Glòir dhuit fhèin gu bràth
a ghealach gheal a-nochd;
Is tu fèin gu bràth
Lochran aigh nam bochd.

(Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica: vol. 3, p. 278)

‘S e na mian-uairean na h-oidhche a dèan mi sàmhach, ach gu neònach chan urrain dhomh cadal a dhèanamh idir. I think it is because I feel most at home in the between times gun sùilean orm or minds working around me. Like Gaiman’s Augustus Caesar masquerading as a pauper to scheme against the gods I sit in the dark and compose myself, stitching up the invisible wounds that collect from the stray thoughts that fly about my office all day long. Everything seems possible and even time begins to bend against perception.

I’ve begun building a site using Google Sites. It seems very straight-forward business but involved. Naturally I automatically jump to the most ambitious vision which will take an enormous amount of time to complete, but it makes for pleasant mornings when I am not racing to prepare for the day. How I wish to be working on the stone walls and gardens!

On Sunday past I bottled the mead. This was not the full fortnight I had planned. In fact it was not even a complete week, but the batch seems sound enough and the vat is now ready for a second which I hope to begin either tomorrow night or Friday. Beside, there was already sediment so the yeast was beginning to die anyway.

The feeling that I would get sometimes of a great precipice before me, in which hover and cavort all good things – all blessings and blessed – is with me now, but I have changed since last I was party to it. Before, I considered it a passing fancy. Now I catch hold of it, try to entice it into the very heart of my being, so that I may draw out from my innermost and darkest recesses of my heart that which will unfold am buaidh mo shaoghail ‘s mo bheatha. Agus ‘s e meadhan-oidhche a th’ ann an-dràsda.

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