“A shower of rain in July, when the Corn begins to fill, is worth a plough of Oxen, and all belongs there till.” Am Mios crochadh nan con – The month of hanging dogs, also known as Am mios buidhe –  the yellow month. Where the first term comes from, I’m unsure. It may have related to rabies back in the day. The yellow month is because it can be so full of sunshine and late. July is a changeable month weather wise and is at once hot humid and wet and summer sunshine and wind. Basically we never trust

“May, May the merry month of May“. I’m no Julie Andrews but this is the time of year when we begin to feel that summer, Samhradh, has truly begun. Bealtaine proper also fell into May for us this year, with both the full moon and the blooms of Hawthorn coinciding with one another. The night of Bealltainn the sky turned the most magnificent pink, mist rose from the damp soil and fog rolled in from the Firth. This pink light reflected off the white blooms of our apple orchard and the hawthorn blooms. It was a beautiful night. Made even better with

The cuckoo comes in the middle of March and sings in the middle of April and passes away at Lunasa tide when the corn begins to fill March, Màrt, is upon us, the time of earrach geamhraidh, or winter-spring continues until we have the nine days of Gearran, the Cailleach and the Squabag, each different weather fronts.  True to form March has been a very changeable month weather wise and hard to get out and about to look at what’s happening on the ground. The gearran came early this March with days of calm weather, then we had the Cailleach,

February, Faoilleach,  the wolf ravage. Imbolc and La Fheill Bride. The month of two halves. The beginning, a full on winter experience. By the end becoming a little easier going with clear signs of summer on its way. The weather though has been all over the place. The coldest it has been for some time, then usually sunny and warm, we will see what this year brings. Regardless, the snow has fallen. Coating the countryside on Valentines day, old plough break day, the date of old Candlemas, thick and heavy. The sky is a scene from an apocalypse movie. Dark grey rising

As I get deeper into the woods I hear the cry of a Common Buzzard above me, I think it’s telling me I’m on its turf as it circles me above the trees. I see great tits and chaffinches darting between the evergreens and I rest for a bit in