A Wee, Bitty History Lesson

It was, I'll admit, only a matter of time before I composed a poem in Scots - or at least, imitation Scots. I've always rather enjoyed writing in it. There is something very satisfying in the sturdy old words, and the way they change the tempo of the writing. I am surprised I managed to get so far before succumbing to the temptation.

But today's prompt was "history" - which is another one of those prompts that is almost too much prompt. For a while, I considered writing something both comic and heroic about Mad Jack Churchill, because, let's face it, there is great scope for poetry in a man who takes out German sentries with arrows, and used a basket-hilted claymore on D-Day. But it just wasn't clicking for me. So I cast my mind about my mental library of historical trivia (I refuse to refer to it is a mind palace.) and dug up a story from Scottish history - the story of how Lady Maxwell of Nithsdale smuggled her husband out of the Tower of London on the eve of his execution. It is proper ballad material, and I have attempted a Scottish ballad of it. I have also taken the balladeer's prerogative of heightening the drama. I have Lady Maxwell rescuing her husband all on her own, but in reality, she had her faithful lady's maid and two friends to help with the proceedings. However, the bit at the end: King George really did say something quite like that about her - that she had given him more trouble  than any woman in Christendom.

When Jamie's Cause was lost at Preston,

King Geordie's men had put us doon,

They captured gallant Willie Maxwell,

An sent the laird tae London toon.

Nae trail for Laird Willie bold

But condemnéd oot o haund

Tae the gallaws an the noose

Far frae his ain dear Scottish laund.

When his Lady heard the news,

Nae tear shed she, but saddled her steed

An straight awa tae London toon

She rade wi muckle haste an speed.

An when she came intae the toon,

She gaed at aince to King Geordie,

An begged that he would gie a pardon

Tae her ain dear laird, Willie.

But mercy he swore he wouldna gie

An the Lady drove awa - 

Willie Maxwell was like tae hang

There seemed tae be nae hope at a.

But Lady Maxwell was brave an canty,
At aince began tae plot an plan

How tae rescue Willie bold

An get him safe oot o' England.

She bribed the guards wi siller bricht

An wine, that she micht Willie see

She told him a her desperate plan,

Tae get him oot and set him free.

The nicht afore he was tae die,

Lady Maxwell gaed tae Willie's room

Wi a great red riding cloak

An ladies' claes, tae put him on.

A muckle mon was Willie Maxwell,

But he wept sae like a maid in wae

An his beard hidden by a claith,

The guards, for pity, let him gae

She got him oot o London Tower,

An got him doon unto the sea

An tae a ship that lay at anchor

An was bound for Italy

When that he had heard the news,

King Geordie, he did rant and rave,

Said the Lady had caused mair trouble

Than a hunner-thoosand aither knaves.

Lady Maxwell's nae at hame,

She has gaed far ower the sea

An she bides in Roma fair,

Will her gallant Laird Willie.

And I shall close with this link to Lady Maxwell's very matter of fact account of the proceedings. It is well worth the read. 

No, I Didn't Die.

Yeah, my resolution to be a better blogger has gone the way of all such resolutions, and this space continues to languish with neglect. I am going to blame it primarily on summer. It is mostly summer here . I do not like summer. I do not do summer. My toleration for heat is next to nothing. There is some swelling of foot and ankle, dull headaches, sleeplessness, lassitude... I get cranky. I take it out on people. I become a harpy. My family - who inexplicably love me - don't like me much during this time, but hey, neither do I... and I don't like them either, so we're even.  I read an article recently, about Seasonal Affective Disorder - which is usually a winter-induced condition. According to the article, however, it can, occasionally, be  caused by summer weather. Tempting as it is to say that I suffer from SAD-ness, I am man enough.... woman enough.... adult enough to own that I have a deficiency of self-control, and not excuse myself on the grounds of weather. I'm just saying that it is good to know.

As I said, I am blaming my silence primarily on summer. That is my story and I am sticking to it. Although... there really was a good reason for not posting.... once upon a time.... a long time ago.... back in May. I was on vacation for the first time in a couple years.  Life, you know. Sometimes, even if one needs a vacay, it is just not the time for such things.

