Lesser Feasts

I put on decent clothes last night for the first time since I've been in Edinburgh. I had a reservation at Café St Honoré, a wonderful little French restaurant down a cobbled street in the New Town. It's the sort of place where posh people in Alexander McCall Smith's novels are always having dinner for some special occasion. My special occasion was the end of my fourteen-day self-isolation. The decent clothes, I must say, were a bit snug. A basically sedentary two weeks had done wonders for my Anselm bibliography and my progress on the second Brahms violin sonata, but it had not been kind to my waistline. Five pounds, maybe. But I had neglected to remind myself that the reason I can always eat everything I want in Edinburgh and still lose weight is that I'm walking. All the time. Everywhere. Which I hadn't been. For two weeks. The modest protest from my waistband notwithstanding, I set out for dinner. Such freedom to do as I pleased, to walk along the streets of thi...

Twenty-four hours to go. The essence -- the essence , I'm telling you -- of living in Edinburgh is walking several miles in the course of a day, just doing normal things, experiencing the ever-changing light, the quiet beauty of the buildings, marveling at the impeccably behaved Scottish dogs. Obviously I knew what I was getting myself into when I came here. Two weeks of isolation for the sake of two or three months of Edinburgh seemed, and was, a sensible bargain. But I will be very glad indeed when life gets back to normal, or, rather, to that super-charged beyond-normal that characterizes life in my favorite city. My first full day will be Michaelmas: Morning Prayer and Eucharist at the Cathedral, then getting set up in my office in Hope Park Square. But the fourteen days will expire, by my reckoning, tomorrow evening. I have a reservation for dinner at Cafe St Honore , and I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. After two weeks of microwaving ready meals br...

This song speaks to me of a gentle and not-unpleasant autumnal melancholy, of daylight retreating and a new briskness in the air. It has nothing at all to do with Lancelot Andrewes. It's just been in my head lately.

You know you've spent too much time in Scotland -- wait, that's a conceptual impossibility; let's start that again -- you know you've spent a delightfully rich amount of time in Scotland when Adamnan of Iona comes up in the calendar and you think, "Ah, yes. Adamnan of Iona," rather than, "Who?" But in case you're wondering, Adamnan was abbot of Iona around 700; he was kinsman and hagiographer of the much better-known Saint Columba. (I have to justify the name of this blog somehow.) On this ninth day of self-isolation I think I have finally hit my stride. Not that I wasn't being reasonably productive before, but more things fell into place today. I finally started writing my chapter on Scotus's account of the virtues. (The virtues are not that important in Scotus's ethics, but the reasons they're not important are important.) I attended the weekly research-in-progress seminar for the Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities...

The knock at the door came at 8:30 pm. What could that be? All I could think was that Her Majesty's Self-Isolation Enforcement Squad had come to verify that I was where I had said I would be. Good luck, that, since it is just  possible that I had somewhat  stretched the letter of the law earlier in the day. Setting down my gin and tonic, I went to the door. "Hi! I'm Gillian," said a cheerful thirty-something woman with a perfect Edinburgh accent. "I own the property downstairs. This is Anya. She's one of the two students renting the upstairs flat. The owner of your flat -- she's not very nice, actually, but she did tell us you'd be here, and we wanted to welcome you to the building." She handed me a bottle of wine, and we chatted for a few minutes. Thinking back over it this morning, I realize it's the only conversation I've had in person in a week, beyond the few words it takes to accept a grocery drop-off from the Deliveroo driver. I en...

 I find that a lot of my self-isolation period is occupied with planning what I'm going to do when I'm no longer required to self-isolate. Trip to the Cairngorms? All worked out. Plans for daily public worship beginning on Michaelmas? You bet. Another favorite pastime is trying imagine how I might excusably go out into the world (where, strangely enough, it is persistently sunny). For example, I could surely be allowed to go out to empty my trash in the nearest bin, and then it would be totally understandable if I got turned around on the way back and accidentally  walked all the way down to Stockbridge and then down along the Water of Leith and back through Canonmills . . . OK, maybe not. Fortunately I'm managing to get work done. I just submitted a bibliographical entry on Anselm -- quite a lot of work for barely 5000 words -- and my proposal for the latest Oxbridge Handguide to Stuff should be ready to go off tomorrow. Then it's on to Scotus on virtue. Music is also ...

A beautiful, cloudless day in Edinburgh tests my commitment to self-isolation. What would Hildegard of Bingen have done? Well, she would have written some theology: I got a proposal off to a press. She would have made some music: I did some serious practice on Bach, Brahms, and Franck. She would have prayed: I followed the appointed prayer for my current jurisdiction . But would she have taken a walk? Here I think we must play the mystery card.