I Wonder As I Wander

There is a walking Labyrinth on campus,
in the middle of the Quad (which is really
an English garden in disguise).
This a smaller version; the grooves are
worn smooth, and just the size of the pad
of your finger.

Happy St. Bride's day! Traditionally, the first day of February is the feast of Saint Bridget and also the beginning of Spring! I approve of this, especially considering that the weather is behaving itself for now: it was not last night. We had torrential rain, and wind that whipped up out of no where. One minute it was silent and drizzling, then suddenly the rain was lashing the windowpanes. The wind crashed like waves on an angry sea across the buildings, shaking the windows and hurling itself in fury against the walls of Robertson's close. Just as suddenly, it would be silent again for a few minutes, until another gust would shatter the quiet air outside my room. Thank goodness for well sealed windows and hot tea. This morning though, the air was bright and clear, and the sun was blinding against the wet slate and cobblestones of the sidewalks and alleys as I walked to class. I have Celtic Literature on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, which is rather a lot but I enjoy it (mostly) so it's alright. The sweet lady who teaches the Irish half of the class ended the lecture on Cromwellian destruction and devastation a little early (we were all getting depressed anyway, enough was enough) to take us out into the tiny little garden that is tucked away behind the Celtic Studies building. The building must once have been a row house (it still looks like one, and our classroom, with it's robin's-egg-blue walls and creamy trim, fireplace and antique paintings, was likely a grand sitting room) and the little space behind it a tiny garden. I felt like I had slipped into the Secret Garden as we filled out of the glossy black-painted doorway and past the ivy-covered stone walls and slightly unkempt poplars. The lecturer Katie produced a plate of gingerbread, and apologized for not having baked it herself, then explained the tradition as we passed the plate around, taking a little slice each. Four times a year were traditionally marked by the baking of celebratory bread, or bannocks, at the feast of St. Bridget for the beginning of spring, at Beltane in for the beginning of summer, Lammastide for the beginning of Autumn, and at Samhthain or All Hallows' Eve for the beginning of winter. On the feast of St. Bride, it was considered lucky to take a "bannoch Bride," eat a bit, and toss a bit over each shoulder. As you did that, you would call upon the Saint to banish evil spirits, and ensure your health and prosperity for the new year. We stood around in a circle, and Katie began by banishing the Spirits of Unnecessary And Detrimental Bureaucracy. We continued and banished the spirits of Evil Papers, of Procrastination, of Snow-That-Stops-Public-Transportation, and of Improperly Formatted Documents. Should Saint Bride really eradicate all those things, it should be a very productive year! Unfortunately, though, there is a saying that however much the "breeze blows in the door" on the feast of St. Bride, is "how much snow will be on the floor" at the feast of St. Patrick.... And there was quite a breeze, that whipped the girls' hair into flapping halos above our heads and bound the coats tightly about the legs of the boys.  Fingers crossed that the saying is incorrect ~ I am tired of snow!

Speaking of snow... In my multidisciplinary Scottish studies class, we learned a bit about the Scots dialect, which, the lecturer insists, is a different language from English (not Gaelic, mind you, but Scots: "I cannae tak the coo inne to the hoose" sort of Scots. Yeah.)* She showed us an online dictionary of the Old Scots Language, in which there seems to be about 140 words relating to snow. I feel like we should adopt some of them:
Kaav: To fall heavily in drifts
Flaucht: "A broad flake of anything that spreads out and looks like it is going to fly"
Grue: Half liquid snow and ice (SO FAMILIAR WITH THIS. Gross.)
Shell: snow blown into sheep's wool (HAH)
Spitter: A light shower of rain or snow
Glush: Anything in a state of pulp (slush)
Feevl: A thin covering of snow
Wreath: A snow drift rounded by the wind
Frog: A flying shower of snow
Fyoonach: A sprinkling of snow, "such as just whitens the ground"
Smuir: A smothering blanket of snow, or to perish buried in a snow drift,  (As in, "I was afeared I'd die in the smuir o' the snaw in the Snowpocalypse 2010.")
Smoor: To be confined or bound up by snow or mud (see above)
...Of course, many of these words are a little (or very) antiquated, and probably no used that commonly even here but... I am determined to bring some of them back. Glush? Grue? Definitely going to happen. Not that I want snow to describe! *Shouts at heavens* Don't get any ideas, weather gods!

[*I can't take the cow into the house.]

I really cannot complain about the weather here though - it is more dry than wet, and clear almost as much as it is cloudy, and above all, it is not freezing! It is so, SO nice for it to be February, and to have the idea of going for a long, wandering walk be pleasant rather than irrational and possibly dangerous. (I am forseeing a lot of complaining from me about this time next year: apologies in advance to all my friends who will have to listen to me gripe about the Minnesota chill.) That is exactly what I have been doing, actually~ wandering, not complaining! Alice and I took a meander through the city center to the Royal Botanical Gardens last week which was wonderful and surprisingly exhausting; despite the fact that it was only five miles all round, and that we stopped mid-wander to get AMAZING chai lattes and coffee cake, we were both delirious and ravenous afterwards. The gardens themselves were larger than I expected, and very peaceful in the sleepy way that winter gardens have when everything is damp and cool and the trees are still bare grey skeletons. The grass is green here, but despite what St. Bridget has to say about the advent of spring, the garden beds and lanes certainly still looked wintry, and my fingers got quite chilly while I was being a shameless tourist and snapping photos of the 'glasshouses' and trees.

  

My wander today was equally chilly, despite the sun, but I enjoyed getting lost in the quaint little 'Village of Dean" neighborhood, and then sat in the sunken gardens by the castle, basking in the sun and watching the crankiest, ginger-est little two year old with his mother. His hair was literally carrot colored - no exaggeration - and he was most seriously displeased to be walking. He kept yelling, then sitting down with a look of disgruntled rebellion on his tiny face, and his mother would simply look at him, and raise an eyebrow, and a few moments later he was staggering after her, only start bawling again as he plopped himself down on his stomach this time. He saw me watching him, and grinned, then yelled louder than before. He perked up when one of the trains from the nearby station went rattling and thundering by, but promptly remembered that he was supposed to be throwing a fit as soon as it had passed, and returned to his shouts of protest.