The blush of dawn.

I don't like the dark days of winter. Rising in darkness always seems like a chore but to be abroad before dawn has its compensations.    The world is stirring and stealing a march on it makes me feel  virtuous.
 Yesterday's walk for the newspapers was lit by a moon just past the full. The moon before Yule, to give it its title. The next full moon will be The Moon after Yule, then the Wolf Moon, then the Lenten Moon and so on.
Up in the western sky, at the anti-solar point, opposite where the sunrise would be, was a pinkish glow.
I wondered if this was the so called Belt of Venus, a rosy pinkish arch visible after sunset or before sunrise, caused by back scattering of refracted sunlight from fine dust particles high in the atmosphere.     Sometimes there is a dark band below it caused by the Earth's own shadow but this morning the horizon was obscured by cloud

Hop into the car and up on to the moors to check against the western sky and ..yes.. I think it was...
the pink band across the sky opposite the  not-yet-arrived  sunrise.... the  moon setting over the Belt of Venus.
 Dark days have their light side.

Willow weep no more

According to the financial pages, there is a housing shortage in the UK. People are desperate to get on the property ladder and have created a dearth of available property.

The problem has come closer to home. The blue tits are homeless. They will have to migrate to the other side of the garden and compete with the tree sparrows and coal tits for accommodation.

The storm winds have brought down the willow, the pussy willow  the goat willow, Salix caprea,  at the bottom of the garden and with it both the nesting box still attached to its stout trunk and the one in its upper branches.

The tree was a measure of our time in this house. In the spring of the first year, the garden was full of daffodils. Grandmother, on a tour-of-inspection visit, picked some and acquired, as was her wont, from goodness knows who or where, some pussy willow twigs, and made up a simple arrangement.

There wasn't a willow tree anywhere near our house.

When the daffs faded and were on their way to the newly established compost heap, I noticed little rootlets on three of the willow stems and thinking they deserved a chance, stuck them into the ground by the garden wall. They flourished and grew into a tall tree which still showed the three trunks corresponding to the three original stems. Pruning and loppings over the years as it spread its shade had reduced its grandeur to a single trunk.

Now its gone. It will be trimmed and sawn up in to logs that will heat us just as it once shaded us.

The bird boxes can be saved and relocated but no sites are as suitable as the old willow where the comings and goings of the parent birds and the fledglings first appearance and tentative flights could be observed, without their disturbance, from the dining room.

We have lived in this house longer than the life of a tree, children and grandchildren have been intrigued by the furry catkins, bees have relished an early drink of nectar in the cold days of early Spring, pigeons have balanced the rickle of twigs they call a nest among it branches and the sparrow hawk has perched there, camouflaged against its grey bark.

The willow will be missed and not just by us.

Winter Warmth

The Hidden Valley

I've been to Glen Coe many times, climbing, walking or just passing through en route to another bit of the Highlands but for some reason I've never climbed up to the Hidden Valley. It was always a case of " the next time"... too short an excursion for a single trip but a bit much to tack on to a Munro-bash. I began to realise that it had to be soon or I wasn't ever going to mange up the track by the stream, Allt Coire Gabhail, to the Valley of the Booty, the reputed hiding place of the MacDonalds of Glencoe for stolen cattle and a place of refuge at the time of the Massacre ( Blog 01/04/2015)

Coire Gabhail betwen Beann Fhada and Gearr Aonach

Coire Gabhail (Corrie of the Plunder) is a high level glen in the Bidean nam Bian massif to the south of Glen Coe. Invisible from the  main glen, it is accessed by a track up the side of the ravine that carries the allt or stream to the Meeting of the Three Waters on the River Coe. The track rises between Beinn Fhada and Gearr Aonach, two of the "Three Sisters" on the south side of Glen Coe. 

The third of the trio is Aonach Dubh, the Black Ridge.where lies Ossian's Cave, a site that is a bit too inaccessible for me nowadays. 

 Gearr Aonach and Aonach Dubh with part of the old military road

 

Ossian was the mythological poet, son of Fingal - also with a cave named after him- whose works were made famous and almost certainly made up by James Macpherson in the nineteenth century. Despite their forgery they were part of the image of Scotland and Scottishness that still survives to this day

Beinn Fhada (Long Hill) is the easternmost sister, and the central sister Gearr Aonach (Short Ridge) on the right of the hidden valley forms its western side.

