It’s late afternoon and I’m out the door, up over the hill. It’s golden hour, the cusp of dusk. I pedal fast up the hills trying to beat the looming dark, the sun is shining brightly on the limestone of Rathlin’s cliffs but it won’t last. I need to buy a high vis vest and find my bike lights, I shake my head at my scatty brain. There’s no way I’ll remember until I’m out again and the same thought will appear. There’s too much rattling around in there daily.
At the highest point I see the descent of the sun more clearly, it’s a race now, I fly down the hill to the shore. Still there’s time to stop and check for seals at Maguires Strand and to watch the waves for a few minutes; breathing it in, that cool Atlantic air. And still time to grab some three cornered leek and shove it in my bag for later.
Despite the annual changes in light and dark every year it seems like total madness that only a few months ago I was in short sleeves not woollens and the birds were up many hours before work or school run instead of this black velvet darkness cloaking the countryside, I can even see the stars! It’s humbling, our lack of control over the natural world.
I’ve given in to it entirely, there’s deep comfort here. Resilient by design, we just keep on keeping on. The outpouring of love and support last week was beautiful and much needed too; something we might not always admit, I needed to feel held. I will never be surprised by the kindness of strangers but sometimes I am taken aback as to how wonderful humans can be. It feels as if I have a cloak of comfort wrapped around me that will protect me during this time, I hope that come spring I can slip it off and I hope that somehow it will continue to be passed around our community, infinitely giving love and warmth when needed. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
As I turn the last corner for home the sun has already gone behind the mountain, she’ll reappear momentarily on the western side for the last rays. I speed up again through the trees before the landscape is sepia toned and the gloaming sets in. I wonder what to make for dinner and if I should pour a glass of red.
I read and re-read Lucy Brazier’s gorgeous Christmas at River Cottage book and promise myself (yet again) that next year I’ll be organised earlier. I feel the Christmas cheer is locked into books like this, pages and pages full of festive magic, I love Lucy’s writing. I take down my other Christmas books from the shelves to dip into over the next while; The Little Library Christmas, Delia, Mrs Beeton, Winter poetry and ghost stories. I play the festive albums of Kate Rusby, Sufjan Stevens, Cara Dillon, Weezer and Christmas Swing mixes on repeat (Ring Out Solstice Bells by Jethro Tull is my favourite). The kids line up the film requests and I wonder if we’ll have time; is it really only 3 weeks away? It’ll not be long before Dara and I will snatch a minute to dance round the kitchen to ‘Fairytale of New York’, me, predictably with tears in my eyes.
These next few weeks are magical and although I feel we’ve been knocked off course a little bit I intend to fill them full of friends and family and food, my days beginning with festive positivity (and mince pies), afternoons of cold walks and swims (maybe a pint) and evenings of cosy fires, books and my one true. I hope for the same for you.
Your resilient spirit always inspires me! I too am always rejuvenated and comforted by being out in nature. And thank you for the Christmas book recs!