250 Years of Robbie

Happy Burns Day!

The Scottish poet Robert Burns visited Dunkeld in Perthshire in 1787 on his tour of the Highlands, we’re told, and stayed in Culloden House (which we didn’t get to see last weekend, but which matters very little to our post today). Historical plaques always amuse us; “Abe Lincoln Slept Here!” reminds us of going on cross-country road trips growing up, and seeing “World’s Largest Rosebush!” signs beckoning from the interstate exits.

In Scotland, it’s kind of hard to escape history: just about every hill or bog or crumbling barn has a sign that says someone was born there, buried there, fought there, and remembered (well, OK, to be fair, they may not have a sign – but someone in the pub will happily tell you the tale of it anyway). When we first got here, it kind of gave us the feeling of walking through a huge museum/graveyard. And now, after having been here awhile, we don’t perhaps take it for granted, but it feels a lot less like a holy hush ought to accompany any ramble through the countryside. It’s okay for us to be here, too.

Maybe the biggest difference between where we lived in Northern California and where we are now is the lightness with which we younger countries view history. State history, especially in the West, happened at a fast clip — and we can never be sure that early Western settlers recorded everything. A sign downtown that says “People grew up in this house and nothing much else happened” would hardly be seen in Scotland — there are tons of groups who take historical preservation very seriously here — but we have seen more than one sign like that at home, despite the eye-rolling and the sniffs of preservationists of California history. Perhaps the big difference is that Californians know we didn’t catch every piece of our history — and the attitude seems to be “que sera.”

In honor of last weekend’s tenuous link to Burns history, and in honor of his 250th birthday today, and the fact that we have indeed been invited to a Burns’ Night Supper that we’ll have to skip — too much work, sadly! — we shall declaim a favorite poem entitled: Winter: A Dirge.

Winter: A Dirge

– by Robert Burns, 1781

The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want-O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!-
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

We’re going to assume that the “resign” refers to resigning oneself to winter’s bounty of chapped lips, red noses, and cracking eyelids (seriously — if you don’t moisturize your eyelids here, bad things happen), instead of resigning from the world at large! Though our Mr. Burns is indeed somewhat melancholic, I don’t think he was going that far…!

Despite the dolorous words, the weather here hasn’t been all that bad. Each day this week has been cold as iced brass, to be sure, and a walk through the park at night came with whitening asphalt — which froze as we observed it, which was startling — but the horrible winds which we could actually feel moving our apartment around this time last year are notably absent.

Okay, the avalanche near Glencoe/Ft. William did give us a bit of a pause, especially as it claimed lives, but here in the city, the snow hasn’t been that dramatic. D. visited a sporting goods store to purchase cleats for our shoes after the spotty snow we had a few days last week, and we continue to make our way through the frozen park to the gym and back before the sun comes up, if not in perfect comfort, at least in less danger of slipping as we sleepwalk.

If you’re of a mind to, you can listen to the Prince of Wales read some of the Burns standards. Or, you could find an actual Scottish person…

– D & T

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