In Algy's opinion, early spring in the wild west Highlands of Scotland was not all that a fluffy bird might hope for, nor indeed quite what someone used to a more "normal" northern spring might imagine… For not only do temperatures tend to stay below 10 degrees (celsius), but the legendary March winds take their job to heart with a great deal more enthusiasm here than in many other places, battering everything in their path, and flattening the flowers of the spring bulbs that had emerged with such enthusiasm as the days grew longer.
And so Algy was not particularly surprised that it was blawin' a hoolie yet again, but after a day of being tossed hither and thither in the driving Scotch mist he felt in need of some rest, so he decided to try to sleep in what he hoped would be the relative comfort of a dense cypress hedge. But when he settled in among the soft, evergreen needles as the day faded into night, Algy found that even here it was necessary to maintain a very firm grip on the branches, and he reflected that although in principle he definitely approved of being rocked to sleep, Nature sometimes went about this task with rather too much vigour…
Nevertheless, Algy soon began to doze, for the constant sound of the wind roaring through the trees and bushes around him was surprisingly soporific. And as his eyes closed and he began to fall asleep, Algy thought of his birthday at the end of the week, and imagined that somehow he was being transported by the gale – perhaps only temporarily – to some beautiful, warm and wonderfully calm place in which he could enjoy his birthday without being constantly buffeted by the wind and the rain…