Crossing the river, the land around the stream is surrounded by a deer-proof fence, allowing regeneration of woodland, mainly birch, rowan and hazel. The project was started in 1983 and gives an idea what the Highlands would look like without deer and sheep. It would be great if it could be extended to encompass more of the barren sheep bitten hillsides.

The path is well constructed with stone steps in places but still needs a fair bit of scrambling and a bit of hands on climbing over rocky outcrops. Just how the MacDonalds ever got a herd of cattle up to the valley was beyond me.

The cascading waterfalls feeding into the burn made a wonderful background to the walk and the waters in the pools were unbelievably clear.

Ferns and wild flowers freed from the mowing of the sheep were abundant...sheepsbit scabious, self heal and the tiny golden stars of tormentil. 

 

After surmounting the last sloping rock...not something I would like to try in the rain.. the top of the path was in sight and not, as often happens on the hills, a false summit. No, we had truly reached the top. A few more steps and the lost valley spread out before us. The great cliff of Gearr Aonach forms the west side and the slopes of Beinn Fhada, the east. Ahead was the massive Stob Coire Sgreamhach. 

The valley appears with Stob Coire Sgreamhach in the distance

 

The Hidden Valley

Sitting on the slope down into the valley, replenishing the energy stores, we could hear the red deer stags bellowing as the annual rut started. The sound echoed off the walls of the glen, challenging all, asserting the dominance of the herd leader.

The descent a bit trickier going down the rocky bits than coming up but accomplished without injury or indignity then back across the bridge to the old military road, General Wade's road, by which the Hanoverian government sought to subdue the Highlands after Culloden.

Built to let troops move easily around from their bases at Forts William, Augustus and George, the new roads provide an economic boon the people of the area allowing transport of cattle and goods to improve and eliminate the need for hidden pastures.

A good day out before the chill of winter and another tick on the list.

Pink moons and dark age bloggers

We all gathered in the Glebe field, the field that, in the past, provided grazing for the minister's horse. Amateur metal detector users under the guidance of a few experts. Why? Well, not to hunt for treasure, though everyone must have had a frisson of excitement as the detectors pinged a high note indicating something other than iron.

It was part of the continuing search for the site of the Anglo-Saxon church or monastery founded by Ebba, later Saint Ebba, sister of Oswy and Oswald, Anglo-Saxon kings of Northumbria.

The geophysical survey revealed interesting shapes beneath the surface of the field and dowsing seemed to agree with it.

The next stage would be a dig but, to get a grant for such a venture, community involvement had to be demonstrated hence the turn out for the metal detecting. Any finds that supported the theory would also be useful.

Some coins and a few buckles and artefacts were found, some of them medieval though nothing dramatic. My contribution was woeful - two aluminium cans and the iron bolt from a Victorian iron.

A .303 cartridge case and the copper ring from a canvas tent were reminders of the use of the field as a camp site for local Volunteers of the same vintage as my iron bolt and a toy gun that boys of all ages like to play soldiers.

The next night was spent watching the lunar eclipse and the pink moon. An event that won't occur again in my life time.

The Chronicon Scotorum and the Anglo Saxon Chronicle are really just Dark Age blogs with facts and opinions mixed in with speculation and rumours.

The Chronicum is an extensive list of battles and skirmishes as the Irish settlers -the Scotti - sought to establish their kingdom in Dal Riata and fought with the Britons, the Picts, the Cruithne as they would have called themselves, or sometimes amongst themselves for dominance as the early Irish church tried to establish its form of Christianity among the pagan tribes. The whole record is interspersed with Druidic bardic verse -

Cold is the wind across Ile

Which blows against the youth of Cenn-tire;

They will commit a cruel deed in consequence;

They will kill Mongan, son of Fiachna.

Cormac caem and Illand son of Fiachu die.Ronan, son of Tuathal died:—

The church of Cluain-Airthir to-day—

Illustrious the four on whom it closed:

Cormac the mild, who submitted to tribulations,

And Illann, son of Fiacha.

And the other pair,

To whom many territories were obedient—

Mongan, son of Fiachna Lurgan,

And Ronan, son of Tuathal.

Straight out of Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones or not?

There are occasional allusions to contemporary events other than the violent deaths of chieftains and their followers in what was the heroic age of warriors now so popular in fantasy games and films.

References are made to plagues and pestilences, to leprosy and the murrain of cattle and, to sadly evocative phrases such as" the mortality of children" - no doubt some childhood infection such as diphtheria or scarlet fever that continued to play sad havoc up until immunisation.

