August 2026 is a significant month for me, marking as it does my tenth anniversary as a blogger. Encouraged by Mrs P, my blogging career began in 2016 with a travel blog documenting our once-in-a-lifetime trip to Tasmania.* Although I was motivated in part by a desire to capture some memories to which I could return in my dotage, it was also a conscious act of rebellion, an opportunity to express my true self at last.
Binalong Bay, on the edge of the Bay of Fires (Tasmania 2016)
You see, for nearly 15 years I’d been writing internal and public reports for a city council, accurate but anodyne prose that was totally devoid of personality. It was the kind of stuff that was painful to write, and that no sane person would ever choose to read. I knew that a travel blog could demonstrate I had more to offer. As well as showcasing the heritage, wildlife and landscape of an underrated part of Australia, writing a daily account of our adventures in Tasmania would be an opportunity to temporarily shrug off my employer’s shackles and celebrate the joy of writing for its own sake.
Tasmania, 2016
I quickly discovered that I enjoyed the process of blogging, the discipline, the creativity, the drive to produce something that was pleasurable both for me to write and for others to read. And, knowing that travel blogs are more accessible when well illustrated, it also offered the opportunity to share some of Mrs P’s excellent photos with a wider audience.
Newfoundland, 2017
Other travel blogs followed, featuring Newfoundland in 2017, Yellowstone National Park – our favourite place in the whole, wide world – in 2018, and New Zealand in 2019. Having retired from work by this stage I recognised that blogging regularly would bring some structure to my life, and help keep my brain active by filling the gaps once occupied by my council’s demanding projects and interminable written reports. And so this blog – Now I’m 64 – was born, also in 2019, and flourishes to this day.
Yellowstone National Park, 2018
Back then, I imagined that the satisfaction derived from blogging was all about the process of writing. I was wrong! Although I still get a buzz when I produce something that is well written (sadly it doesn’t happen very often!), in fact it is the relationships with other bloggers that I now value the most.
New Zealand, 2019
For me, the opportunity to share ideas and experiences with people all across the world, people I shall never meet in person but whom I regard as (virtual) friends, is now what it’s really about. You guys read, comment on and (hopefully!) enjoy my posts, I read, comment on and enjoy yours. Everyone’s a winner. Inevitably, as one gets older, horizons narrow and personal interactions become more restricted, so I am enormously grateful to the blogging community at WordPress for making my life more interesting and connected than it might otherwise be. Thank you, my friends, long may it continue.
* To celebrate the 10th anniversary of our Tasmanian travels, later in the year I’m hoping to republish a few posts first written in 2016. This will be an opportunity for me to relive some of the best moments of that trip, and for many readers of Now I’m 64 to discover them for the first time.
Last Monday, 2 February, was World Wetlands Day. A wetland is a transitional area between land and water, an area where water covers the soil – or is present at or near the surface – either permanently or seasonally. Mrs P and I love a good wetland: it’s a distinct ecosystem that is a great place for a spot of birdwatching, and is notable as the favoured habitat of the handsome heron family
Grey Herons were my Mum’s favourite bird. This one has just caught itself a tasty snack.
When my father died over 30 years ago we bought my mother a set of binoculars and started taking her out on our birdwatching expeditions. She soon declared the heron to be her favourite bird, attracted I suspect by its large size and a distinctive appearance that includes a dagger-like bill, long spindly legs and an improbably bendy neck. I imagine she was also intrigued by the birds’ hunting style, in which they stand motionless for lengthy periods before stabbing explosively at any prey item foolish enough to venture too close to them. Spotting a heron quickly became Mum’s ambition whenever we took her out, and because we chose our birdwatching sites carefully she was rarely disappointed.
The Grey Heron is the UK’s most common species of heron. As these images show, Mrs P’s been photographing them for many years.
The species that Mum got to know and love is the Grey Heron, by a long way the most common member of the heron family in the UK, with over 60,000 birds overwintering here. Standing nearly 1m high and with a wingspan approaching 2m, it is an impressive bird. It feeds primarily on fish, but also eats amphibians, ducklings and other small birds, and tiny mammals such as voles. Interestingly, Grey Herons sometimes temporarily leave their wetland habitats in favour of nearby agricultural fields which they scour for rodents in the immediate aftermath of the harvest.
Little Egret.
