#wind direction

In Algy's opinion, spring was not really spring without primroses. He couldn't be sure how folk in other countries might feel about it; indeed, Algy did not even know in which parts of the world wild primroses could be found. But to Algy primroses were the very essence of spring, and he was delighted that they grew wild in the local landscape of the wild west Highlands of Scotland, as well as in patches of his assistants' garden, where they had established themselves without being formally introduced, but were nevertheless most welcome.

To Algy's surprise, the weather pattern had started to change on Saturday morning, and the wind had begun to swing round towards the north, exactly as the weather birds had predicted. Of course Algy hadn't really believed them when they said that the weather would improve, because months of wind, rain, sleet and even snow, not to mention persistently too-low temperatures, tended to make a fluffy bird sceptical at the very least… But on Saturday it was beginning to look as though the forecast might possibly have been right, and a phase of better weather might perhaps be just around the corner…

So, with hope in his fluffy heart, Algy perched on a tiny bush beside a particularly luscious clump of primroses, lit up by a spring sun which was almost beginning to feel a wee bit warm, and relaxed there for a while, dreaming happily of more pleasant days to come…

Windrose. Cosmographie universelle, selon les navigateurs tant anciens que modernes. 1555.

Building a weather station from milk cartons

It had rained heavily all night in the wild west Highlands of Scotland, and when Algy woke up in the morning the world was obscured by dense, grey Scotch mist again, and there were new pools of standing water everywhere.

But as the day advanced the air began to clear, and the water simply vanished – with remarkable speed – in the mysterious manner peculiar to this land where the higher ground is surrounded by deep peat bogs and drained by multiple burns that flow swiflty into the adjacent sea.

And by the time that Algy was ready to settle down with a good book of verse for some light Sunday afternoon reading, the wind had swung right round from the chilly north to the milder south, and a little watery sunshine was breaking through the clouds, albeit reluctantly.

So Algy returned to the old garden bench, tucked himself tightly into one corner, and opened his heavy volume at a random page, where by chance he read:

O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime! Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.