adventuresofalgy

[adventuresofalgy]

NO INTERNET and very poor mobile connection. So Algy is not able to post his adventures at the moment. Sorry!

[adventuresofalgy]

Little You-I could not yet either walk or fly well enough for Algy to take his baby dragon friend to see the beach and the sea, and Algy was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the young creature amused.

But the weather in the wild west Highlands of Scotland was fine and warm for a change, which helped to some extent, for Algy was sure that Little You-I – like most dragons – would become far more fractious if it turned cold and wet again.

Deciding that perhaps some bright colours might cheer his young friend up, Algy helped Little You-I to fly over to a large azalea bush, which was in full flower in the warm May sunshine, and they settled down together in an exceptionally fragrant sea of pink.

Little You-I was evidently intrigued by the azalea, and as it gazed at the magnificent flowers it suddenly squeaked:

Frequently the woods are pink — Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town. Oft a head is crested I was wont to see — And as oft a cranny Where it used to be — And the Earth — they tell me — On its Axis turned! Wonderful Rotation! By but twelve performed!

[Little You-I is reciting the poem Frequently the woods are pink by the 19th century American poet Emily Dickinson.]

[adventuresofalgy]

Little You-I, the baby dragon which Algy had discovered with its leg caught between stones in the burn, kept complaining that its foot hurt, and on inspection Algy guessed that it had probably sprained its ankle while twisting and turning among the stones in an attempt to get free.

The wee creature only had tiny wings: it was able to make fluttering jumps between one spot and another quite close by, in a way similar to a fledgling blackbird or thrush, but it could not fly very far at all. So Algy decided to give it a ride on his own back, and in this way he managed to carry it for a distance of a mile or so, until they reached his assistants' garden.

Borrowing a small bandage from his assistants' First Aid cabinet, Algy seated Little You-I in front of him on a large log and proceeded to bandage its ankle, all the while crooning a suitable poem for children, over and over again, to distract it from the pain. And he promised Little You-I that when its ankle was better, he would indeed take it to the beach, to play by the sea…

I’m walking (I’m walking) with my iguana (with my iguana) When the temperature rises to above eighty-five, my iguana is looking like he’s coming alive. So we make it to the beach, my iguana and me, then he sits on my shoulder as we stroll by the sea . . .

[Algy is crooning part of the poem for children Walking with my Iguana by the contemporary British poet Brain Moses.]

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy and Little You-I perched side by side in the tangled bushes beside the burn from which Algy had rescued the baby dragon, and chatted together in the bright sunshine.

Algy asked Little You-I how it had happened to be in this spot, and where it had come from, but the funny little creature only repeated the beginning of the poem it had recited before:

o by the by has anybody seen little you-i who stood on a green hill and threw his wish at blue

From which Algy inferred that perhaps this was not the first time that the colourful infant had strayed from home. But the wee dragon was evidently quite happy, apart from complaining that the foot which it had caught among the boulders in the burn was sore, and it showed no signs of concern that it might be lost, although it did seem a wee bit confused.

If his new friend had been older, Algy would not have been concerned either, but it was apparent that this young creature, just like so many fledgling birds at this time of year, only had very small wings which were not yet strong enough to fly very far, and did not seem to know where its nest was.

It was quite a responsibility for a fluffy bird, and Algy was unsure what to do. For the moment, however, it was pleasant just relaxing beside the burn, and so he started to make idle conversation in order to give himself time to think, observing that there were beautiful fresh green and red buds bursting open on the scrubby bushes all around them.

To Algy's astonishment – for he could not imagine how such a young creature could have obtained such an education – Little You-I then recited another poem by e e cummings in its squeaky little voice:

Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of Nowhere) arranging a window, into which people look (while people stare arranging and changing placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here) and changing everything carefully spring is like a perhaps Hand in a window (carefully to and fro moving New and Old things, while people stare carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there) and without breaking anything.

[The baby dragon is reciting the poem Spring is like a perhaps hand and the opening of o by the by, written by the 20th century American poet e e cummings.]

[adventuresofalgy]

On the day known as St. George's Day, Algy always makes a point of being kind to dragons – if he can find any – as some of his more longstanding friends may recall.

And Algy had hoped that just possibly his special friend the little green dragon – with whom he had had such exciting adventures a few years ago – might appear again on this day, although he knew that in fact the little green dragon was far, far away, touring the southern hemisphere with the circus he had joined.

But it was a beautiful day at least so, resigning himself to spending St. George's Day alone this year, Algy flew up to the burn and settled down in a pleasant spot by a shallow pool where silvery fish suddenly darted about among the stones and then vanished again. And he was resting there quietly, listening to the trickling water and dreaming of his old friend, when suddenly he heard a squeaky sort of whimpering sound from around the bend.

