We’ll Weather the Weather…

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Algy found himself a perch in a tree by the lochside and gazed out across the moody water. The weather was growing wild and stormy again, and very soon there would be more rain. He could scarcely remember a day when it hadn’t rained, although he knew that once upon a time the sun used to shine, at least from time to time, and there had occasionally been whole weeks when one dry day followed another. He wondered whether this year was just an anomaly, or whether it would now rain for evermore in the wild west Highlands of Scotland. He was reminded of an old rhyme, which he started to sing at the top of his voice, in defiance of the weather, and for the benefit of any passer by who might happen to be listening:

Whether the weather be fine
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold
Or whether the weather be hot,
We’ll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not.

Now in the Dark of February Rains…

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Algy perched limply in a spiky japonica bush, his feathers drip-drip-dripping in the rain, and gazed in wonder at the masses of red buds and beginnings of new green leaves which had appeared in the last few days. It was still dark and dismal, and very wet and windy, but there was no doubt now that spring was lurking around the corner, and Algy was reminded of the opening of a poem he had once heard:

Now in the dark of February rains,
Poor lovers of the sunshine, spring is born,
The earthy fields are full of hidden corn,
And March’s violets bud along the lanes

If your days seem dark and dismal too, don’t forget that spring is waiting just around the corner to brighten up the world again 🙂

[Algy is quoting the first verse of the poem In February by the 19th century Scottish writer and minister, George MacDonald.]

For three days and three nights it had done nothing but rain… The sky had been washed away, the sea had vanished into the dense Scotch mist, the land had turned into a grey and green saturated sponge, and the hills were slipping down in sheets of horrible, slithery mud and stones, onto the lower ground.

Of course it had rained on most days of the year so far, but not usually with quite so much dogged determination – and this was supposed to be the height of summer, after all… Algy knew that there was no point looking for somewhere dry to perch, as there was not a dry spot left in the world, so far as he could see. So he plonked himself down disconsolately on the sodden grass, and watched as the puddles grew bigger and bigger and bigger…

The gale had raged for a day and a night, and then calmed down to the normal steady wind that very rarely ceased. Algy looked up at the grey, grey sky, and out across the ocean, towards the horizon. He could see that it was about to be exceedingly wet again; indeed, it looked as though it would probably rain for the rest of the day. Flying up the brae from the beach, Algy paused by a tiny, trickling waterfall. By tomorrow the water would be hurtling down the hillside, dancing and frothing with white foam as it tumbled down to the sea, but at the moment it was trickling as peacefully as could be, as though it did not have a care in the world. It made a gentle, soothing sound as it found its way through the rocks, and Algy was happy to perch on a damp clump of heather, just listening to it while he waited for the rain to start.

Listen to the sound of the tiny trickling waterfall which Algy heard.

On yet another summer’s day of dense mist, wind and rain, Algy made his way down to one of the wee pools in the quiet burn, to see whether the tiddlers had returned. The last time he passed by this spot he couldn’t see any of the tiny fish, but he was relieved to discover that they were back again today, darting in and out of the weeds. Everything was exceedingly wet, and very soon Algy was wet too… But he liked to watch the tiddlers playing, so he tried to ignore the water creeping up his legs and seeping under his feathers. The cold dampness of it all reminded him of a short poem by Amy Lowell:

Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water  
And the croaking of frogs—
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

It had seemed like twilight all day today, under the heavily overcast sky and Scotch mist, and everything was undoubtedly cold and wet, including the floating leaves, but although Algy listened carefully, he could hear no croaking of frogs. In fact there was almost no sound at all, except the ever-present wind and the occasional muted call of another bird.

If you are in one of those places suffering from drought or excessive heat, then Algy dedicates this post to you 🙂

[Algy is quoting the poem The Pond by the early 20th century American poet Amy Lowell.]

Visit Algy’s own web site

Oh look, it’s raining again… can’t the weather think of anything else to do?

Algy perched beside one of his favourite pools, which forms where the quiet burn bends round the sand dunes towards the sea, and peered into the dense tangle of weeds. He was happy to see the kingcups starting to flower, and plenty of fresh green growth, but he couldn’t help feeling that the endless mist and rain was getting a wee bit tiresome: it made life very dull. There wasn’t even a frog to complain to, so he had to be satisfied with grumbling at the tiddlers playing in the burn, which was a little unfair, as the persistent mist and rain really wasn’t their fault…

Although there was a little watery sunshine in the early morning, the massive clouds rapidly descended, and Algy knew that the rest of the day would be wet again. He leaned back on the damp seaweed as the soft drizzle started, watching the ebb and flow of the water around the rocks and singing to the rain. He was singing his own setting of a poem by Shelley, and wishing that at least some of the rain clouds would blow around the world to visit his friends in those places where the rain was so badly needed:

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
        From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
        In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
        The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
        As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
        And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
        And laugh as I pass in thunder.

  I sift the snow on the mountains below,
        And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ‘tis my pillow white,
        While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
        Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
        It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
        This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
        In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
        Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
        The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,
        Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

Algy hopes that you all have a wonderful Sunday, and that those who need rain will receive some of his! xoxo

[Algy is singing the first two verses of The Cloud by the early 19th century English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. ]