I went to Scotland, and it was lovely. I stayed here:

From homeaway.com

It was verra wee, and comfortable and cosy:

It was in a place called Portobello, a Firth-side suburb of Edinburgh. It was removed enough from the city to be very quiet and nice, and yet, if I walked down the road a wee step, there was a train stop, and I could be in the High Street in a mere 5 or 10 minutes.  There was a lovely little burn, and a forest walk, just outside my front door. I spent a lot of time wandering there:

The Burn

The Walk

The grass in Scotland is often full of little daisies - sometimes a lawn will be quite white with them. I think these are properly known as Marguerites:

Marguerites

It was also very close to the Firth - only about a mile away, and a nice easy stroll. Sometime, I walked by the water, and watched the storms come in:

The Beach at Portobello

And sometimes, I walked along the red side walk of the Promenade, where there was a place to get Nutella flavoured ice cream! Nutella. Ice. Cream.... I miss that stuff:

The Promenade

Incidentally, the Scots seem to have a rather curious attitude towards springtime: once they decided that it is spring, by golly, it is spring, whether it is still cold enough for a coat or not.  People go to the park, and take hikes in the hills. There are food vans about, selling hamburgers and ice cream.  Young ladies in strappy sandals pick their way around puddles. Now, this attitudes is actually quite familiar to me, as I live in the mountains, and have observed men outside in a snowstorm, snow-blowing 2 feet of snow out of their driveways, whilst clad in shorts. What surprised me was the number of people in coats, eating ice cream in the rain. At first, I was merely amused, but felt no particular urge to follow their examples. The shear number of ice cream cones walking about, however, began to prey on my mind, and before I had been there many days, I was actively prowling about for a place to get some, and joined the legions of folk, eating ice cream, in un-ice-cream-like weather:

Ice Cream in Princes Street Gardens

I have been to Scotland before, so I didn't do the touristy things, like going to the castle:

from everycastle.com

 Nor did I go to Holyrood Palace:

from visitscotland.com

I did, however, go for a hike, one bright, and very windy day, up on Arthur's Seat, and the Salisbury Craigs, that are part of the old parkland belonging to the palace:

Salisbury Craigs

Arthur's Seat. There is a fantastic view of everything
from the top, but the wind was so fierce, I thought I might
get blown away, so there are no pictures of it. 

It takes a couple hours to walk around the whole area  and though it is not really a rigourous hike, there is no denying that it is a good stiff walk. This is the first time in a couple years that I was able to do a good stiff walk, and I enjoyed it exceedingly. I even took a selfie, which is an accomplishment for me, as usually I avoid being on any side of the camera... and I was using a disposable Kodak camera:

Hello there!

I particularly avoid taking selfies, as a general rule. I tend to face a camera as though it were a firing squad - squaring my jaw, and looking it in the eye, and challenging it to do its worst, which it obligingly does. Sisterly advice told me to tuck my chin, and look at the camera from under my eyelashes. Since I was taxed with bringing home pictures of myself in the scenery, and since I would rather crawl into a hole than ask a complete stranger to shoot me with my bright yellow, cardboard camera, I practiced taking my own picture. Sometimes they turned out pretty well:

Mahri - Agent of SHIELD (See my shoulder?)
Taking a Selfie in an old cemetery off the Royal Mile 

Sometimes they did not:

I will look happy in this picture, if it kills me

Sometimes, I look confused:

I know that button is around here somewhere... tuck the chin...
look up through the eyelashes....

So mostly, I stuck to pictures of scenery, such as this loch, with a flock of birds circling above it:

Or this building, which I believe is a ruined abbey:

Or this curious bit of graffiti:

Gollum Discovers Facebook

And one day, I Went On An Adventure. I caught a bus in Edinburgh, and took a long, very scenic trip through the Borders, to a place called Innerleithen. I got off near the Post Office, and walked 2 miles of country road to Traquair House - the oldest continually inhabited house in the country. 

