the centuries had passed…
However, the poem conjured up a splendid vision of plenty, albeit in a mythical land of warm sunshine, and Algy was happy to recite it for the benefit of the other birds while he munched the ripe red berries. Mr. Keats had got one thing right at least: the red-breast was indeed whistling from a garden croft, and Algy was thrilled to be hearing his wee friend’s song once again:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too - While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
[Algy is quoting the famous poem To Autumn by the early 19th century English poet John Keats.]
When he had slowly gathered his wits about him, Algy turned around and noticed that in his absence his assistants had installed a smart new deer fence, no doubt in an effort to keep the iconic and “Romantic” Highland cows and red deer - which the tourists so much loved to photograph - from Romantically devouring and trampling their garden…
Hopping up onto the top of one of the tall wooden posts, Algy gazed out to the north-west, in the direction where he should have been able to see the beautiful Sea of the Hebrides and the Small Isles…
But there was nothing; just nothing at all beyond the faint, grey hills which surrounded his home.
Algy wasn’t surprised. It was early autumn on the wild west coast of the Scottish Highlands, and instead of those golden colours and crisp, fresh days which so many of his friends seemed to celebrate at this time of year, the dense Scotch mist driving in from the Atlantic Ocean had washed out the landscape with “a smoky smirr o rain”:
A misty mornin’ doon the shore wi a hushed an’ caller air, an’ ne’er a breath frae East or West tie sway the rashes there, a sweet, sweet scent frae Laggan’s birks gaed breathin’ on its ane, their branches hingin beaded in the smoky smirr o rain.
The hills aroond war silent wi the mist alang the braes. The woods war derk an’ quiet wi dewy, glintin’ sprays. The thrushes didna raise for me, as I gaed by alane, but a wee, wae cheep at passin’ in the smoky smirr o rain.
Rock an’ stane lay glisterin’ on aa the heichs abune. Cool an’ kind an’ whisperin’ it drifted gently doon, till hill an’ howe war rowed in it, an’ land an’ sea war gane. Aa was still an’ saft an’ silent in the smoky smirr o rain.
[Algy is quoting the poem The Smoky Smirr o Rain by the 20th century Scottish poet George Campbell Hay, who wrote in all three of the languages used in Scotland: Scots (as in this poem), Gaelic, and English.]
For the benefit of those who find the Scots words difficult to understand, Algy has made his own rough and literal translation, without any attempt at rhyming:
A misty morning down at the shore with a hushed and refreshing air, And never a breath from East or West to sway the rushes there, A sweet, sweet scent from Laggan’s birches was exhaled on its own, Their branches draped with beads in the misty drizzle of rain.
The hills around were silent with the mist along the brows. The woods were dark and quiet with dewy, glinting twigs. The thrushes raised no alarm for me, as I went by alone, Except for a tiny mournful cheep at my passing in the misty drizzle of rain.
Rock and stone lay glistening on all the heights above, Cool and kind (?) and whispering it drifted gently down Till hill and hollow were wrapped in it and land and sea were gone. All was still and soft and silent in the misty drizzle of rain.
Algy awoke with a start, and was astonished to find that he seemed to be tucked into the crook of the massive trunk of his very own favourite tree, a venerable larch which overlooked his assistants’ garden on the wild west coast of the Scottish Highlands.
But there was no doubt about it. Not only was the lichen-covered tree entirely familiar, but everything around it was silvery grey and green and wet… totally, utterly wet. This most certainly was not the parched and arid land of Patadragonia, and the soft, drenching Atlantic air bore no resemblance to the bitterly cold and bracing climate of that faraway place. And that cool, damp, almost-invisible blanket which covered everything with a light but saturating touch was also entirely familiar. it was mist: that dense, fine, perpetually wet Scotch mist which was so characteristic of his own adopted home.
