Winter is in full swing here in our sleepy village. Although the days are still mostly beautifully warm, the nights come in with a vengeance. No signs of the first frost yet, and no sprinkling of snow on the Sonderend mountains. But it will come, you can bet on it.
We said farewell to one of the old timers in the village last week. Ray Gregory died at 85, in his own bed in The House on The Hill. Ray had been unwell for a number of years and was ready to join his late wife Audrey. He was one of the characters of the village. He could be cantankerous, and was not averse to being blunt, but he was a generous soul at heart, and a widely read man. He and I shared an interest in music, and spent many hours talking about and listening to both Gaelic music and the Blues. His Scots heritage was clearly evident in his love of Celtic music, and he used to play a special recording he had of the bagpipes on his outside speakers- loud enough for the whole village to hear. He loved the old Scots ballads, and loved Robbie Burns. RIP, good friend. We shall miss you. This is for you.
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Be careful out there