Today and tomorrow, I’m at the Celtic Classics Conference, being held at Saint Andrews. It’s a lovely town by the sea ( pics below), with famous golf courses and some grand old university buildings, none of which the conference is being held in. Too bad I have a cold and am feeling under the weather. Talking of which, by the way, it’s the coldest I’ve been since I arrived to London a few weeks ago, a welcome break. President Trump is in London now, and due in Scotland this week, though alas, the Trump Baby Balloon will not be allowed to fly over the golf course he’s coming to. The week has seen some heartbreak in Britain–the loss of England to Croatia in the World Cup semifinal–and upheaval–the resignation of various ministers, including Boris Johnson, from Theresa May’s cabinet. Sitting in a room at his alma mater, I’m thinking of some lines by the Scottish classicist with the North Carolina connection, Douglas C. C. Young (about whom I’ve written before):

The Minister said it wad dee,
the cypress buss I plantit.
But the buss grew til a tree,
naething dauntit.

Hit’s growan stark and heich,
derk and straucht and sinister,
kirkyairdie-like and dreich.
But whaur’s the Minister?