The UK boasts several other members of the heron family, although none is very common. The Bittern is vanishingly rare; Mrs P and I have rarely seen one, and have never got a decent photograph. Little Egrets were once common here, but were wiped out over 100 years ago thanks to the insatiable demand of the fashion industry for the birds’ elegant feathers. I wrote about the decline and fall of the Little Egret, and the important consequences this had on bird conservation in the UK, in a post I wrote in 2024.
Great White Egret.
Little Egrets began recolonising the UK in the late 20th century, and these days we see them quite often. Sadly their return came too late for my Mum, as did the more recent arrival of the Great White Egret. She would have been thrilled, I’m sure, to see both egret species, though I suspect neither would have supplanted the Grey Heron in her affections.
Clockwise from Top Left: Green Heron (seen on Tobago in 2006); Great Blue Heron (Canada, 2014); Little Blue Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); White-Faced Heron (Tasmania, 2016); Galapagos Heron (Galapagos Islands, 1989); Bare-Throated Tiger Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Great Blue Heron (Canada, 2015).
Across the whole world there are reckoned to be 75 separate species within the heron family, although some go under the names of egret or bittern. Herons’ solitary nature and their motionless hunting style have captured the imagination of cultures everywhere, often making them figures of mystery and deep spiritual significance as well as symbols of patience and wisdom. Every continent except Antarctica boasts resident species of heron, and as Mrs P’s photos show we’ve been privileged to see a number of these during our travels.
Clockwise from Top Left: Bare-Throated Tiger Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Green Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Bare-Throated Tiger Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Indian Pond Heron (India, 2013); Little Blue Heron (USA, 2012); Great Blue Heron (Canada, 2012).
Almost all species of heron are closely associated with water, living and feeding as they mostly do on the margins of lakes, rivers, and swamps. They need wetlands, as do so many other species of birds, mammal and invertebrate, and it has been a pleasure to celebrate World Wetlands Day by featuring these magnificent birds here. My Mum, a heron lover until the very end, would definitely have approved!
Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo. It seeks to convey a message or tell a story, but speaks for itself without using words. Mrs P was clearly seeing double when she took this photo at Yellowstone National Park in September 2018.
Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo. It seeks to convey a message or tell a story, but speaks for itself without using words. In celebration of the New Year, and in the hope that 2026 will be more joyful and less depressing than 2025 (not difficult!), I share this image of sunrise over Canyon Village in Yellowstone National Park. Mrs P took the photo in September 2018.
Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo. It seeks to convey a message, but speaks for itself without using words. This photo was taken by Mrs P at Thornham Marsh, in the English county of Norfolk, in April 2019.
What’s the point of museums? Maybe they exist to remind us, as novelist L. P. Hartley explained in The Go Between, that “the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there”. Museums reveal the weird and wacky ways of our ancestors, and in so doing make us grateful we’ve not had to live like that. We don’t expect to see our own lives on display in a museum.
Street scene from Beamish 1950s Town
A couple of months ago Mrs P and I made a return visit to the Beamish Open Air Museum in County Durham, a “living, working museum that uses its collections to connect with people from all walks of life and tells the story of everyday life in the North East of England.” Since our last visit in 2019, they’ve opened a major new exhibit: The 1950s Town. And this was where Beamish Museum got spooky – I was born in the 50s, and many of the items on display seemed achingly familiar. I was home again, in a land I’d all but forgotten.
The 1950s Town comprises several houses dressed and furnished in the style prevalent at the time. Walking through them I feel as if I’m back in my dear old grandmother’s West London terrace, the living room with its tedious wallpaper, chunky brown furniture and a curvy clock ticking happily on the mantelpiece; the kitchen with its plain, glass-fronted cupboards, “Belfast sink” and shiny white enamelled cooker. I almost expect her to walk through the door and offer to make me a bread pudding, one of my childhood favourites. Yes please, nan!
Achingly familiar. My grandmother would have felt at home here.
There is also a reconstructed street comprising shops and similar outlets, done out in 1950s style. These include a music shop, displaying vinyl records and various electrical appliances that must have been state-of-the-art back in the day. There was no streaming back in the 50s, no Spotify, no Amazon! How did they ever manage, we wonder ironically?
In the 1950s / early 1960s stuff like this would have been the wonder of the age.
The street also houses a toy shop stocked with items that were popular with mid-century kids, and here I stumble across an item that takes my breath away. It must be nearly 60 years since I last saw or thought about my Bayko Building Set, “the fascinating never failing diversion for Boys and Girls”, but here’s one, staring back at me from its friendly yellow box.