Flying over to investigate, Algy found a small, purple, baby dragon with its foot caught among the boulders which lined the bed of the burn. Evidently it had decided to go paddling, as it was such a lovely day, and then got stuck, as young creatures so often will.

Giving it a helping wing, Algy managed to pull the young dragon free and then assist it to fly up into a bush to dry in the sunshine. As they perched there together, watching the water flow, he asked the wee dragon its name, and it told him that it was called Little You-I, then started to recite a strange poem in a soft, squeaky voice:

o by the by has anybody seen little you-i who stood on a green hill and threw his wish at blue with a swoop and a dart out flew his wish (it dived like a fish but it climbed like a dream) throbbing like a heart singing like a flame blue took it my far beyond far and high beyond high bluer took it your but bluest took it our away beyond where what wonderful thing is the end of a string (murmers little you-i as the hill becomes nil) and will somebody tell me why people let go

[The baby dragon is reciting the poem o by the by written by the 20th century American poet e e cummings.]

[adventuresofalgy]

On a grey and windy Easter morning, Algy was resting quietly on a pretty carpet of fallen cherry blossom, dreaming idly as he watched the petals fall gently to the ground all around him, when suddenly the Osterhase (evidently sent by Algy's good friends in Germany 😀) hopped out from beneath the iron tree seat, bringing him a very special surprise…

Algy wishes you all a very Happy Easter, and hopes that the Osterhase will bring you some lovely treats too 🐇💐🐇

[adventuresofalgy]

The weather birds had told Algy that on Saturday there would be heavy rain all day, but once again they were mistaken, because for much of the day there was in fact only the lightest, slightest drizzle of rain, and at times it was even possible to see a very wet and fuzzy-looking misshapen sort of white sun in the sky.

Tucked happlily under his rainbow umbrella, Algy revelled in the way that the bright colours tinted his feathers when some light managed to shine through the coloured panes of fabric, and in the fact that although the sun was not bright enough to create a real rainbow in the sky, he would be able to enjoy his own personal rainbow all through the day…

Despite the wet weather there was still plenty of blossom on the Great White Cherry trees, and Algy could still hear the buzzing of bees among the flowers, albeit rather reduced now, as only the boldest of the bumblebees were bumbling about in this weather.

And he could also hear the gentle, slow pitter-patter of the tiny rain drops as they fell on his umbrella – spit… spot… spit… spot…, very quietly and without the slightest haste – and as he listened to the soothing sound Algy recalled:

A Drop fell on the Apple Tree – Another – on the Roof – A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves – And made the Gables laugh – A few went out to help the Brook, That went to help the Sea – Myself Conjectured were they Pearls – What Necklaces could be – The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads – The Birds jocoser sung – The Sunshine threw his Hat away – The Bushes – spangles hung – The Breezes brought dejected Lutes – And bathed them in the Glee – The Orient put out a single Flag, And signed the Fete away –

[Algy is thinking of the poem Summer Shower by the 19th century American poet Emily Dickinson.]

[adventuresofalgy]

The weather in the wild west Highlands of Scotland had reverted to its normal pattern of cold April showers, typical of the early spring, and although the temperature was low, the air was pleasantly fresh and fragrant with the scent of spring flowers and blossom, and at times the sun burst through to illuminate all the emerging young leaves so that they glowed with bright, new green.

Algy was reluctant to miss these delights, but on the other hand the sudden showers of rain were positively torrential at times, and he much preferred his feathers to be fluffy rather than drenched, bedraggled and soggy.

So he decided to experiment with his birthday umbrella, setting it up in a spiraea bush beneath the great white cherry trees, which were still covered in blossom and bees, despite the wind and the rain. And as Algy listened once more to the buzzing and humming, and the twittering and singing of the smaller birds in the bushes and trees around him, he heard another, quieter and more subtle sound, as the wind rustled the leaves and blossom of the cherry trees:

Love and harmony combine, And around our souls entwine, While thy branches mix with mine, And our roots together join. Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Like gentle streams beneath our feet Innocence and virtue meet. Thou the golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flowers fair; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, And the turtle buildeth there. There she sits and feeds her young, Sweet I hear her mournful song; And thy lovely leaves among, There is love, I hear his tongue. There his charming nest doth lay, There he sleeps the night away; There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play.

[The cherry trees are whispering the poem Song by the late18th/early 19th English poet William Blake.]

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy had not needed the weather birds to tell him that a change in the weather was on its way, for a thick haze out to sea had become more and more dense as the week progressed, eventually blotting out the islands entirely, and on Saturday the sky clouded over completely and the spell of fine, dry weather was at an end. By the evening it was raining…

So when Sunday dawned cold, wet and windy, Algy was not even surprised by the ice that was mixed in with the squally showers of rain, for that was typical of mid-April in the wild west Highlands of Scotland; he confidently expected the rain to turn to sleet by nightfall.