Ecclesiastical records such as the death of St Patrick in 489, the birth Colum Cille ( Columba) in 518 and his arrival on Iona in 563 A.D. and the apoointments and deaths of long forgotten bishops and abbots, are interspersed with increasing references to "the Saxons", obviously becoming a greater power as the might of Northumbria increased, but not a word about Ebba even a though her protector in her exile, Eochaid Bruie, is mentioned as is Bede
 Is that because St Ebba was not part of the Columban church , an Anglo-Saxon? She was the daughter of a king and the sister of two others...  yet no mention.

The weather is reported in almost mundane terms - the sea floods of 720 when there was " a rainy summer". How many of those have we had since then?

Celestial events, however, bring out the poet in the chronicler -

A thin and tremulous cloud in the shape of a rainbow appeared at the fourth vigil of night on the fifth feria preceding Easter, extending from east to west through a clear sky.

The moon became the colour of blood

Annal 674 AD

"The moon was as though drenched with blood."
 Simeon of Durham.

Refers to a lunar eclipse of 23 November AD 755, when the eclipsed Moon occulted Jupiter.

An Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records that on January 24, 734 CE, "the Moon was as if it had been sprinkled with blood"

Times may change and we live in a scientific age and explanations of such phenomena are available to all. We no longer see them as portents or omens but they still imbue us with a feeling of wonder sufficient to get us out of bed to witness them for ourselves.

The monks and nuns the Anglo-Saxon community in what is now the glebe field would have been amazed like us to see the colour of the moon change as it was eclipsed. Times change but people don't and the celestial cycle certainly doesn't.

Before dawn o' day

We've all known some false dawns when hopes weren't quite realised. They happen more often than we would wish for, certainly more often than once in a blue moon.

There was a blue moon in July this year. An extra full moon. thirteen in the year instead of the usual twelve. All full moons have names ... Harvest Moon, Lenten Moon, the Moon before Yule and so on, so every extra moon has no name but is a blue moon though it's never really blue. Why it's called this isn't really known though there have been some fanciful explanations dating back to the Middle Ages.

The next blue moon will be in 2018.

Not blue

False dawns are easier to see. They occur about an hour before the true sunrise. Many folk will have seen them without realising where the light was coming from, especially at this time of year when people are on the move before the sun is up.

Zodiacal light – or false dawn – is an eerie light extending up from the eastern horizon, before sunrise, in autumn. The light looks like a hazy pyramid of light extending up from the horizon.

Zodiacal light is caused not by the dust in the Earth's atmosphere that causes the colours of the true sunrise or sunset but by space dust .... the zodiacal cloud, a pancake shaped dust cloud out in the solar system. If the night is really dark, no moonlight.. or very little and a cloudless sky, you can see it on the eastern horizon an hour before the true dawn.. 5 a.m. Sleepy-eyed, I had a go. Unfortunately, clouds obscured most of it but it was there -  an eerie light on the eastern horizon, a good hour before the dawn.

A false dawn  more than an hour before sunrise

Red false dawn

Check it out next time you are on the move early. There is an equivalent false dusk in the spring about an hour after sunset.

The light was still there as the clouds parted an hour before sunrise


"The moon was low down and there was a glimmer of the false dawn that comes about an hour before the real one, but the light was very faint..."

Rudyard Kipling - False Dawn

Going Forth

The Hawes Inn has been the starting point of one literary journey in Scott's The Antiquary and a way-point in another, Stevenson's Kidnapped and so it was that we continued in the tradition, starting our little journey down the Forth from Hawes Pier. 

 Fortified with good coffee and a shared oat flapjack, we boarded the Maid of the Forth for our three hour voyage under the bridges, down the firth and down the ages to Inchcolm.

Sailing out under the iconic red structure that is the Forth Bridge, deservedly a World Heritage Site, we gave a thought to those that died in its construction before clearing its shadow and out past the oil terminals towards Inchcolm, - Columba's Isle. -Saint Colmes ynch as Shakespeare would have it.

Originally a Culdee hermit's cell, like its near neighbour Inchmickery, the solitude sought by its sole inhabitant was interrupted by the arrival of King Alexander I, storm bound as he crossed the firth in 1123. His gratitude was such that he established an Augustinian monastery on the island probably the last thing that the Culdee hermit wanted to see, but was in keeping with the royal house of Canmore's promotion of the hierarchical Roman church over the Celtic Columban church throughout their domain.

Despite the attacks of English and Danes, the Scottish religious wars, and being close to the first bombing raid of WWII, it remains the best preserved of Scotland's medieval religious houses.