Outside Traquair House

If one is fond of history - as I am - it is an excellent place to visit.  Mary Queen of Scots visited there with her husband, Darnley, and her rosary is kept in the little museum.  The family are Catholic, and traditionally Jacobite, and the entire estate is steeped in that history. I had a blast touring the place.  There were two libraries, full of the widest range of books, from the philosophers, to popular fiction, and everything in between. 

I am demonically pleased to be in your library.

There is a semi-hidden room at the top of the house, where the family's priest would have lived. It was illegal to house a priest, while the Penal Laws were in effect. There is a secret staircase behind the bookshelf in the priest's room.... well, it isn't secret anymore. The bookshelf is opened, and one can escape through the low opening, and down the steep, narrow stairs.

I escape through the secret staircase. Apparently, I have not
grasped the severity of the situation.

Traquair House receives no state funding - or very little at any rate - and they support themselves by means of tours, craft sales, and .... beer making. The beer making is sort of a happy accident, when the old brewery was rediscovered in the 60s. All of the equipment was in perfect working order, so the brewery was restored, and they began brewing their own beer:

from taleofale.com

There are also the Bear Gates. You cannot get into Traquair House through the original gates - they are locked, and have been locked since Bonnie Prince Charlie went into exile after the Jacobite defeat at Culloden. The Laird of Traquair chained the Bear Gates shut, and vowed they would never be opened again, until a Stewart sat on the throne. And they are locked still:

I was not ready to come home at the end of my trip. I was enjoying myself very much - and, incidentally, eating far too much fish and chips... with malt vinegar, of course. But home I must come, and I think I am finally resigned to being Here and not There.

So, this weekend just past, was the weekend World Pipe Band Championships in Glasgow. This is an annual event, in which hundreds of pipe bands from all over, get together and compete, including a large percentage of the very best bands in the world. Generally, this is a one day event - Saturday - but this year, it went over two days, which was rather splendid for those of us who get in to that sort of thing.

For a number of years now, the Grade 1 competitions have been streamed live, and for a number of years, I have made a point of catching at least a part of the competitions. The problem with watching a competition in Scotland in real time in California, is the 8 hour time difference, which means pulling one's self out of bed at around 3 a.m. to be there at the start. Since my regular work schedule includes Saturday, it also means that I usually have to leave before the end. This year, however, I decided that I was going to be completely indulgent. I took a day off from work, kicked my room-mate sister out of the house, and spent two days absolutely wallowing in some of the finest piping I have ever heard - and to make it particularly celebratory, I got into the second tin of haggis in my pantry (yes... there are a plurality of haggis tins in my domicile. You never know when you are going to want a Scottish party.) and took it with the customary neeps, of which I have become particularly fond, and the last wee bit of the Glenfiddich which I had been saving for just such an occasion.

It was an excellent competition. The weather on both days was terrible for this sort of thing, ranging from furious downpours, to wild wind, to bright sunshine. The pipes, with the multiple reeds, react to just about ever change in atmosphere, so that tuning can be rather tricky in those sorts of conditions. For all that, the bands held themselves together with admirable steadiness. The sound was consistently fine, the level of performance so good as to make the listener (in person of myself) quite heady with delight. I quite rapidly stopped trying to rate the bands as they played, and just gave myself over to complete enjoyment of the music. There was one medley, however, that stuck out in particular for me, the one that Inverary and District Pipe Band played on Day 2 of competitions. They had impressed me a bit over the whole weekend, because they are a younger pipe band (both in the sense that there are a lot of young pipers in it, and that the band itself hasn't been around all that long.) but they held their own during the entire competition. And they are a particularly musical band. Medleys are fun to listen too, because they are sort of show-case arrangements; varying time signatures, lots of different tunes, and always, a slow air. It is the slow air part of IDPB's arrangement that got me in particular. They absolutely nailed it, and it was stunning. The whole weekend was worth the bother of getting up so unspeakably early. (The Worlds are one of a tiny handful of things that will actually induce me out of my bed before the accustomed hour.)  And if there is a faint, lingering feeling of sleepiness, it is of no consequence whatsoever... But if I had to choose a highlight It was IDPB. (And seeing one of the instructors from a Piping School I attended, judging the competitions.)