At times, however, the sun managed to break through, and although the wind was icy and the the "feels like" temperature was near freezing, it was not too unpleasant if one kept close to the ground. So Algy found a spot where the wind was busy creating a temporary magical carpet while the bees still buzzed in the blossom overhead, and as the delicate white petals floated down around him, Algy opened his book of poetry and read:

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

[Algy is reading the poem Miracles by the 19th century American poet Walt Whitman.]

[adventuresofalgy]

It was another beautiful, sunny day, with a glorious blue sky, and although Algy could hardly say that it was warm, the wind was light, so that in a sheltered spot it was possible to relax and enjoy the fine weather, especially if one was well provided with an insulating layer of fluffy feathers.

And in the area of Algy's assistants' garden where the Great White Cherries grew, a fabulous transformation had taken place: the sky was full of clouds of lovely white blossoms, and the air was alive with the constant sound of numerous bees and other insects buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, and humming…🐝🐝🐝

Algy made himself comfortable on the sturdy branches of one of the trees, leaned back against the trunk, and just listened for a long, long time… It was a truly wonderful sound, accompanied by a beautiful sight, and it inevitably reminded him of what was possibly his favourite poem of all, for at this magical time of year this certainly was a bee-loud glade, and peace came dropping slow:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

[Algy is thinking of the poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree by the 20th century Irish poet William Butler Yeats.]

[adventuresofalgy]

It was Sunday again… already! And it was another fine, dry, bright and sunny day in the wild west Highlands of Scotland, but, as Algy discovered, the air was cold and the wind was remarkably chilly, and altogether it did not feel anything like as warm and inviting as it looked…

But it was spring nonetheless: plants were bursting into fresh green growth all over the garden, trees and shrubs were starting to flower, the great white cherry blossom was buzzing with bees, and the birds were exceedingly busy in the bushes and – Algy hoped – in the nest boxes which his assistants had installed especially for their use 😀

Collecting a volume of poetry from his own personal library, Algy tried to find a suitable place in which to relax and indulge in his usual Sunday reading, but many of his favourite spots felt too cold. Eventually, however, he settled down upon a sunny slope where a patch of cowslips had just begun to flower, and opened his book of verse, which was devoted to poems about the four seasons. Turning the pages, he was rather surprised to see a poem by D H Lawrence:

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.

[Algy is reading the poem The Enkindled Spring by the 20th century English writer D H Lawrence.]

[adventuresofalgy]

The wild west Highlands of Scotland were enjoying a period of fine, dry, sunny weather, typical of April in this part of the world, and although it was not particularly warm, and the wind was often strong and cold, the land was full of light and colour once more, at least for the time being.

The white-blossomed cherries in Algy's assistants' garden usually flowered at Easter, but this year the blossom was coming out a wee bit earlier than usual, like many of the flowers in the garden, and Easter happened to be particularly later, so they did not coincide.

Nevertheless, the white cherry blossom always reminded Algy of Housman's poem, and as Algy perched among the beautiful flowers on a bright though chilly spring day, and listened to the bumblebees buzzing about around him, he also recalled the last time he had been photographed in this particular tree at blossom time, and had recited that particular poem, because that was the day, three years ago, when he had last seen his special friend the little green dragon, after which Algy had paused his adventures for over two years…

Algy was hoping very much that as he had resumed his adventures and it was now spring again, the little green dragon might possibly return, but in the meantime he resolved to enjoy the beautiful blossom, for it only came once a year, at most!

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

[Algy is quoting the poem Loveliest of trees from the collection A Shropshire Lad by the late 19th century/early 20th century English poet and classical scholar A E Housman.]

[adventuresofalgy]

While Algy was resting peacefully in the sunshine, engrossed in reading his wee book of poetry, he noticed a tickling sensation on his left wing, and when he turned his head to investigate, he found that a beautiful bumblebee had come to visit him (can you see it?).

The bee climbed up on to his shoulder, and Algy was surprised to hear it whisper a short poem in his ear, in a gentle, buzzing sort of way. So Algy listened carefully, but when it had finished he assured the bee that in fact there was plenty of clover in the garden, and he was delighted that the bee was there with him, for he much preferred its company to revery alone:

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

[The bee is whispering the poem To make a prairie it takes a clover by the 19th century American poet Emily Dickinson.]

[adventuresofalgy]

The wind had roared and the rain had poured, all through the previous day and into the night – while the dense Scotch mist had completely smothered the landscape so that nothing was visible at all – but Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, and although the air was still very cold and the cold north wind uncomfortably brisk, it was undoubtedly a beautiful early spring day.