Memories of my childhood. Oh, happy days!
Bayko was a construction toy based on plastic and metal components, and could be used to build little houses of various designs. Other kids in my class had Lego, but I had Bayko and I loved it. For a few months it was my go-to toy, and as I stand in the shop at Beamish the memories come flooding back. Oh, happy days!
I never managed to build anything as grand as this. But I could dream!
But how odd it feels, to see part of my childhood behind glass in a museum display cabinet. I can just imagine kids born a few years ago dragging their attention away from their mobile phones for a few moments to inspect the exhibit, then saying “Mummy, did children really play with THAT sort of thing? Did they? Really?”
And that, I think, is the scariest things about going to the museum – finding your own treasured past put out there for everyone to inspect, and then dismissed as boring or quirky or quaint. A reminder, if ever we needed one, that all things pass, and that stuff which today seems so important will eventually be regarded as odd and inconsequential. Nothing is forever,
Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo. This photo of a colourful pheasant sitting atop a gravestone that must be several hundred years old was taken recently in a church graveyard in Norfolk. Life goes on.
I grew up in West London, within spitting distance of Heathrow Airport, and for 18 years the noise of aircraft taking off and landing was part of the soundtrack of my daily existence. In order to protect our sanity, we all trained ourselves to tune it out. In this way we could reduce the relentless roar of aircraft coming and going to mere muzak, simultaneously there and yet not there. But where Concorde was concerned, such mental gymnastics simply didn’t work. Concorde was SERIOUSLY LOUD.
Compare, if you will, the noise of a tabby cat miaowing and a lion roaring. You can experience only one of those sounds viscerally, as a physical sensation pulsing throughout your whole body. And it ain’t the tabby cat! It was just like that with Concorde, the undisputed roaring lion of the skies round my way, back in the day.
Concorde was, of course, the world’s first supersonic passenger-carrying aircraft, the product of a ground-breaking joint initiative between Great Britain and France. The name “Concorde” means “agreement,” and was an ironic reminder that the partners were in unfamiliar territory – over the centuries, the two nations had agreed on almost nothing, and had spent more time fighting than co-operating.
It all began in 1962 when the Brits and the French signed a treaty to share costs and risks in producing a supersonic passenger plane. Then the hard work started in earnest. Concorde made its maiden flight seven years later, but it was not until 1973 that the first transatlantic journey took place. The world’s first scheduled supersonic passenger services were launched three years later, in 1976.
Once development of Concorde was underway in the mid 1960s, some bright spark decided it would be a good idea to prepare the public for what might be in store for them. I distinctly remember, when I was ten or eleven years old, our teacher taking us out into the school playground one day so we could all experience our first sonic boom, courtesy of an air force jet the authorities brought in for that very purpose.
We all waited, hushed and expectant, for the miracle to happen. The appointed hour duly arrived, and so too did the RAF jet.
BOOM-BOOM went the soundwaves, echoing noisily around the neighbourhood.
“Oooh, aaah” squealed my schoolmates, frolicking excitedly around the playground.
“Enough of this rubbish, go back indoors and get on with some proper work” growled our teacher, trudging grumpily towards the classroom.
And, of course, it was rubbish. Concorde was never going to be breaking the sound barrier anywhere near us. It would be landing and taking off from an airport that was only a few minutes walk away from the school gates, and so would be many, many miles away before supersonic speeds could possibly be reached. It was therefore obvious to anyone with more than a couple of brain cells in working order that the sonic boom demo was totally pointless, but who cared, it got us out of lessons for a few minutes.
These memories of my own brief encounters with Concorde came flooding back last year, when Mrs P and I visited the Brooklands Museum of Motorsport and Aviation in Surrey. Amongst the museum’s collection is a Concorde, grounded of course, but perfect for an up close and personal inspection.
The plane on display still belongs to British Airways, but has been on loan to the museum since 2003. This particular aircraft never flew commercially, but was used in early testing and for certification. Later, from 1974-81, it was flown around the world to test new routes and to drum up sales to international airlines.
It was fascinating to finally get up close and personal with a Concorde. Its sleek, streamlined fuselage, the iconic delta-wing design and a nose that drooped during take-off and landing rendered the aircraft unmistakeable. And beautiful too. From outside you could gaze in wonder at a Concorde and think to yourself wow, if that’s the future of commercial air travel, bring it on NOW!
Cramped!
