An Unexplained Exception

Sumer is icumen in, (English round, c. 1250)

Svmer is icumen in

Lhude sing cuccu!

Groweþ sed and bloweþ med

and springþ þe wde nu.

Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteþ after lomb,

lhouþ after calue cu,

Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ.

Murie sing cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu,

Wel singes þu cuccu.

ne swik þu nauer nu!

Sing cuccu nu, Sing cuccu!

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And now for English from this century:

(With apologies to everyone who has ever had to sing that round, and still retains childhood scarring from primary school choral experiences.)

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It rains all summer long in Scotland.

We’d been told and told and told and told and told and told and TOLD this by everyone, in a (vain) hope that we wouldn’t arrive at June or July and be disappointed that we weren’t suddenly transported to, say, Vegas. We knew it rained all summer here. We became somewhat acquainted with that rain thing last winter.

A ‘real’ Scots barbecue, we were told, is eaten half under the porch, and half with jackets over one’s head. A real Scottish day at the beach is spent under the umbrella. Yet, summer has come in, despite the overcast skies, today’s drizzle, and that quick, stinging hailstorm of the past weekend which prompted shrieks and running feet. (That was fairly amusing, I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason it happened. The Glasgow Weather Guardian has a sense of humor.) One way we know is that we can be out and about at five thirty a.m. in a light jacket and a single layer of trousers, or even shorts, without gloves. A definite summery feature, that lack of gloves. We also know it’s true summer by the intoxicating slant of light which dusts old monuments and sandstone with gold. The light reenergizes the tired stiff architectural lines, and makes the greenery glow lushly. And the quiet — in a city of thumping bass lines, the shrill obscenity of cellphone conversations, blaring taxi horns and squealing bus brakes, the quiet is a gift to be cherished.

We are torn between hurry and delay, wanting to run around, stand in the road, examine every storefront, take in each corner and own the city before anyone is awake. We also want to linger over flocks of sleeping ducks in the park (a very funny sight), mist-touched cobblestones, serene reflections, and the cathedral chiming the hour in the still, quiet air.

It’s a beautiful and exceptional time of day, a time of day which has no bearing on anything at all that happens, say, after ten o’clock.

By that hour, the clouds have rolled in, the gold has faded, and the rain is revving its hundred billion little engines to pour on someone else’s parade. The rest of the world is awake, and the hushed and bare stage of the city is filled with all its many loud, threatening, blind, amusing, hustling, filthy, joyous, crazy, appalling, appealing and very human players. The light is gone. The magic is hidden.

We feel wealthy, exploiting this unexplained exception to Glasgow’s summer rain.

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More summer fun to anticipate — we don’t get fireworks on the Fourth this year, but we are going to Tallinn, Estonia, next week jaunting to the Highlands (Pitlochry, Inverness, Nairn, Kingussie, Loch Ness) with the University July 14-16, and going for a visit to Drumlanrig Castle on the 25th. The Tallinn trip will be much nicer than D’s last work jaunt to Miami — although that ‘Cortadito Nevado Cubano’ coffee was almost worth the trip. We’re especially pleased to be going to Drumlanrig, after D. cannily found out about the photography prohibition early on, and wrote to them for permission. Duke Richard (!) has waved his gracious hand (!!), and we’ll be smugly snapping everything in sight.

NOW HEAR THIS: You non-techie folks might want to note that in our RIGHT HAND SIDEBAR there is now a way to subscribe to our blog via email. Those of you technophobes related to us by blood or marriage — you’re already signed up, because you’d better want to read each and every word we write, capice? The rest of you beloved Luddites (*cough* you know who you are *cough*) have about a week to do it yourself, or we’ll “help.”

– D & T