And here, for your enjoyment,  is a video of that medley from a competition earlier in the year:

Happy Burns Day



Today is the birthday of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns, which is celebrated around the world by 'piping in' and then consuming a Haggis, the drinking of whisky, the recitation of Burns' poetry - usually the Address To A Haggis, and, of course more piping, and sometimes Scottish dancing.

If I were an ordinary person, celebrating Burns Day in the ordinary way, I would post one of his poems here, for your enjoyment. I am not an ordinary person, however, so you are getting instead, a poem by Robert Service, depicting a Burns Day celebration amid dire circumstances. It is a wee bit long, but stick to it. There is a funny punchline that makes it worth the effort!

The Haggis of Private McPhee

"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?

It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.

"And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,

As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.

"A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;

"The brawest big haggis I ever did see.

And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns

Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns.

We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest

O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."

"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;

"I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."

Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:

"I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."

Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:

"I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."

But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:

"Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;

And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',

We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.

Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,

O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."

My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,

And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.

And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,

And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.

There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,

And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;

But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole

Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.

For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem

Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.

Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer

Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.

And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine

The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.

And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,

The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.

Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom,

A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.

"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.

"Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.

It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee;

Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.

"Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;

"And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,

It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see:

I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."

Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:

"If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid.

And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content

If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."

"That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.

Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind;

And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot --

It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got."

For a while they were silent; then up once again

Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:

"And why should we miss it? Between you and me

We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see.

You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht,

And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."

Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,

When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.

Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun',

When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.

"Keep clear o' them corpses -- they're maybe no deid!

Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid.

Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.

A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.

Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:

Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."

There wis death and destruction on every hand;

There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land.

And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare,

And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.

Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun

When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.

And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,

And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.

"On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;

I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."

But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,

Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'.

Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:

"Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.

It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air;

It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist -- aboot -- there."

Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!

For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."

And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain,

And onward he staggers in passion and pain.

And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,

Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.

And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight,

And someone is shoutin' away on their right;

And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear

A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;

And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,

The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.

"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll

Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.

When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,

And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.

And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,

And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot,

When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,

And it -- DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL."

And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;

Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,

And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,

And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.

On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before!

On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!

And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,

And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:

And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,

For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.

 

On This Day In History...

in 1297, the army of the great Scottish patriot, William Wallace, defeated the English at the Bridge of Stirling. It was a decisive victory, which went a long way to cement Scottish resistance against the English invaders. A good, brief account of the life of Wallace, and the battle can be found here.

William Wallace has always been a hero of mine, and on my first trip to Scotland, I had the good fortune to stay in a room that provided a glimpse of the River Forth, and I had to cross the Bridge to get up to the town of Stirling. The current Bridge is not the same one that the Battle was fought on, but I was still in my element.

There is a song called Stirling Brig which narrates the battle from the Scottish perspective. The Corries do a good version of it:

White Rose Day

As some of you might remember, I did a post on this holiday last year. I will, of course, be wearing plaid again - it is not quite tartan, but it is very similar to Dress Stewart, though with a bit more black to it, rather than green. I am wearing white roses in my hair, and I bought a little bush of miniature white roses, which are temporarily in a little pot inside, but which I will plant as soon as the Sierra summer arrives properly, and we stop having the occasion freeze at night. There is actually a strain of white roses - quite an old strain too - whose proper Latin title is Alba Maxima, but is also known as the Bonnie Prince Charlie Rose, and the Jacobite rose. If I ever get to be a reliable gardener, I would love to have an Alba Maxima in my garden.



Alba Maxima; Jacobite Rose;
Bonnie Prince Charlie Rose

This year, for celebration, I am going to partake of a bottle of Traquair Jacobite Ale, which I have been saving for today. I bought it at Traquair House in Scotland, where it is brewed. Traquair House is the oldest inhabited house in Scotland, according to their website, but more to the point, for the purpose of this post, it is as staunchly Catholic and Jacobite house. There is a little semi-hidden room in the attic, that was where the priest lived, and a secret stair case, that descends from it, and empties one out the back of the building, where one can scarper off to the woods for cover. There is a lovely little family chapel there - with the original altar, no less, and no sign of any modernisation. Traquair House is particularly interesting because it is still owned by the family, and receives no funds from Historic Scotland for its maintenance. Therefore, there has not been any restoration per se done on it. It is simply kept up, so when you tour it, you get a much better idea of what a historical house was like, than you do at other places.