Had it all been a dream? Algy looked more carefully at his surroundings. When he had been whisked away to his magical birthday adventure on a tropical islandthe Scottish trees had been bare, for the land he had left behind was on the verge of welcoming the spring. But now he saw a verdant mass of leaves which were just on the point of fading and falling, and here and there, some distance away, bunches of red and orange berries dangled temptingly from the branches. The world had turned, and the seasons had unquestionably changed…
Algy propped himself up more securely and, pondering on the mystery of it all, he muttered quietly under his breath:
I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream—past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was.
[Algy is of course quoting Bottom’s famous speech from Act IV of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by the English 16th/early 17th playwright William Shakespeare.]
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As one of the most puzzling and misinterpreted creature, the wolf has been at the very centre of cults and mythologies throughout history. In ancient times, Roman era, and Greek mythology, to the late Norse age and its depiction of the infamous Fenrir, the wolf has been a key figures in many cultures. Even if it’s not often associated with it, it played a pivotal role in Celtic culture as well. The wolf is not as present as other animals or zoomorphic representations in Celtic art, not like the boar, the eagle or the deer. Even so, there are mentions of the wolf in Celtic lore, particularly the very late one from the Middle-Age. Soon after Cormac mac Airt, the future High King of Ireland, was born, he was carried off and raised by a she-wolf for a period of time in the caves of Kesh, alongside her other cubs. In the tale of Táin Bó Cúailnge, the goddess Mórrígan appears under different shapes to the legendary hero Cú Chulainn, one of these being the shape of a wolf. Interestingly, the wolf plays a key role in the Celtic year cycle as well. It has always been associated with the first part of the year, usually the time around January, in different areas of Scotland and Ireland. Still today, in the Gaelic-speaking Highlands and islands, people refer to the first month of the year as “Faoilleach”, originally associated to a whole period in the Scottish agricultural calendar. The name has a close link to the wolf figure: in fact, “faol” or “faol-chú” means wolf in Gaelic, and it would appear to be a very old term, as wolves have been extinct in Scotland for centuries. In Scotland, the most notable representations of wolves are to be found in the Pictish culture, such as the one majestically engraved on the Ardross stone, 30 miles north of Inverness. This print is a modern reinterpretation of one of the most significant animals celebrated in hundreds of years of lore, legends and stone carvings.
April 21st 1746 saw Glasgow host formal celebrations to mark the defeat of the Jacobites at the Battle of Culloden, and award the Duke of Cumberland the freedom of the city.
Cumberland was also given the Freedom of Edinburgh, as well as Chancellor of both Aberdeen and St Andrews Universities.
This shows the complicated situation in Scotland, and that Culloden, and the Jacobite moment in itself was not just a Scotland v England affair.
Of Glasgow, Lord George Murray, Dòmhnall Cameron of Lochiel and Sìm Fraser, apparent of Lovat, all featured prominently on the Jacobite side. Keppoch, indeed, was killed at the Battle of Culloden were all educated at The University, it was also the institution of choice for much of Clan Campbell who were staunch supporters of the Hanoverian establishment as well as several other prominent Whig clans.
Many non-Gaelic speaking Lowlanders, of course, supported the Jacobites while many Gaelic speakers supported the Hanoverian (the ‘Whig’ or King George’s) position.
The victorious Duke of Cumberland gave permission that the regimental colours of the Macdonalds of Keppoch be sent to Glasgow. Keppoch’s colours were treated in the following manner by the authorities in Glasgow, 25th June 1746:
“they this day, being the principal weekly market, between the hours of twelve and one at noon, caused burn them publickly at the cross, by the hand of the common hangman, amidst the huzzaes and acclamations of many thousands of spectators and to the infinite joy of the whole inhabitants of this city.”
Alasdair Macdonald of Keppoch was among the fallen at Culloden and was another Jacobite educated at Glasgow.
Lastly the University’s Principal of the time, Mr Niall Campbell, was himself a Gael from Glen Aray but a strong supporter of the Hanoverian regime. A letter (see pic) in his own hand, thanking the government for his appointment at Glasgow, highlights this, when he stated, 1727, that he a was “full of affection to His Ma[jes]ties Royal Person.
