The thing about spending time with my grandmother was that she was also from a Celtic background. She loved nature and spreading her knowledge of it, which my little brother and I lapped up.
Take for example the 'Story of Tiny'.
Tiny was a small lamb who was born prematurely and was destined to die. My grandfather announced, rather gruffly that it was a case of natural selection and he had to concentrate on the lambs that would survive.
"Oh fiddlesticks" announced my grandmother and scooped the helpless lamb up in her frock.
My brother and I followed as she marched back to the cottage and promptly put the lamb in the Aga oven. We burst into tears and declared that we didn't want to eat the lamb - we didn't even like lamb.
"Shush" she said soothingly "Help me prepare the milk"
After a few minutes, she took the miniscule lamb out of the oven, now suitably warm, wrapped it in a blanket and started to feed it with a baby bottle filled with warm milk. After a short while, it fell asleep, as did we on the floor of the scullery.
The next morning, we were allowed to feed the lamb, now called Tiny and he became like a pet sheep. If he did poo in the house, I'm sure grandma cleaned it up and claimed he was house-trained to my grandfather.
Many years later, I was to do exactly the same thing with a small duckling who I called Wayne. Why did I call him Wayne? I have completely no idea but I do know that the love of nature passed onto me, in a Celtic way, stayed with me and remains forever.