Notes from February
The winter this year seems to have been all too fleeting. I know that for many it is a dismal drudge, but I love the depth of winter, with all of its glimmering chill, all of its rest and retreat.
This week I took my first lunchtime walk in ages. When I last stomped around the village in my wellies, it still felt like the dead of winter: all was still and brown and slumbering. But at the end of February, whilst the mud and the water have risen, there are definite hits of something else coming. The perhaps incorrectly-named winterbourne of Chawton, which was dry and still in midwinter is now flowing fast and lush under a new yellow-wood bridge that looks like something out of a Monet. The very first daffodils are out too; tiny little things nodding away under the windows at work.
The winter this year seems to have been all too fleeting. I know that for many it is a dismal drudge, but I love the depth of winter, with all of its glimmering chill, all of its rest and retreat. Spring is coming bounding towards us, and whilst I am not naïve enough to suppose that there won’t be storms and frosts and endless glum days before the season proper, I already feel the loss of the dark peace of winter, and the power of fire and light to banish and challenge it. A lesson for next year, to cherish that time, wrapped in warmth.
From the Kitchen Window
February began in the most magical and most natural of ways. For the very first time in our anglo-anglo-Irish household we decided to mark Imbolc, or St Brigit’s Day, the first of the Celtic quarter fire-festivals. Much as I love winter, after the unrelenting length of January, and its business, a celebration of light and fire felt like just what we needed. So, we fired up the hot tub, bought a nice bottle of wine, and made confit duck leg for dinner. Well, actually, P did all of those things, whilst I luxuriated in the hot water and steam with a good book (and the good glass of wine).
The light levels were low, dusky and gloomy as the sun set. The smoke from our chimney mingled with a light mist, as we looked out over the field behind our garden. Two hares popped their ears up and began grazing, whilst a pheasant strode out, dipped its head for a snack, and then stalked on again, elegant and unsure, stop-start, stop-start along the hedgeline.
Then, suddenly, up under the trees one the edge of the wood, a white floating shape, with all of the elegance of the pheasant, but with a drifting dancing softness that the game bird could only dream off. It was the resident barn owl, rarely glimpsed by always treasured. We waited to see if it would reappear, but dinner was making its demands, and P made his way back to the house to put the finishing touches to our Imbolc feast.
Alone, I wallowed, and stretched and stilled, folding into myself, the water, the food. Something – a movement in the air, a whisper of wings, made me look up. The beautiful barn owl was directly above me, so close I could almost touch it. It circled around the tub, working out what I was and meeting me eye to eye. So low, so quiet, so magical – and then gone, off along the hedge. Breathless and joyous, I went off to our feast.
What a way to start the month, and an incomparable experience. My gloominess about the general state of the garden, my garlic, and my bulbs, was down to pure impatience. In the last days of the month everything started to burst into life: a lone crocus under the apple tree, tete-a-tete in the flower beds, and the elephant garlic growing almost by the day. Heartened, I’ve now spent hours clearing the rest of my raised bed of strings of ground elder, and have put in onions, garlic and radishes – more hope for the summer.
Beyond the Horizon
Very few adventures in February, but the highlight was a trip to Petersfield Museum for their brilliant new exhibition “Bound Together: Modern British Bookbinding”. A bibliophile’s dream, it is stunning, fascinating and thought-provoking, and another brilliantly curated exhibition from the clever museum team.
Off the Shelf
To my shame, February has been another month very little reading and very few books. Looking back, I can’t name a single book I’ve finished in the month – which is highly unusual. I’m still working my way through Ulysses, with my weekly Sunday reads, and have been listening to Great Expectations on my lunchtime walks, and whilst doing battle with the ground elder. I have an excellent to-be-read pile, quite a few of which I will be taking with me on my March adventures – when I will be going beyond the horizon!
On the Page
Country walks and talks in the pub have created a new direction of research for the novel I have brewing away in my head. More things to add to the bookmarked folders on my phone, and more places to walk to get a sense of time and atmosphere. But, that must still wait until my fairy tale works is finished. I’ve added a good 5,000 words in February, which I’m rather pleased with. March begins with a trip to the glorious, gorgeousness of Gladstones Library, and the hope that I will be able to add at least two finished chapter to the first draft of the manuscript. Here’s to a March filled with more words, more adventures and more flowers.