Inside however, as we discovered when we walked through the narrow cabin, things were rather different. With only around 100 seats – four per row, separated by a central aisle – and a low slung roof, it seems cramped, uncomfortable even. No amount of “free” champagne could disguise the fact that it feels like cattle class. But only the wealthiest of cattle ever got to fly in it.
Concorde’s advertised selling point was its unimaginably quick passage through the air, with a cruising speed that was over twice the speed of sound. A crossing from London or Paris to New York lasted approximately three and a half hours, less than half the time taken by subsonic aircraft. Famously, in summer 1985, Phil Collins was able to perform at Live Aid concerts in both London and Philadelphia on the same day by hopping onto a Concorde after his set at Wembley for a transatlantic flight to the US!
Cockpit confusion!
But the other attraction of Concorde was its exclusivity. Tickets were prohibitively expensive, meaning that you could only afford to take a scheduled flight on this iconic aircraft if you were stinking rich. To have flown on Concorde became a badge of honour, an indicator that you’d inherited or otherwise made a fortune.
Ultimately, however, the Concorde project was doomed. Although aesthetically pleasing and technologically ground-breaking, operating costs and serious environmental concerns were its undoing. Astonishingly, given its iconic reputation, only 20 Concordes were ever built, and just 14 of these flew commercially.
This photo shows the iconic “droop nose” on a plane landing at Farnborough in 1974. IMAGE CREDIT: Steve Fitzgerald (GFDL 1.2 or GFDL 1.2), via Wikimedia Commons
The final nail was driven into Concorde’s coffin on 24 July, 2000, when Air France Flight 4590 crashed shortly after take-off from Paris. All 109 people on board and four others on the ground were killed. As a result, commercial Concorde services were suspended everywhere until November 2001. Less than two years later the plane was officially retired, 41 years after the Anglo-French treaty was signed and 27 years after commercial operations had begun.
Visiting Concorde at the Brooklands Museum was a fascinating experience. It was also rather nostalgic, oddly so given that although I’ve seen – and heard – it from afar on countless occasions, I’ve never actually flown on this aircraft. Indeed I’m neither that rich nor so environmentally naïve as to have ever contemplated such a thing. And I’ve absolutely no regrets on that score.
I’d like to believe that all thought of commercial supersonic air traffic has been abandoned forever. However in doing research for this post I’ve have read that greener options are currently being explored, including hydrogen-powered planes that could offer the prospect of “near-zero emissions.”
If this is really true I have to ask, why are we bothering? In my humble opinion, commercial supersonic air travel is folly at best, criminal at worst. The world is in big trouble right now. Surely there are better uses of our time, wealth and ingenuity than seeking to shave a few hours off the length of a transatlantic flight, a flight that is probably unnecessary anyway in the modern, digitally-enabled age? Sometimes I despair!
Our “Boarding Passes” for the Concorde at Brooklands Museum!
No trip to Scotland is complete without visiting a castle. Last year, on our way north to Orkney, we did just that when we broke our journey at Dunrobin, which has been home to the Earls and Dukes of Sutherland since the 13th century. Boasting no fewer than 189 rooms, Dunrobin Castle is the largest great house in the Northern Highlands. It is also one of Britain’s oldest continuously inhabited houses, dating back to the 13th century.
Although vestiges of the early medieval castle remain, they are today buried deep within a much larger and grander structure. A series of extensions over the centuries have transformed the original fortified tower into something altogether different, something apparently straight out of a fairy tale.
One of the men most responsible for the Dunrobin we see today was architect Sir Charles Barry (1795 – 1860), who oversaw a massive remodelling exercise in the mid-19th century. Under Barry’s guidance, Dunrobin morphed into a grand house in the then-fashionable Scottish Baronial style, similar to that adopted at Queen Victoria’s Balmoral residence.
Barry had a big national reputation. Amongst numerous other accomplishments, in 1836 he won a commission to design the new Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament) in London. The Duke of Sutherland’s great wealth and extensive social connections are clearly evidenced by his ability to secure Barry’s services at Dunrobin.
As it happens, that wealth was generated to some considerable degree through the forcible eviction of many thousands of estate tenants during the notorious Highland Clearances. This is something that should, I feel, give visitors pause for thought when they murmur appreciatively at Dunrobin’s undoubted magnificence. The cost of Dunrobin should properly be measured not just in financial terms, but in human terms too.