 Furthermore, I have made a wee small cockade to wear upon my lapel. It was quite easy: two loops of white ribbon, stitched into a cross shape. In the center is a wee pin featuring the rampant lion. The lion is an old symbol for Scotland, and the red lion on a golden field was long used in the Royal Standard, so it seemed particularly suitable to wear today.

I shall finish by posting quite an old video of the Corries singing The White Cockade. It is charming:

 

D-Day

Today is the anniversary of the largest amphibious assault in history - to whit, the D-Day invasions of Normandy during WWII. Here are some facts about the assault you might not have know:

 - Although months of rigorous planning proceeded the invasion, the actual date of June 6th was selected at the last minute.Logistically, the action needed to take place at the beginning of June, the 5th being the preferred date. However, there were a number of variables that had to be taken into account during the planning. The bombers required a full moon, and a (cloud) ceiling of at least 5000 feet. The sea could not be too rough, otherwise the heavy transport boats would not be able to make the crossing. If the winds exceeded 20 mph, the paratroopers would be unable to land safely. June came in with one of the worst summer storms in twenty years. The decision to attack on June 6th was due to the weather report given by James Martin Scagg, predicting a 24 hour period or relatively decent weather in the midst of the storm.  You can read about it here and here.

 - The Scottish Highlands were used for a lot of training during WWII, including practice for the Normandy invasion. The British Commandos took intensive training courses there.

 - The actor, Richard Todd took part in the invasion. Nearly twenty years later, he appeared in the movie, The Longest Day in the role of Major John Howard, who was his commanding officer. Another actor, in a bit role, plays Richard Todd himself.

 - Tiny submarines, manned by Commandos, were sent to Normandy in advance of the invasion to conduct reconnaissance, and to lead the landing craft safely to the beach. They hid within range of the German guns for five days before the assault took place.

 - Bagpipes were used in the attack. Piper Bill Millin, under orders from his commanding officer, Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, piped his men off the boats and up to the beach, while enduring heavy fire from the Germans. You can read his account of the attack here.

Billy Millin

April 16th....

This is the anniversary of the battle of Culloden - the final battle between the armies of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the soldiers of King George. It ended in a tragic defeat for the Jacobites, a defeat from which they would never recover, and as for the Scottish clans who fought for their Prince... Well, in retaliation, the British occupied the Highlands for many years after, banning the wearing of the tartan, the speaking of Gaelic, the playing of the pipes, the carrying of a weapon - even one so insignificant as a sgian dubh. The clan-system was destroyed, and many Scots fled the country for a new life in France or America.

My sisters and I were in Scotland last year about this time, and took a trip up to Culloden. It is a fascinating place - a great wide plain, with the British and Scottish lines marked with flags. The Scots should never have engaged the British there - it was guerrilla fighting they excelled at, and it which gave them the edge they needed to go against the bigger and technologically advanced might of King George's army. Culloden offered them no chance for that, particularly as they were tired and dispirited from a long, hard winter campaign. For all that, the Scots, out-numbered and out-gunned as they were, managed to break through the British lines, and put up a tremendous fight.

It was an odd feeling to stand behind the low, ancient stone wall beside the flags of the Scottish line, and look out across the Moor to where the British would have been. There is a distinctive atmosphere to Culloden. We were there on a bright, warm spring day, so it cannot be put down to Scotland's notoriously rainy weather. It is a wild, empty place and so quiet that the wind seems loud. There are large stones along the path that runs from one end of the battle field to the other, and they are inscribed with the names of all the clans who fought there, and at the far end a single stone cottage which survived the battle - Old Leanach Cottage, which is very small, but has such thick walls that it took a shot of cannon-fire, and had nothing to show for it but a scar on the side

November 30th

Well, golly! To my amazement, I did it. I managed to write better than 50,000 words this month - 50,377, to be exact - and so have fulfilled the challenge of National Novel Writing Month. The thing I have created cannot properly be called a novel. That is far too grandiose a title. What I actually have is a rough draft - and exceedingly rough draft, of something that will potentially be a novel someday. (Soon hopefully.) Still, this is something of a mile-stone for me, as I actually have all the key point of the novel written out, with a proper beginning, middle and end. It is the closest I have ever come to actually writing one of those books I am always threatening to write, and as I result, I am feeling so pleased with myself that I am going to indulge in a little bit of blowing my own horn. I present to you all, my award:

On a totally unrelated note, today is the feast day of St. Andrew, who is the patron saint of Scotland. Being the ardent Scotophile that I am, I celebrated the day, at least in a small way. I am the owner of a very fine Royal Scots cap badge:

which I pinned in my hair, along with a white rose, which I generally break out on days of Scottish national import, since the white rose - along with the thistle - is the national flower of Scotland. I wore my little pin with the American flag on one side, and the Scottish flag on the other. Oddly enough, though St. Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland and has been since the Battle of Bannockburn, and though the Scottish flag is a composed of a blue field, with a white, St. Andrew's cross emblazoned on it, St. Andrew's day is not really a big deal in Scotland. No doubt we have the Covanenters and their legacy to thank for that, and it is rather a shame. I wanted to post a video or a music clip in praise of St. Andrew, but decent music in honour of this great saint and apostle is very hard to find. There is a polyphonic Gregorian chant in his honour here for those who are interested.

Here's Tae the King, Sir....

Today is White Rose Day, a holiday I had never heard of before yesterday. I owe the discovery of its existence to a small, pencilled notation in an antique Lives of the Saints, that I recently acquired in Scotland, and have been using daily as part of morning prayers. Beside the names of various saints for June 10th - St. Landry, St. Maurinus, St. Gertulius & Co. and, most fittingly, St. Margaret of Scotland - is the neat little addition: White Rose Day. I was intrigued, and the moment I had finished my prayers, I rushed to my handy computer to look it up.

To my delight, I discovered that it a Jacobite holiday. It commemorates the birth of James Francis Edward Stewart, born on this day in 1688. He was the legitimate, staunchly Catholic heir the throne of England, Ireland and Scotland and his birth is generally regarded as the beginning of the Jacobite cause. His father, James II and VII, had converted to Catholicism, and as a result had been forced to abdicate in favour of his Protestant daughter, Mary, and her Dutch husband, William of Orange. It was not an ideal situation, so when James II and VII died, his son was offered the throne by the bitterly Protestant leaders of the country, on condition that he renounce his Faith, but he responded, "Nothing would induce me to abandon my religion, for it is the true one." He did, however, insist upon his right to the kingship, and his supporters raised an army to help him secure it. James in Latin is Jacobus, so his supporters were knows as Jacobites.

They put up a tremendous fight, the Jacobites! Two major uprising they had, one in 1715, led by James himself, and the better known one, in 1746, led by Bonnie Prince Charlie. In between, there were all sorts of intrigues and smaller battles. If a man had a blue cap upon his head, you could be pretty sure that he was a supporter of "the king over the water", that is to say, James Stewart, for he had been forced to flee to France after the Jacobites were put down in 1715. Ladies wore white roses to show their own support. People met in secret to plan for the next move in the battle for their rightful king. The Jacobite cause was finally crushed once and for all, on April 16th, at Culloden in Scotland. Bonnie Prince Charlie and his gallant Scots were defeated, more by treachery and bad judgement, than by any force of arms.

However, the Jacobite tradition carried on. Those who were loyal to the Stewarts continued to drink toasts to the King over the Water, still continued to hope for the restoration of the true kings to the throne. Gradually, a whole, rich tradition of Jacobite songs, poetry and toasts grew up. They continued to wear the white rose - or the white cockade - which had long been the symbol of the Stewarts. And one of their traditions, was the celebration White Rose Day.