Cormorant colony

The puffins had left by the time of our trip but the stiff winged fulmars still skimmed the waves and the reptilian eyed herring gulls screamed their raucous threats as we made our way to the island past the cormorant colony on the Haystack, one its rocky outliers.

The abbey has an immediate impact set above a little cove that allows landing access.

A short walk takes you to the buildings and the little hermit's cell or oratory that survives in the grounds of its prestigious successor. We were given a conducted tour and potted history by one of the Augustinian brothers. The chapter-house, cloisters, dormitory, refectory and calefactory or warming-room gave a glimpse of what our own local priory would have looked like before Cromwell's depredations. A few sentences in medieval Latin still adorn a wall. Amongst them, the advice that it is -

Foolish to fear what cannot be avoided

A hog-backed gravestone, typical of Norse burials, was a reminder of the importance of the island as a burial site for chiefs making it the "Iona of the East"

In Shakespeare's Macbeth, Ross, reporting to King Duncan of Macbeth's defeat of the Norwegian invaders, tells of the Norse king, Sweno wishing to bury his dead at Saint Colmes-inch and paying "ten thousand dollars"for the privilege.

Shakespeare's dollars are an anachronism for Macbeth but the term occurs again in The Tempest. Perhaps W.S. meant dalers, Scandinavian coins he would have known about.

Our guide mentioned that the second part of the early Scottish history, the Scotichronicon, started by John of Fordoun in the 14th century, was completed by the abbot, Walter Bower in 15th at Inchcolm.

Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, William Shakespeare, and now a medieval historian compiling "probably the most important medieval account of early Scottish history", Inchcolm has made its contribution to literature as well as history.

With heads teeming with dates and facts, we boarded the Maid of the Forth for the return trip to South Queensferry and watched the seals lazing on gas pipe-line installations and navigation buoys. What do they care about words and histories as long as there are plenty fish in the sea.

A rainbow bridge between the bridges

Give me sunshine

Yesterday, I picked my first bramble of the year. Purple-black amid the blush of ripening haws and hips, it signaled the end of summer. 

The swallows are gathering, twittering on the telephone lines.Their constant tweeting must be significant unlike that of their human counterparts. Are they reinforcing family bonds before their long flight south? 

The swifts would have gone by now if they had ever been - there have been no swifts around the village for years - but the swallows and, to a much lesser extent, the house martins still dominate the summer skies.
 Now, they perch on the wires, waiting for whatever sign it is that tells them the time has come, a trigger to their senses that says Go!   Every evening they congregate then one day...they're gone...every single one and summer is at an end.

Autumn approaches though its "close bosom friend, the maturing sun" has been conspicuous by his absence for most of the summer. Perhaps the poet's evocation will persuade him to give us an Indian summer. The apples and plums have cropped well, presumably swelled by the amount of rainwater falling on the roots.

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core

A little sun would help.

Thistledown and Rosebay willow herb seeds are blowing in the soft southerly winds, thousands of tiny parachutes, drifting in every open window.

Butterflies and dragon flies are still aplenty in the Rackhamesque woods near the little loch but they too, love the sun.

The weird shapes of the pollarded woods

All nature laughs in the sunshine.*

* Anne Bronte

What's in a name?

An atlas of the British Isles, indeed one of the world, has been a fruitful place for writers to find eccentric or comic names for characters...think of Wilde's Bunbury or Powell's Widmerpool.

On the return trip from Windermere (Blog 02/07/2015 ), we diverted off the M6 to take the old and, in its wintry past, notorious, route over Shap Fell. The village of Shap has Neolithic stone circles and a medieval Premonstratensian abbey to catch the attention of the wandering gangril.

Shap Abbey

 The weather was pleasant and we made our way north by minor roads.

Sign posts are always a source of interest to the stravaiger ( Blog 09/12/2014) and we met with a few that started a game of names and stories.

Heaning Mislet

" Oh yes, there have always been Heanings in our family. I believe it's an old Anglo-Saxon name.

I mean. we call him John...that's his middle name but we christened him Heaning.. family tradition and all that.... and Uncle Heaning is a widower and hasn't any immediate family....

Crosby Ravensworth and Rosgill Bampton have been friends and allies since they were in the same house at their minor public school.  They have been involved in several unsuccessful business ventures.
Their latest scheme is selling time shares in a naturist colony which is being developed by their Scandinavian contact Keld Thornship.

