Nostalgia and absent-mindedness

In the morning the first two episodes of the classic Robin of Sherwood. I remember it from the days when you had to wait for a programme – you couldn't just watch it whenever you fancied, as you can today. In Poland, the episodes were scheduled every Sunday, usually around the time of the second Mass at our church. I can safely say that Robin of Locksley played by Michael Praed contributed a fair bit to my secular leanings ;) It was a marvellous medieval fairytale, with a stunning cast: not only Praed with his iconic '80's hairdo, but also the dreamlike Trott with her red curls, and the brilliant Nicolas Grace, who had all the best lines. I'd absolutely love to visit some of the locations where the series was filmed. I even looked up a few links, and they were fascinating.

While still caught up in this sentimental journey, I learned that "praed" means "meadow" in Cornish. Cornish is one of the Celtic languages, and it sounds really lovely, like all Celtic tongues do (of course, I'm aware they’re not especially similar to one another).

In the meantime, the weather over the last two days changed from a sunny and warm to cold and tipsy. I'm sure we had negative digits at night, and during the day there was light snow several times, dancing like dove feathers in the air. I spent Sunday mostly inside, and unfortunately forgot about Fred's birthday until late in the day. I feel bad about it.

Below, while faffing about in the garage for like five minutes, I found something I want to take with me to Ireland, The Palace by Wiesław Myśliwski, a book that I've never read and which cover I remembered from my childhood.

The meanders

A Wednesday off between working days. 

Woke up hungry but chose to start the day as always, with green tea. After breakfast I went through the recording of one of the skills demonstrations and marked my students' efforts so I could give them some feedback tomorrow. It was quite long, the group discussed the topic for over twenty minutes, I could also hear my own voice there, and a few times I heard myself using the Gaelic gasp (the pulmonic ingressive), which made me laugh. Yeah, yeah ... I don't know when I picked it up, but I love it. 

Fred wanted to buy some bird food in An Iúraigh, and we both agreed this was a brilliant opportunity to stop in Dún Dealgan, at the 3rd Place, for some coffee and pancakes. After this feast, we sauntered off to the local library, and I didn't hesitate to buy three more books – Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway and A Room of One's Own, and a poetry collection by W.B. Yeats. Why? Because they were there. That's it, I say. No more tsundoku. For March.

Around four in the afternoon already at home. Fred cooked us dinner. After eating I called Mum, we talked on Messenger for approx. 45 minutes. I introduced her to the meanders of my proffesional life, where I go, what I leave behind; I'm happy to make changes, I like modifications, they're good for the brain. 

Below, pancakes and books.