The daffodil is the Birthday Flower of March. Being a symbol of rebirth, it is often used in religious celebrations of Easter.

It blocks the pathway like a moat before a castle. One godzilla of a puddle.

Lindsay runs happily right through it and charges down the path, water streaming off her black fur. Meanwhile, back at the human, I come to a screeching halt.

If any further proof is needed, the puddle clinches the deal, it is now official, spring has come to Toronto.

Our near record breaking winter has come to an end and the massive accumulation of snow is melting like the wicked witch at the end of the Wizard of Oz.

On March 10th we set a record for snow in the month. At 30 centimetres, it's more than the previous record set on March 13 back in 1968. We may still break the record for the worst winter ever set in 1938/39 when 207.4 cm (nearly 82 inches) brought the City to its knees.

We're only 21 cm (about 8 inches) away from that record.

But the present forecast is the perfect antidote for the mountains of snow everywhere.

We're going to see some mild temperatures, maple-syrup weather, with temperatures above freezing during the day and below freezing during the night.

We don't want April showers in March. We want a slow easing to get rid of the snow pack, but not to a flood stage.

Just the big puddle stage. Lindsay comes charging back down the path to see what's keeping me. She plunges into the puddle, great sprays of water cascading around her. My winter boots aren't tall enough to cope with the depth of water and there is no way around the puddle.

Godzilla has won. Our walk is over for the day.

Lindsay shakes the water out of her fur, spraying me from toe to head.

Yes spring is here.

"It reminds me of our adventure with the infernal Hound," I commented upon our return to our lodgings at 221B Bakers St.

"Indeed Watson, there are salient features reminiscent of the Baskeville case," replied Holmes, settling into his favoured chair. "Our dear friend Anexplorer and his wife have once again provided us with some amusement."

"Good Lord, Holmes,you cannot consider their frightening ordeal a form of amusement?"

"If you say so Watson," Holmes gave me a most peculiar look. "But consider. The Anexplorers were staying in a Bed and Breakfast located five miles from the town of Portree on the Isle of Skye, whilst Anexplorer conducted some research into his family history."

"Quite so," I agreed.

"Mrs. Anexplorer had had a most disturbing meal. The two were seated at a favoured table by a large picture window overlooking the majestic hills of Skye. The large sheep population of the Island dotted the hillside.

"Both the Anexplorers had ordered the fresh lamb for their repast, wanting to savour the local cuisine. But as they commenced eating, Mrs. Anexplorer was horrified to notice the sheep beginning to gather at the fence outside their window. Staring at her as she ate."

"To that poor woman's mind it seemed the animals were gazing on her in judgment as she consumed one of their fellows."

"Quite put her off her meal," I commented.

"Were it not for Anexplorer gallantly exchanging places with her, she would not have been able to continue.

"However, with Mrs. Anexplorer safe from the judgment of the local domesticated flock, they were both able to enjoy their dinner."

"Ah, but then we get to the meat of the matter, so to speak," I picked up the tale, "For the couple then decided to go for a walk in the night air before repairing for the evening.

"As I recall, they scaled the large hill overlooking the bed and breakfast to gain a view of the valley from this height. The large herd of sheep were everywhere to be seen, but the handsome couple were the only people abroad in the night."

Holmes verily squirmed in his comfortable chair, "And that, Watson, is when the fog rolled in. Unaccustomed to the suddenness and impenetrability of a Skye fog, the couple were caught unawares on the hillside, the bleating of the sheep, the only comfort in the gathering dark.

"They began their descent of the steep pathway, their vision limited to a mere yard before them. And that is when they heard the terrifying sound of footsteps in the night. Another soul was abroad in the gloaming, yet due to the fog, this mysterious companion could not be seen.

"The couple hurried to the bottom of the hill, the twisting and narrow path, limiting their speed. Being courteous, they then waited to greet the stranger who was also abroad in the foggy evening. But the footfalls of the other simply ceased. Not a soul emerged from the fog. They were quite alone."