 Briscoe Hill  had a career as rally driver for several motor manufacturers. An unfortunate series of accidents prevented him from realising his potential and he eventually retired to become the motoring correspondent of a national daily newspaper.

Closer to home, we came across Thornton Crowhill who, we discovered, was an amateur archaeologist in the early twentieth century. The discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun overshadowed his contributions to Egyptology and he returned, disappointed, to the family estate to breed dogs and paint water colours.

On a trip north we passed...

Fintry - Douglas and Angus

A piano and accordion duo who had a long career as a support act to Scottish music hall stars in the forties and fifties. As variety succumbed to television, they continued to appear on the "nostalgia circuits" in Canada and Australasia. They retired to their birthplace in Fife but still gave the occasional charity performance well into their seventies.

(The compendium of Scottish variety performers)

Go on... have a go. It is fun and you can meet such fascinating people.

St Cuthbert's Way Part VII

The last lap. Across the Pilgrim's Path to Holy Island.

Before crossing the A1, a slight diversion to Grizel's Clump. In 1685, Grizel Cochrane, disguised herself as a man to hold up the mail coach and steal the order for the execution of her father. The delay this caused allowed time for his appeal and subsequent pardon. A group of trees still marks the spot of her daring exploit.

After checking the crossing times, I set out across the wet sands to Holy Island, following in the footsteps of thousands of previous walkers.

The Way

Solitary, evocative, enigmatic

Ahead of me was one who had decided to make a real pilgrimage as the bare footprints on the freezing cold wet mud showed.

Pilgrim's footprints

There is a tranquillity about the crossing that cannot be had on the busy, car-carrying causeway. The wind, the cries of the gulls, the flap of a heron's wings, all add to the atmosphere. The crooning and lowing of the crowds of seals at the tidal margin was especially evocative given St Cuthbert's legendary affinity with "the creatures of the sea".

Bamburgh Castle on the horizon

By contrast, Holy Island itself is a disappointment with crowds of people milling about all seeking something but, it would seem, not knowing what that thing is. 

A couple of fellow walkers who were staying on the island were looking forward to the turn of the tide when all the cars and buses would have to leave and they and the locals could have the place to themselves.

Meadow salsify seedhead seen beside the path

Journey over, a pleasant walk through Borders country, both sides, and through Borders history.

I think I get a certificate... I'll certainly buy a badge for the sun hat!

St Cuthbert's Way Part VI

Wooler to Fenwick, the penultimate lap. It had to be easier than the last. Only eleven or so miles. It started with a pleasant stroll by the Wooler Water but soon it was climbing again up on to Weetwood Moor. This must have been a place of significance in Neolithic times with its boulder strewn heather slopes and its enigmatic cup and ring carvings. A gathering place... perhaps, a place of ritual or social functions. 

The piles of stones bear witness to previous structures long since gone, their components recycled into walls and sheep-folds.

http://www.stone-circles.org.uk/stone/weetwood3.htm 

As Macdiarmid says " There are plenty of ruined buildings in the world but no ruined stones"

The stones survive.

Coming down from the moor, I crossed the Till, the only English tributary of the Tweed, at the Weetwood bridge and climbed steadily past the Hortons - West and East, to cross the Devil's Causeway, part of another old Roman road to Hazelrigg.
Looking back, Wooler could be seen nestling in the Cheviots.

 From here the Way follows the contours of the last ridge before the coast, then ascends to St Cuthbert's cave.

An arresting sight, the overhang where it is said, the monks rested with the saint's body as they fled from the Norse raiders at Lindisfarne. The cave is disfigured by centuries of graffiti gouged into the soft sandstone but is still a place to stir the imagination.

Two of the approach stones have vertical grooves on them, probably caused by water rivulets running down them, reminiscent of those on the "singing" Duddo stones.  On one, a horizontal crack creates a cross shape no doubt regarded as spiritually significant by pilgrims.

From the cave another climb took me to the top of the ridge and a view of my destination - Holy Island.

Holy Island with its castle

Downward into Fenwick, through the woods and picking up the signs for St Oswald's Way that goes to Hadrian's Wall, I realised that time was running out to make a connection with the bus service on the A1.

Not a squirrel in sight

 

 Hurrying along Dolly Gibson's Lonnen, surely a local version of loaning, then into the village itself, I could only manage a passing glance as I broke into a jog to get me to the bus stop. I caught it with four minutes to spare.

Only one short lap to do, the Pilgrim's Way, across the sands to Lindisfarne.