In memory of an obscure monk

February always seems to end abruptly even when it has the extra day once every four years, but there is surprisingly little fuss surrounding its close.

The message in the snippet of lore is simple - if today is bright and clear then we can expect a pleasant year to follow, but who or what is Romanus?

Romanus is a saint, one of at least seven who bear that name, and today is his feast day. He is sometimes known as Romaine, but little is known about him.

What is known, however, is that in AD 435 the monk, Romanus, heavily influenced by reading of priests working in the desert, decided to leave his own monastery at Lyons and head for the mountains.

He made his way to the Alps, where he worked and prayed with little shelter save for a large conifer. He must have been successful in his venture because he was later joined by his brother, Lupicinus, and his sister, whose name is not recorded, along with several other monks and nuns.

They endured a very strict way of life, abstaining from meat, eggs and milk, and working to support their little monastery while ministering to the local people.

I have no further details of his life or the date of his death, or whether his monastery in the mountains survived after his own death. All that remains to his memory, therefore, is that quaint piece of weather lore.

Among the others who are called St Romanus there were two bishops, two martyrs, a hermit, a Russian prince and a Byzantine hymn-writer.

The latter was known as St Romanus the Melodist and he was a Syrian who lived in the sixth century. He wrote more than a thousand hymns, some 80 of which have survived and some of which are very lengthy, but his topics ranged across both the Old and New Testaments. His feast day is October 1, which does not appear to have attracted any specific weather lore.

This morning's daily walk was enlivened by the sight of a charm of goldfinches flitting among some leafless hawthorns along my route.

They are a regular sight in that area, but it is difficult to estimate their numbers because they move so quickly among the bare branches.

I reckon there are about eight or ten, and that particular piece of miniature woodland appears to be one of their regular bases.

As it is some weeks since I last saw them, it is possible they migrated further south during the earlier part of winter, and that they have now returned to claim their territory in readiness for the breeding season.

The female will build the nest and she prefers small and rather dense trees with a good cover of foliage.

The nest, which will be well concealed, is a very delicate piece of construction made from plant material, including lots of down from thistle tops.

If these beautiful birds decide to nest in that area, I shall be delighted and would hope that in coming months our local charm of birds will increase in numbers.

The name 'charm' for a gathering of goldfinches is perhaps one of the most apt of such collective nouns.

I thought the following collective names for other birds might be of interest - a peep or brood of chickens, a covert of coots, a murder of crows, a herd of curlews, a flight of doves, a team of ducks (or a paddling when they are swimming), a flight of dunlins, a convocation of eagles, a flock of fieldfares, a charm of finches or goldfinches in particular, a gaggle of geese (or a skein when they are flying), a trembling of goldfinches (another term for them), a covey of grouse, a colony of gulls, a brood of hens, a siege of herons, a band of jays, a deceit of lapwings, an exaltation of larks, a tiding of magpies, a flush of mallard, a watch of nightingales, a brace or covey of partridges, a flock of pigeons, a congregation or a stand of plovers, a rush of pochards, a bevy of quail, an unkindness of ravens, a clamour or building of rooks, a wisp of snipe, a host or tribe of swallows, a chattering or murmuration of starlings, a flight of swallows, a herd or team of swans, a flock of swifts, a spring of teal, a mutation of thrushes, a rafter of turkeys, a company of widgeon, a fall or flight of woodcock, a descent of woodpeckers and a herd of wrens. I am sure there are more!

It was while researching these names that I came across the following pair of sayings which are not related to anything in particular, but which are worth recording.

The first is "a sparrow flying behind a hawk thinks the hawk is fleeing" and the second is "sparrows fight for corn which is not theirs."

There's quite a lot of human wisdom tucked away in those pieces of lore.

When I was a very small boy enjoying walks in the woods near my moorland home, the floor of one area of woodland was covered with small white flowers around this time of year.

In my very youthful mind, I thought their name was wooden enemy and often pondered the reason for this.

As this was during the Second World War, the word "enemy" was not all that unusual and I thought there must be some kind of link between the war and that flower.

Eventually, of course, I learned to read and spotted them in a reference book where their name was wood anemone.

Youngsters often make such mistakes - in the wartime years I recall the term "propaganda", which, as a country lad who was brought up with livestock in the surrounding fields, I thought was proper gander, a sort of genuine goose.

And then there was the Hail Mary, a prayer which uses the phrase "blessed art thou amongst women", which some children interpreted as "blessed art thou a monk swimming."

Later, there was the wonderful one in which Sir Anthony Eden was brought down by the sewage crisis. I am sure there were, and still are, lots more similar joys.

But back to the wood anemone. This is one of the most delightful plants of the new spring and it seems to favour deciduous woodlands where it flourishes among the fallen leaves of the past autumn.

It is a relation of the buttercup, but produces tall flowers with white petals which can vary between five and nine in number.

It can grow up to a foot in height, but is usually six or seven inches (15-18cm), although it can rise to only a couple of inches or so.

Halfway up the stem, there is a ring of three leaves, each with three toothed leaflets.

The single flower rises from the centre of those leaves and the entire plant has a somewhat delicate appearance.

In spite of its rather fragile appearance, however, it is a tough plant which is well able to withstand the rigours of late winter or early spring, but if you pick one of these flowers, it will wilt and die very quickly.

The wood anemone loves sunshine and, on a fine day, the flowers will open on firm stems where they will cheerfully nod in the breeze to present a very attractive sight.

But the moment night falls or the day becomes dull, the flowers will close and their heads will droop in what can only be described as a very graceful manner. This will reveal a slight pink tinge to the undersides of the petals.

Not surprisingly, the Greek writer Pliny called them windflowers, but he believed they only bloomed when the winds rose.

Perhaps they do in Greece, but in England it is the sunshine which opens these delightful flowers - without it, they hang their heads in sorrow.

If you walk in a woodland which is rich with these anemones, however, you will notice a rather unpleasant smell.

This comes from the flowers and it is not without reason that some country folk refer to them as smell foxes or smell smocks!

Pheasants like to eat the leaves and, at one time, a sort of vinegar was produced from them, but the juice in the roots is very bitter and said to be poisonous.

Like so many wild flowers, the wood anemone has lots of local names, such as granny's nightcap, fairies' windflower, Moll o' the woods, moon flower, shame-faced maiden, silver bells, Easter flower, evening twilight, snakes' eyes, shoes and slippers, lady's petticoat, lady's purse, Star of Bethlehem, soldiers' buttons, wild jessamine or even granny-thread-the-needle. But not wooden enemy!