"Puzzled, they retired to the warmth of the peat fire in the lounge, where the dear hostess of the establishment brought them some tea to warm them from the chilly night air."

"Whilst leafing through a tour book kindly left on the side table, Mrs. Anexplorer chanced upon a article that returned the chill of the night to her bones. She drew Anexplorer's attention to the article with trembling hand.

"The very area in which their bed and breakfast resided was notorious for the appearance on foggy evenings of a headless man whose appearance had frightened several locals to their death.

"'You don't think, those footsteps could have been the headless man?', the dear woman questioned our friend.

"But for once, Anexplorer was at a loss for words, the footsteps in the fog, a haunting memory reverberating in his troubled mind."

We skipped a week due to my Scotland posts, but here is this week's TED (the Technology, Entertainment and Design conference)video, back on schedule. Actually this one's for Bella who enjoys the Technology videos the best. This is the most jawdropping piece of technology you're likely to ever see.

Is this a new life form?

Dutch artist Theo Jansen demonstrates his amazingly lifelike kinetic sculptures, built from plastic tubes and lemonade bottles. His "Strandbeests" (Beach Creatures) are built to move and even survive on their own. Watch them walk the coastline of Holland, feeding on wind and fleeing from water.

Don't believe me, well just watch....

I've made the climb down to the foot of the bluffs for the first time in six months. There is no wind and the lake is gentle. Lindsay has taken off up the beach where a flock of seagulls have rested through the night from a long day spent scavanging.

As she approaches, barking madly, they take off in a lazy cloud of white, giving her a distainful glance as they rise into the sky.

Its been a hard climb down to the beach. We're at the bottom of Coronation Dr. where the bluffs lower to about twenty feet in height and some stones form a rough stairway to the lake.

Its the day after St. Patrick's Day and I'm thinking about a different and more famous stone than the one I just climbed. Millions have made the pilgrimage to Blarney Castle in southern Ireland to kiss its "stone of eloquence" But now I read they may have put their lips on the wrong stone.

The term "Blarney talk" is thought to stem from Queen Elizabeth I who lost patience with the insolent excuses of Chieftain Cormac MacDermot Mor MacCarthy who refused to hand the castle to English forces and said: "Blarney, Blarney, I will hear no more of this Blarney!"

Anyone can try to gain Chieftain MacCarthy's rare gift for persuasive speech by climbing up to the battlements of one of Ireland's top tourist attractions, bending backwards over a long drop and kissing the "Blarney Stone", a difficult, but far from impossible task. My mother kissed the stone when she was in her 70's.

I've never visited the castle, or kissed the stone myself, having been told (more than once) that I'm sufficiently full of blarney and not in need of a refill. Now it turns out my lack of effort might have been a good thing, because archaeologist, Mark Samuel, claims the stone my mother (and 400,000 other yearly tourists) kissed cannot be "The" Blarney stone. Indeed, he claims, the first mention of the stone in its current position is only from 1888.

His book, "Blarney Castle: Its History, Development and Purpose" also traces the history of the stone, said either to have been "Jacob's Pillow" and brought back by crusaders from the Holy Land or that it is part of the Stone of Scone on which Scottish monarchs are crowned and was a 14th Century gift from King Robert the Bruce of Scotland.

The reason for doubt about the current Blarney Stone comes from earlier descriptions of pilgrims having to reach the stone by being lowered 2.4 meters (8 feet) by rope, head downward from the top of the castle. Now that, my mother didn't do.

Samuel claims that after 1800 either they moved the stone or else simply declared another stone the Blarney stone. Your not going to have 400,000 tourist each year willing to have their legs tied and lowered 8 feet down the steep castle walls.

Samuel said he was not looking to debunk the Blarney stone's long history, only to establish which was the original. His book lists three possible alternatives to the current stone.

But then, maybe Samuel is just full of a lot of Blarney.

Before you go, check out the Comments section for some wonderful photos of the Blarney Stone kindly sent over by Dalpha from the Major Danes blog.