And it was Sunday. So Algy collected one of his new wee poetry books, and settled down on the grass in the sunshine, among a plethora of early spring flowers. Bumblebees buzzed about around him, and his many feathered cousins were twittering and singing in the trees, and as he turned the page of his tiny volume he read:

Hither thou com'st ; the busy wind all night Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm (For which course man seems much the fitter born) Rained on thy bed And harmless head. And now as fresh and cheerful as the light, Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing Unto that providence, whose unseen arm Curbed them, and clothed thee well and warm. All things that be, praise him ; and had Their lesson taught them, when first made. So hills and valleys into singing break, And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue, While active winds and streams both run and speak, Yet stones are deep in admiratiòn. Thus Praise and Prayer here beneath the sun Make lesser mornings, when the great are done. For each enclosèd spirit is a star Inlighting his own little sphere, Whose light, though fetched and borrowed from afar, Both mornings makes and evenings there.

[Algy is reading the poem The Bird by the 17th century Welsh metaphysical poet Henry Vaughan.]

[adventuresofalgy]

In Algy's opinion, the weather during the past week had been a wee bit disappointing… It was true that there had been occasional bursts of sunshine, and even one or two glimpses of blue sky, but it had been consistently cold, very windy, and often exceedingly wet, with dense Scotch mist obsuring the landscape much of the time.

And Saturday morning turned out to be even worse, with bursts of torrential rain driven by very strong winds. However, Algy was determined to try out his new umbrella, which his assistant had given him on the occasion of his birthday to ensure that he would have a rainbow on every day that it rained, even when the sky was completely overcast.

So he set out to find a place where the umbrella could be employed without risk of it flying away across the nearby ocean, despite the fact that with winds gusting to 50 mph this was not entirely straightforward… Eventually, however, Algy discovered a spot in his assistants' garden that was sufficiently sheltered from the roaring south-westerly, and as he settled down beneath his own personal rainbow on the wet grass, he was thrilled to find a beautiful snake's head fritillary growing right in front of his beak.

As he listened to the rain falling on his umbrella and the wind roaring in the trees, Algy had difficulty believing the weather birds' forecast for the coming week, for they were saying that a big change was coming, and that it would turn relatively warm and sunny by the middle of the week. Personally he thought that it was as likely that fishes would set up umbrellas when it rained as that the sun would shine for days on end, as forecast, but he was willing – indeed eager – to keep an open mind and hope…

When fishes set umbrellas up If the rain-drops run, Lizards will want their parasols To shade them from the sun.

[Algy is thinking of the nursery rhyme When fishes set umbrellas up from the book of nursery rhymes Sing-Song by the 19th century English poet Christina Rossetti.]

[adventuresofalgy]

The weather had remained grey, dreich and windy for several days, and although it was by no means freezing, it felt very much chillier than Algy found comfortable. It had been raining too, sometimes quite heavily, and although it was more or less dry again for the moment, the weather birds were predicting that plenty more rain would arrive later in the day. Algy felt that it was altogether unsuitable for adventuring out and about in the wild west Highlands, and he was reluctant to stray from the relative shelter of his assistants' garden until conditions improved…

So he decided to revisit the "Flight of the Butterflies" miniature cherry that he loved, for it was the only tree in blossom this early in the year. It grew in a sheltered part of his assistants' garden, and Algy guessed that it would be pleasant to take a wee ride upon it, while inspecting the delicate flowers more closely.

It was indeed relatively calm in that particular spot, as he had hoped, but as Algy rocked gently on the swaying branches he could hear the wind rushing much more vigorously through the taller trees nearby. Looking up, he noticed that some of the local birds were being blown about the sky unceremoniously by the stronger gusts, and he thought:

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

[Algy is thinking of the poem The Wind from the volume A Child's Garden of Verses by the 19th century Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson.]

[adventuresofalgy]

Whenever possible, Algy likes to spend a Sunday afternoon reading one of his poetry books in a quiet spot in his assistants' garden.

And on this particular Sunday, Algy chose to rest upon a thick carpet of green periwinkle, beneath the spreading, blossoming branches of a miniature early flowering ornamental cherry tree, which was blessed with what Algy considered to be the loveliest plant name of all… "Flight of the Butterflies".

Algy fluffed up his feathers, for the air was very chilly, with the wind in the north again, but the sunlight was bright, and as he opened the wee book which a kind friend had given him for his birthday, Algy heard the first skylark of the spring trilling overhead, as well as the twittering songs of several of the garden birds who were busy all around him.

Algy listened carefully as he read, for he was sure that the birds were singing very much the same refrain that Alfred, Lord Tennyson heard a thrush sing, nearly 200 years ago:

"Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," Yes, my wild little Poet. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. "New, new, new, new"! Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? "Love again, song again, nest again, young again," Never a prophet so crazy! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. "Here again, here, here, here, happy year!" O warble unchidden, unbidden! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden.

[Algy is reading the poem The Throstle by the 19th century English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson.]