…… trying to give out positive vibes when all around you is sinking into a morass. So let’s start with this weather. For it is simply mingin’, and showing no sign of improving.
On Tuesday last week I had a good, long cycle – in the sun, with bare arms and bare legs. There was a smile on every face around, not that there were many on the circuit, but you know what I mean. The world is much happier when the sun shines. Even the midges came out to play.
But now it is grim; those house martins have had enough, and disappeared to who-knows-where. I was all set to bring you pictures of gobbets of mud being turned into cosy nests; of goldfinches devouring sunflower hearts; and of the pheasant wandering happily round the garden. But all I have in the camera now is a crow, trying in vain to trash the feeders.
Even one of the chickens has gone all broody, sitting in the nesting box all day, desperate to hatch an unfertilised egg; assuming, that is, Mr Pheasant hasn’t been up to some party tricks. A daily ducking in the trough fails to cool her desire, so there she sits, not eating. Maybe she’s just sheltering from the incessant rain; in a cosy spot away from the gales.
Last night, around the sunset hours, I glanced out the windows to the west, where I should be able to see Goat Fell. Even Loudoun Hill had disappeared, along with the tree along the road. The sky had turned deep purple, and clouds rammed in above the floods like smoke, on the water. Within minutes down it came again, battering.
So I turned my attention to the telly, volume raised. Isn’t that series on the Hebrides spectacular stuff? Last night’s footage of the sea eagle on the wing had me yearning – well it was flying on a cloudless backdrop. And with otters at the frolic, seals and stags and silver beaches….. Time to go back; let the sun shine.
There was supposed to be footy last night, tension having built for days ahead of the final league game of the season and the victory that will ensure relegation is avoided, just. Down came the rain, game off came the message. No football, in the middle of May for goodness sake. When is it we should be taking this winter break to avoid postponements and fixture pile ups? Ah well, we live to fight another day.
I’m getting to the stage where I’d be delighted to get the mower out of the shed for the first outing of the year, and the start of the weekly bore chore. Instead it sits forlorn, raindrops quickening the rust as the shed roof gives way to the inevitable.
There has been remedial work in the garden. Last year’s hoof-holes subject to filling and seeding and rolling; sweat and cursing. But the beasts are out to pasture at last, and within days there’s another heifer in the garden. But the ground is so soft and so wet the hooves sink a full eight inches – no, not that tiny gap between thumb and forefinger, careful now – and the sheep and lambs are chased out too. There’s a scabby old tup, bare of fleece and miserable, sheltering in a broken chicken hut.
But on a brighter note there was a sighting yesterday of another grim old codger, the rarely spotted Gordon Brown, wheeled out to help Labour separate from Bitter Th’gither to try and deny independence for us all. Good news for the Yes camp I reckon. All we need now is Blair to appear and it’s in the bag.
Six weeks to mid-summer day, who’d a thunk it. Keep smiling folks, normal service will be resumed, one day. Go on, have a chuckle, from our friends at BBC Scotlandshire: