Last winter's snow

For quite some time I was lamenting the lack of snow throughout the winter, at least as compared with my younger days. Still, during the last few months there was more frequent and longer-lasting snow than for several years. The only drawback was that, in accordance with Sod's law, this happened just at the time when I was mostly too weak to be able to leave the flat even for the shortest stroll, so couldn't enjoy it as much as I would have otherwise. And whether or not I'll see next winter is anybody's guess ...

Unexpected white Christmas

To be honest, I'd grown used to the idea that the probability of my ever seeing a white Christmas again was minimal. When I woke up yesterday and saw a thin layer of snow on the ground, I suspected it might not last until the evening - and it didn't. The forecast for today said light snow during the day; I didn't cherish much hope. But snow it did - not much, but enough to cover the grass and pavements, partially even the roofs - and so far, it stays like that.

There are still unexpected small mercies to experience. (Another was an afternoon call from my sister, who even claimed she'd personally visit me before the end of the year.)

The futility of environmentalism

Unsurprisingly, COP26 didn't deliver what could really save this planet. Unsurprisingly, because those who have the power to make the necessary changes are not actually willing to do so. They do not truly believe the necessity is there. In the words of Greta Thunberg, they still believe in the fantasy of "eternal growth on a finite planet". And they will continue to do so until it's too late.

Not that they are alone. We are, almost all of us, culprits. Humankind as a whole behaves like me - a patient diagnosed with cancer who nevertheless can't make himself stop smoking. We take some token steps to salve our consciences, but instead of making changes that would actually save us we live in the hope that progress in science and technology will eventually solve the problem for us.

Only it won't, for two complementary reasons: there are more and more of us, and each individual expects his or her standard of life to at least remain the same, preferably to go on improving. Thus lately Thunberg; but as early as 1969 Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his novel Slaughterhouse-Five:

The Population Reference Bureau predicts that the world's total population will double to 7,000,000,000 before the year 2000.
"I suppose they will all want dignity," I said.
"I suppose," said O'Hare.

And of course, our perception of what is necessary for our dignity gradually rises. For the half century since Vonnegut published his book, world's population went on rising, our lives went on growing more comfortable, and environment went on deteriorating.

To sum up, unless we stop breeding like vermin, and accept that our individual standards of living have to be rather drastically lowered, we'll keep driving down the road to perdition. Human mentality being what it is, I can't see us making these changes. We'll just continue living in our cloud cuckoo land until we get past the point of no return.

Unless we're already past it.

Storm Arwen

A few days ago I received a notice that on next week's Tuesday there would be no electricity between about 8am and 4pm. My first thought was how would I survive eight winter hours without warm tea or coffee (and little laptop time). Later I realised that in comparison with people who had to wait for several (some as many as nine) days to have their electricity supply restored I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

St Andrew's Day

On Friday the first snow of this year: it was falling virtually throughout the daylight hours and untypically settled, rather than thawed immediately or before the next morning. In fact it still remains on the grass and some roofs, with the help of a bit more snowfall on Saturday and today. So everything is that wee bit nicer now. Given that the minimum daily temperature had already been falling close to zero for some time, I think I can proclaim winter as begun, whatever astronomers may think about it.

After all, unless I'm mistaken, meteorologists will proclaim it as begun tomorrow.

Bannie Day 2021

Many years ago I began calling the anniversary of the Battle of Bannockburn 'Bannie Day' and celebrating it as one of the days which divided the year into its four seasons. It was a bit fanciful even then, and has become completely so by now, with summer beginning in May at the very latest, but old habits die hard (and following weather forecast for back home tells me it often still begins there in June).

Anyway, here's to summer - that is to say, to it being as short as possible. Then again, I'm about to move flat and there are indications that in the new accommodation I may just about be able to keep the indoor temperature well below the 30C which I sometimes can't get rid of here for what seems like eternity.

In the meantime, I'm simply trying to survive.

Collared dove

When I first heard one calling earlier this year I had to use the RSPB website to identify which bird it was at all. This is actually not such an unusual pattern in my life: (1) Live and learn. (2) Use it or lose it. (3) If you did lose it, go back to point (1).

Last week for three consecutive mornings one was cooing while sitting on the tree just beyond my window (which, incidentally, I've been so far unable to identify, although not for want of trying). I wondered whether it would actually nest there, but I haven't seen it for the last three days, so probably not. Somehow I miss it.

 

Another spring

The winter hasn't completely given up yet: night temperatures are still usually just a little above zero, and outwith direct sunshine it doesn't get too warm even during the day. There was even new snow in northern Scotland yesterday. But last Thursday I had gone to town in my shirtsleeves, and the day before last I'd noticed the first trees beginning to leaf. It's past the vernal equinox, past the change to summer time and past Easter as well. The winter may not have completely given up yet, but no doubt it's only a matter of a short time before it will.

