I left it late – as always. I needed to get this blog done and ready to go live at 11:00 am GMT tomorrow, Friday. All my photos are stored on my server. Once it ‘served’ many purposes; collected and dispatched all my mail; served my websites to all who requested them; stored documents and stored all my photos. But time move on and its functions have been gradually eroded, and now it holds only documents and photos – with some part-time website support. Once a week, on Saturday night/Sunday morning, it does a backup and sends everything it can off into the never-never-land of the cloud.
Today, when I went to find a nice picture to distract you from the cares of the world, I couldn’t find my photos. The server had crashed.
Woe, sackcloth and ashes required immediately!
Well, it’s late, as I mentioned above. I’m certainly not going to go delving into the innards of antiquated computer hardware at this time of night. So, the best I can do for you right now is a photo from my phone.
It’s not too bad – a pair of crocuses that have popped up in a surprising place.
Crashed computers and the loss of at least a week’s worth of photos will have to wait their turn. I can only deal with a limited number of panics in any one 24-hour period.
As we wait, impatiently, for Spring to arrive there are a number of boxes that must be ticked. First, the appearance of the snowdrops, next, usually the crocuses, then the daffodils start to blow their own trumpets. Around this time the Robin starts singing.
Most birds only sing in Springtime – it’s part of the mating rituals and defines their territory (a bit like singing in opera, a good loud voice gets you the best offers.) First, we have a warm-up period where the birds sing in the middle of the hedges or lower branches of trees, often quietly almost to themselves. Soon they get the measure of the competition and start to throw their chest out and give it all they’ve got – from the top of the trees or hedges.
The Robin starts the show. A few weeks later the Blackbird will begin whistling quietly to himself in secret. The Thrush is no shrinking violet; he takes up pole position on the top of any convenient tree and belts his song out at full volume. This prods the Blackbird into action and shortly after he, too, begins his variations on a theme that last until Summer.
Here’s the Robin, as you can see he has braved the top of the hedge – things must be hotting up in the mating game.
I got out of the car in the supermarket carpark and there, straight ahead of me, was the new moon that had heralded the Chinese New Year a few days ago – so I took its picture, as you do.
Later, getting out of the car at home I looked up and, with less light pollution, a clear sky and almost no moon, the stars glittered their way over my head, from the woods behind the house to the Scottish border. And there was my old friend Orion.
Seeing him took me back a good few years – to when The Dog, a mere slip of a girl in those days, needed someone with her when she went out to do her business in the dark.
I would stand there waiting, and on one clear night, as Orion was pushing his shoulders up into my view I noticed, on the other side of the sky, Venus just setting into the dark clouds along the horizon. So I wrote a poem, as you do.
The Hunter strides upon his way, his sword by his side
Following, following, following with every stride
Westward ever westward but he seeks no game
Still, the thrill of the hunt is on him just the same
This game he plays with a Lady, beautiful and serene
She knows he follows after and makes sure that she is seen
She beckons him on with her eyes but every time he nears,
because she is a Lady, she turns and disappears.