So, in commemoration of the day, of the Stewarts, and their Catholic faith, and of their brave supporters the Jacobites, here is a poem, written by Andrew Lang:


WHITE ROSE DAY--JUNE 10, 1688

'Twas a day of faith and flowers,
Of honour that could not die,
Of Hope that counted the hours,
Of sorrowing Loyalty:
And the Blackbird sang in the closes,
The Blackbird piped in the spring,
For the day of the dawn of the Roses,
The dawn of the day of the King!

White roses over the heather,
And down by the Lowland lea,
And far in the faint blue weather,
A white sail guessed on the sea!
But the deep night gathers and closes,
Shall ever a morning bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
The face of the rightful King?


Incidentally, since I like to fancy myself a bit of a Jacobite, I intend to celebrate today by wearing a tartan skirt (luckily made of light-weight fabric, since spring has come upon us) pinning a white rose into my hair, (artificial - a concession to practicality) putting white roses on my table (real ones, of course) and cooking salmon, neeps and tatties for dinner (It being Friday, salmon is as Scottish as it gets). I also intend to have a bit of Scotch whisky, with which I shall offer the standard toast, "Here's tae the King, sir. Ye ken wha I mean, sir. And every honest man wha will dae it again!" and pass my whisky glass over my water glass, lest there be any doubt that I mean the King over the Water.

Beware the Hunchbacks, and Other Warnings Posted on British Roads

My sisters and I are recently back from a trip to Scotland. A good friend of the family whom we were visiting there, drove us about the countryside, putting over 2000 miles on his car, and ensuring that we saw a great deal of interest. So much driving also gave us a chance to observe some rather peculiar (at least, I found them so) road signs. There was, for example, this sign:

which appears to be advising one of the upcoming danger of running in to a tuning fork, but which is actually warning that the 2 lane road you are currently bowling pleasantly along on, is about to become 1 lane.

Then, of course, there is the sign cautioning against zombie-like hunchbacks:

which is actually alerting you to the far less sinister possibility of frail persons - i.e: the elderly, blind, disabled - crossing your path at this point.

Indeed, the majority of people crossing signs I found to be a bit sinister looking. Take, for example the sign warning of impending danger from hulking juveniles:

which is actually just a harmless school-crossing notice. Or there is this one, that suggests the possibility of imminent abduction by preternaturally tall aliens:

which is merely giving you fair warning that there might be pedestrians in the road ahead - though, I must admit, if I noticed a pair of pedestrians looking like this, I'd still be inclined to think there was something sinister about it

There is also this slightly confused sign, mostly seen along Highlands roads:

The weather, while we were in Scotland, was, up until the very last day, both sunnier and warmer than our section of California had been at the time of our departure, so we observed neither ice, nor snow. The Highlands also boasted this dire-looking notice:

which sometimes appeared with a small car beneath all that unlikely shedding from the crumbling mountain. This sign seemed to appear most often along side a bit of innocent road, looking rather like this:

in which the mountain which was about to collapse upon you, could only be faintly glimpsed through the trees.

My favourite sign, however, might possibly be this one:

Very civilised, that polite notice. Very kind of them to be so polite about it. The impolite notice, should you inadvisedly ignore the polite one, would consist of a parking warden in a fluorescent-yellow vest (with which Scotland is thronged) appearing the instant your vehicle stops moving (even if the motor is running) and writing you up a citation. Or possibly, if you had actually gotten out of your car, clamping your vehicle to the road by its wheels, so that you have to pay a ruddy great fine to have it unclamped. Obey the polite notice.

On This Day In History

... The Jacobites lost to the English in the battle of Culloden's Muir. Here is a good video about it:

Scotland's Baseball Connection

What is that, you say? You were not aware that there was a Scottish baseball connection? Well, dear Reader, neither did I. My father however, and ardent Baseball affectionado, informed me today that Bobby Thomson, whose incredible home run against the Dodgers, in the bottom of the ninth inning, knocked the Giants in the 1951 World Series, was born in Glasgow, Scotland. Furthermore, the Edinburgh baseball team, the Diamond Devils have named their homefield after Bobby Thomson. (Wow. There is actually National League Baseball in Scotland. Who knew?)

(If you would like to see the play and the subsequent rejoicing, you can go here. )