Between winter and spring

The chance of some more snow is almost zero; as far as I'm concerned, this means that winter proper is over. Luckily though, spring hasn't come yet: after dark the temperature still usually falls towards, or even below, the freezing point, so that opening my window I don't risk inviting insects to my bedsit. Inviting the smell from the nearby coal-powered boiler room seems the lesser evil to me, so long may this last.

Some snow at least

Although what I wrote in my first post here still largely holds, it did snow on Hogmanay night and yesterday afternoon. Not very much, but enough for a bit more than a mere skiff of snow still covering roofs and even pavements every here and there on New Year's Day (making me have a wee dander) and today - St Mungo's Day, the day of the patron saint of Glasgow. So at least there are some small mercies to be grateful for ...

White shrouds

The day began well, with the night's falling of snow continuing. The first snow of the season, and there was enough of it to settle where not driven on by cars. The city looked definitely better for it.

But I travelled through it to my oncology appointment where they confirmed I had cancer again - the same type as the last time round, only now it had attacked the oesophagus rather than the hypopharynx. And the tumour is already larger. So I'm in for chemotherapy, starting the next week.

The silver lining is that I don't have to go to work any longer, so at least I can eventually begin to fight my emaciation. (Not sure how the therapy'd affect that struggle though.)

Later in the day I found out that it was the anniversary of the death of Robert Louis Stevenson, who died eight years younger than I am now; that the Covid-related deaths in the UK had surpassed 60,000, and those in Sweden 7,000.

So the uplifting of mood that the snow brought didn't last long. But I still haven't succumbed to despair. While there's life there's hope.

St Andrew's Day '20

Winter's here. Admittedly, I've seen no snow so far except on pictures, but the temperatures are sub-zero every night, and that certainly isn't my idea of autumn.

I wonder what this winter'll be like. I've some tumour again, this time in my belly, which may mean a long sick leave, something I wouldn't mind at all, as long as I could spend most of it on my own, rather than in a hospital. It may also mean the last winter ever for me. Let's hope not.

L'automne propre

Apparemment, l'été est finalement passé : quand je me suis réveillé ce matin, la température dans ma chambre était enfin de nouveau sous 24 degrés Celsius même avant que j'ai ouvert la fenêtre. Et il a plu pour la plupart de la journée, comme avant-hier. La vie paraît encore un peu meilleure.

Autumn's approaching

Seems like I've got through another summer. Somewhat strangely, it was even more tiresome than usual, despite not being as torrid as several of the most recent ones, and despite my not boozing as much as a consequence. Maybe I'm ageing faster than I'm willing to admit to myself. (Incidentally, yesterday it was 30 years since I first crossed the English-Scottish border. Thirty fucking years. As were allegedly the last words of David Cassidy, "so much wasted time". Then again, it wasn't all wasted. There were a lot of good times I wouldn't have dreamed of happening in my wildest dreams those three decades ago.) Anyway, time to do more again than just keep going.

 

 

Earrach a' tighinn

Cha robh an geamhradh garbh, ach cha robh e snog a bharrachd, le cion an t-sneachda. A thuilleadh air sin, bha sreath de sheachd seachdainean ann dar a bhiodh mi ag obair dìreach nan sioftaichen maidne, rud a dh'fhàgadh mi claoidhte gu dearbh. Agus 's mathaid gu robh mi a' cosg cus ama san taigh-sheinnse, mus do dhùisg iad uile.

Air an làimh eile, lean mi orm le mo ionnsachadh chànanan, leugh mi (no, na bu trice, ath-leugh mi) iomadh leabhar math, agus ged nach do lùghdaich mi  gu mòr càrn-obrach nan cùisean a tha mi airson a dhèanamh fhathast, 's dòcha nach do mheudaich mi e.

Co-dhiù no co-dheth, bidh co-là Glaodhach Obar Bhrothaig ann a-màireach: tha làithean nas fhaide na oidhcheannan mar tha, tha an teothachd a' sìor èirigh, tha duilleagan a' nochdadh air na craobhan ... Chì sinn am bi an t-earrach nas fhearr na an geamhradh a dh'aindeoin a' bhìoras.

February 2020 weather

While my homeland was being battered by weekend storm after weekend storm, the part of the Continent where I stay resembled more a mediocre beginning of spring than the cusp of winter. The temperature would drop below zero at night and rise above it again during the day; the wind would often be biting, especially late in the morning; but while there was luckily nothing dramatic about those days, there was unfortunately nothing picturesque about them either. 'Drab' , 'dreary' and 'dismal' are the adjectives which probably describe them best.

Où sont les neiges d'antan ?

Sure, even in my childhood a white Christmas was something rare, only talked of as commonplace by the old ones (whose own memories may moreover have been distorted). But proper snow, one which would not only settle, but last for several days even in towns and cities, at some time during the winter, was something we took for granted. During my four winters in Glasgow I hadn't experienced snow that would outlast twenty-four hours once, which I put down to the place's climate, but I'm not sure I've seen it ever since in the two cities on the Continent where I'd spent the following five winters (including this one) either. I miss it. What kind of winter is it without snow? Like spring without blossoms, summer without sun or autumn without turning and falling leaves ...