Dunrobin Castle had an eventful time in the 20th century. In 1915 much of the interior was destroyed by a huge fire, so what we see inside today is largely the work of Scottish architect, Sir Robert Lorimer (1864 – 1929) rather than Charles Barry. Despite the fire, parts of the castle were used as a naval hospital during the First World War, then, later in the century between 1965 and 1972, it was used as a boys’ boarding school.
Today no trace of the school remains, and instead visitors are offered glimpses of an opulent lifestyle that is almost certainly beyond their reach. The formal gardens are also rather grand, and are another part of Sir Charles Barry’s legacy. They are arranged into two parterres, both laid out around circular pools where fountains playfully splash. The layout of the gardens has changed little since they were planted more than 150 years ago, although new plants are constantly being introduced.
Barry took his inspiration from the Palace of Versailles in Paris. That the Duke of Sutherland was prepared to commission and bankroll such a project in this remote, windswept corner of the Scottish Highlands speaks volumes about his cultural awareness and social ambitions. Visionary? Pretentious? Completely out to lunch? You’ll have to make up your own mind on that one!
Although Dunrobin Castle is impressive and its formal gardens are majestic, I have to confess that the most memorable part of our visit was the falconry display. Falconry is the ancient art of hunting with birds of prey, and for reasons that aren’t entirely clear Dunrobin puts a show every day. No actual hunting takes place, but the birds – including Peregrines, Gyr Falcons and Harris Hawks – are exercised on the Castle lawn, under the watchful eye of the resident and highly knowledgeable falconer.
The birds are given the opportunity to fly around freely and do so with obvious pleasure, often whizzing just above the heads of an enthralled audience. In the end, however, the birds always return to the falconer, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be providing dinner once the show is over! It’s highly unusual to be able to get so close to birds of prey, and as they were bred in captivity and are plainly well cared for we had no qualms in watching and applauding the show.
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What, then, is the overall verdict on our visit to Dunrobin Castle? Perched on a high terrace and bristling with fairy tale spires and turrets, the castle sits somewhat incongruously within the Scottish Highlands’ landscape. It is a relic of another age, an age when great wealth and all the opportunities that went with it was concentrated in just a few fortunate hands. The splendid gardens and the falconry display add to this other-worldly feeling, making a visit to Dunrobin a somewhat surreal experience. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, but don’t make the mistake of thinking this place has anything to do with the real, 21st century world!
Magpies are unmistakeable. Members of the crow family, seen from a distance they are long-tailed birds with distinctive black and white plumage. Up close, however, the colouration is more subtle. In the right light a Eurasian magpie’s wing feathers take on a purplish-blue iridescent sheen, while the tail bears hints of a subtle glossy green. It’s a handsome bird, and also – in some circles – a controversial one.
Some people dislike magpies because they are noisy, raucous birds that posture and strut around gardens, parkland and fields, apparently believing themselves to be top bird. Others object to their omnivorous lifestyle, which can include raiding the nests of smaller birds and carrying off their eggs and chicks. And their reputation for stealing jewellery and other bright, shiny objects wins magpies few friends amongst their human neighbours.
However, while their fondness for scavenging and their bully-boy tendencies on the bird table make them unpopular with squeamish bird lovers, it is their alleged association with Satan that upsets others. Yes, that’s right, folklore tells us that magpies are in league with the Devil. According to this tradition, magpies refused to join the other birds in mourning at Christ’s crucifixion, thus marking themselves out as the Devil’s own.
The magpie’s supposed indifference to Jesus’ crucifixion is just one of a huge number of tales and superstitions that surround this striking bird. In the UK, one of the first nursery rhymes many children hear is about magpies. The rhyme references the birds’ association with prophecy, and is found in countless variations up and down the country. Here is just one of them:
One for sorrow Two for joy Three for a girl Four for a boy Five for silver Six for gold Seven for a secret never to be told
So, according to this piece of folklore, the future that awaits you is indicated by the number of magpies you see. It’s a compelling part of our oral tradition, and I must confess that one day a little over a year ago – when a new baby was expected in our family – Mrs P and I happily counted the number of magpies we could see in order to predict the gender of the new-born. On the day in question we spotted three together in a field, and the baby, when born, was indeed a girl. Spooky!
The same nursery rhyme indicates that spotting a single magpie is a harbinger of bad luck. Again, this belief is deeply embedded within our culture. I clearly remember a former work colleague revealing that, when out for a drive in the countryside, he and his wife would wave vigorously to any lone magpies they spotted, because in so doing they were bidding farewell to ill-luck.
