Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

From God’s Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Hopkins was clearly a dirt-scratching Heathen, just like me, despite his, well, tendency to go to church.  And, as a dirt-scratching Heathen, I’ve had plenty of nature to think about lately, what with the flooding.  But before the flooding, there was just a hot Virginia summer, and we immersed ourselves in it.

Morven Park International Equestrian Center, where we hold the Potomac Celtic Festival, was recently purchased from the foundation that owned it.  Morven is right off the historic route 15 corridor, which has some of the most important historical sites in Virginia.  Many people from several communities are crossing our fingers, hoping that this gem will be preserved.  Much of rural Northern Virginia has already disappeared under bulldozer tracks and mini-mansions.  I’d like to send a big call out to, well, whoever, to keep what’s left safe.  That land is already fully occupied, you know.

Our neighbors at the Potomac Celtic Festival, the soon-to-be-turkeys.  They apparently started hatching soon after the festival grounds were cleared.  Their Mom wasn’t entirely pleased with how close the amphitheater stage was to her clutch, but we made sure these eggs were safe, and she came back at night when things quieted down.

A former opossum.  At least, that’s what the teeth say.  Bill found him while we were measuring out the spots for the crafters’ tents.

Moragh and Cellagh in the gloaming, apparently glad that things cooled down enough at night to actually let a person within one’s personal space.

After the festival ended, the rain started.  And it hasn’t quit yet.  There’s flooding all over the East Coast now.  We’ve been lucky, though the Mean-Skutah manse does now have its own new lake.

I hope that crab-apple is ok with having wet feet.

With all the rain, most of us have been stuck indoors.  Scott and Kayo have taken some soaking walks and brought back tales of flooded streets and storm-drains spitting out hundreds of gallons of water, and the cats and I have just taken them at their word.  Yarrow has taken to playing, near constantly, in the wine-box fort Karen and Lee left for him.

Like most youngsters, he’s unwilling to share it with his older brother Speedwell.

And I have been log-cabining through my cabin fever, trying not to notice my strawberries rotting on the stem or count the inches distance left between the growing lake in the front yard and our threshold.  The log-cabin is pretty entertaining.

For a few of us.  This is the kitten’s Big Bad Wolf impression:

Speedwell has one too, but he’s camera shy.

Stay dry, and protect your local rural idylls.  They soak up floods, you know.

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