Time, it is fleeting, and it is flying by. The first restrictions and closures due to Covid19 began almost a year ago. It may have been a difficult, terrifying and isolated year, but boy does it seem to have flown by when I look back. So whilst we remain housebound, our Archaeofam have tried to make the most of every opportunity to have some fun, and for us, no celebration is more glorious, than January 25th
It is not all that often we get a chance to relish in our Scottish roots. Despite being born in Perth and spending my earliest years in the quaint historic village of Abernethy, I have since lived in England for almost all of my life and sadly I have few memories of my formative Scottish infancy.
I often argue that as a minority Scotland fan, isolated in competitive schools packed full of rival England supporters, I have earned a Scottish national hero status following years of jibes, ridicule and abuse. Yet throughout the decades of sporting heartache and struggle, I stood firm and still wear the dark blue of my home nation with pride!
Even as an American, Emily Archaeomum has probably spent more time in Scotland than I have. Moving from the States to Edinburgh to study archaeology, Emily enjoyed almost a decade in the spectacular Scottish capital, travelling extensively during that time and enjoying many of the scenic delights and stunning wonders Scotland is so rightfully famous for.
In the future, we hope to make a permanent return north of the border, to embrace the near fairytale nation and be closer to family and friends there, but for now, at least once a year we get to bask in the delights of all things Caledonian as we celebrate the spectacular genius of that globally admired Scottish bard, Robert Burns.
January 25th is Burns night, a chance to recite the unmistakeable lyrics of the Ploughman Poet, to eat (vegetarian in our case) Haggis, neeps and tatties, and enjoy a wee dram or five of our favourite Scotch whisky (Laphroaig is still king in this household). It is a tradition we have maintained throughout our romance, and now one that Audrey is entirely delighting in also! (Not the whisky drinking of course) Even Bramble loves the chance for a little Haggis in her dinner and I’m sure she enjoys the poetry, however poorly the accents may be attempted!
The life and works of Robert Burns are both fascinating and spellbinding, and deserve far more space than I can offer it here or even profess to understand. Indeed he is regarded of such national importance that Glasgow University have an entire centre dedicated to detailed study of the man. I will therefore only attempt a brief life history here and follow up, as I feel is more fitting, with a wonderful piece of his work that I admire, and that I badly recited to my horrified and embarrassed family before the centrepiece vegetarian haggis was enjoyably consumed!
Rabbie Burns was born on the 25th of January 1759 in Ayrshire, the eldest of seven children. Burns was mostly homeschooled and assisted in farm labour whilst growing up in and around the village of Alloway. His rise from relative poverty and hardship seems to have only inspired his art, and as Burns moved around Scotland and experienced love, lust and a range of employments, his poetry blossomed. Eventually, he settled in Dumfries with his long time love, wife and muse Jean Armour. He rests there still, in a grand mausoleum built posthumously for the famous bard, his original gravestone deemed unworthy of the great man by the romantic generation of artists he inspired.
Here is a melancholy little piece of his that literally oozes dark and atmospheric charisma and delight…
To the Owl
Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth,
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?
Is it some blast that gathers in the north,
Threatening to nip the verdure of thy bower?
Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unshelter’d and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?
Or friendless Melancholy bids thee mourn?
Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather’d train,
To tell thy sorrows to th’ unheeding gloom;
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.
Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song:
Sing on, sad mourner! to the night complain,
While the long echo wafts thy notes along.
Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek
Sad, piteous tears, in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to Pity’s call?
Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,
That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there;
That Spring’s gay notes, unskill’d, thou canst repeat;
That Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair.
Nor that the treble songsters of the day
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night! from thee;
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.
From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,
While the grey walls, and desert solitudes,
Return each note, responsive to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods;
There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee
Than ever lover to the nightingale;
Or drooping wretch, opress’d with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale.
Whilst this post is a little late, we hope you all had a happy Burns night, wherever you happened to be. We also hope that you were able to enjoy a whisky or two and some good food with great company. I wholeheartedly recommend browsing some of Robert Burns’s incredible works if you have not already done so.
We are fiercely proud of our Scottish heritage and we embrace its history with utter delight, even if we sometimes leap into various stereotypes with an over-eager abandon.
How swiftly have we reached the end of this wintry January? Time is accelerating at a frightening pace these days and we have barely had a chance to reflect before the next adventures are upon us. Even in a world of lockdown, we try to enjoy every moment we can with loved ones, near and far. Reach out, connect, and drink in every moment, if you blink, you may miss it all. As the great bard said himself;
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.
So from our Archaeofam to yours,
Slàinte Mhath