Alternatively, to dissipate the impending misfortune associated with seeing a single magpie, you should point it out to someone else, presumably on the basis that bad luck shared is bad luck halved. And if there’s nobody else around to take on the burden, the best course of action is to salute the magpie with a cheery ‘’Good morning Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?’ in the hope that he will take pity on you!
How did a single magpie become associated with bad luck? One theory is that, as magpies mate for life, seeing one by itself may suggest that its partner has perished. The surviving magpie has therefore suffered bad luck, and associating with it may cause its bad luck to transfer to the observer. However, by asking after the welfare of the lone magpie’s wife you demonstrate your belief that his partner is alive and well, which, if true, means no bad luck awaits you.
As well as waving to a lone magpie, or asking after the health of his wife, there are other ways in which the bad luck might be avoided. These include raising your hat to the bird, spitting three times over your shoulder, blinking rapidly to fool yourself into thinking you’ve seen two magpies rather than one, and flapping your arms about wildly and cawing loudly to mimic the magpie’s missing mate. But be warned: most of these activities, if undertaken in public, are likely to result in ridicule, arrest or an enforced appointment with a psychiatrist.
This post barely scratches the surface of the superstitions surrounding magpies. Variations on the theme include the following:
In Scotland, a single magpie seen near a window warns of an impending death. However, in the county of Sussex a magpie perched on a house roof is a good sign, indicating that the roof isn’t about to cave in.
In Wales, if you see a magpie moving from left to right when you set off on a journey, that journey will be hazardous.
Yorkshire folk associate magpies with witchcraft, and when seeing one (a magpie that is, not a native of Yorkshire!) you should make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits.
According to tradition in the county of Dorset, if a fisherman sees a magpie before he sets sail he won’t catch any fish that day.
In Somerset it is advised that you carry an onion with you at all times to protect you from the bad luck a magpie may bring. (As an aside, while I cannot testify as to the veracity of this advice I will readily admit that during my working life I sometimes kept a bulb of garlic in my office to ward off the accountants. I’m pleased to say it seemed to work!)
Regular readers of my blog will know I have a passion for folk music, and it’s therefore a pleasure to share with you below a link to a song about magpies. The harmonies may be challenging, but the story told is highly relevant to this post. It was written around 50 years ago by a guy called Davey Dodds. The story goes that one day Davey gave an old lady a lift in his new car. Davey was bemused, and probably a little horrified, when the lady insisted on shrieking “Devil, devil, I defy thee”, and spitting on the floor of his Jaguar every time she saw a magpie.
Intrigued, Davey looked into the mythology of magpies, and this song is the result. Its lyrics* reference some of the magpie superstitions I’ve written about in this post, and others that I haven’t had space to include. This version on YouTube was recorded in 2014 by a trio of singers called the BlueBirds.
At first glance, magpie mythology is totally out of place in our rational, comfortable, well ordered 21st century lives. I mean, it’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it? Of course it is! But on the other hand, the mere fact that humans embraced these stories for millennia tells us a lot about our species. Our ancestors believed that magpies were the Devil’s disciples. Gullible, weren’t they?
Today, large sections of society enthusiastically embrace the conspiracy theories and other vile lies peddled relentlessly on the internet. Their need to feel good about themselves, their quest for certainty and their desperate desire for simple answers to complex questions leads them to believe stuff that is patently ridiculous, often downright dangerous and occasionally evil. Gullible, aren’t we?
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* The complete lyrics to Davey Dodds’ song are as follows
Chorus (after every other verse) One for sorrow, two for joy, Three for a girl and for for a boy, Five for silver, six for gold, Seven for a secret never told, Devil, devil, I defy thee. Devil, devil, I defy thee. Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Oh, the magpie brings us tidings Of news both fair and foul; She's more cunning than the raven, More wise than any owl.
For she brings us news of the harvest Of the barley, wheat and corn. And she knows when we'll go to our graves And how we shall be born.
She brings us joy when from the right, Grief when from the left. Of all the news that's in the air We know to trust her best.
For she sees us at our labour, And mocks us at our work. And she steals the egg from out of the nest, And she can mob the hawk.
The priest, he says we're wicked To worship the devil's bird. Ah, but we respect the old ways And we disregard his word.
For we know they rest uneasy As we slumber in the night. And we'll always leave a little bit of meat For the bird that's black and white.
Now I'm 64 
