inside::outside

 

We are still in winter. I know that February is the beginning of Spring, but in name only I think. There are snowdrops and crocuses out in the garden, and little green spears of tulips and daffodils pushing up from the cold earth but there's also days of frost and other days of fog. Every day though there's a walk, regardless of what the weather's doing. And there's fire. It's one of the best things about winter. The fire is lit first thing in the morning and by the afternoon a second one is humming in the sitting room and then it doesn't matter what's going on outside, for inside we are warm. And we are glad of it.

January reading

I'm just finishing off The North Water by Ian McGuire which has been a heaving read set on a rolling whaling vessel in the Arctic, where the hero (surgeon Patrick Sumner) doesn't come off too well and the villain of the piece, Henry Drax, is of such malevolence and raw power with an instinct to survive so powerful that you can't take your eyes off him nor believe he could ever be vanquished. To compensate for all that unrelenting tension and drama I'm also reading the classic Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. This is a gorgeous hardback edition and although I've only read the first 40 pages I know this is a book that will have something to say to me for the rest of my life. Written over 60 years ago it gives gentle advice about how to balance life, family, work, marriage and finding space to be yourself while advocating a paring down, a simplification in order to be at peace.

bleak mid winter

Oh yes. It's winter. It's freezing one day and strangely mild the next. The boys have sore throats and dizzy heads and are home from school. We (well, me) have cabin fever. I'm waiting for spring and resisting the urge to buy daffodils and tulips...

fire and fog

These are the days of fire and fog. The skies burn at sunrise and sunset, with crisp blues in between. Some days there's fog. We climbed Lough Crew enveloped in a grey shroud, frightening each other with ghostly tales of the witch who lives there and pretending to be lost on the lonely hills. But mostly we've stayed at home, curling up in front of the fire enjoying the books and presents that came with Christmas and reminding ourselves that spring isn't so very far away and that the forecasts for snow might be wrong...

here and there

Here: where the fields were lit by golden light and walking brought peace among the bustle of Christmas. Our focus is on quiet traditions, the things that bring us joy each year ~ the carol service, meeting friends, drinking port by the fire while reading the Christmas issue of Country Life, icing the cake and making Plum Duff for Christmas morning breakfast.

There: we brought the boys to the Planetarium in Armagh to find out about the Christmas Star. It was a magical cosmic journey back in time to unravel the mystery of exactly what the Magi followed to that stable and, as the sun set over the cathedrals we left the city to go northwards to the sea. 

sloe sunday

A proper frosted morning. The dogs and I crunched our way through our morning walk and the air hung still and cold. After breakfast we decided this had to be the perfect day to pick sloes for sloe gin. Tradition has it that you pick them after a good hard frost and we knew up the lane there were plenty - the first time in at least two, maybe three years. A bit of extreme sloe picking was in order. We piled into the Landrover and bumped our way through mud and puddles to the overgrown part of the lane, where the spiny blackthorn waited. And there in bright sunshine we picked the dusted purple fruits until one of our party declared he couldn't feel his toes in his wellies anymore and he'd really rather be at home...

...so home we came to defrost by the fire and weigh out the sugar for the sloe gin to come.

solitude

painting by Anne Davies

Oh dear. It's one of those days. I need to run away and stay in a little green cabin. I need to sit by the fire, read by candlelight and watch snowflakes softly fall. I need the utter peace and quiet of solitude.

See some of Anne Davies work here

quiet time

November skies - grey, cold and with the promise of rain. The leaves are squelching underfoot and the brown-ness of everything can be a little too much. Time for candles and firelight. Toasty warm toes and a winter reading list, music, a glass of wine. Tune out from the world for a bit and re-balance the self. Quiet time is what's needed.

grey and misty

Oh it's a bit uninspiring all this rain. Today it's too wet to consider all but the briefest of walks and even then I only go up the hill. The low lying cloud and mist have covered the hill in a blanket of damp grey. Quick - get back home, indoors to the fire, maybe a few stolen pages of reading (the poetic and beautiful essays in Kathleen Jamie's Sightlines). Not quite hibernating but certainly something close to it. 

getting better

This morning was bright, clear and cold. A slight frosting lay on the garden wall. Inside we are slowly recovering from 'flu. The fires are lit and the house is cosy. Last week the postman delivered some cookbooks but I was too unwell to do more than read through them, wishing to be well enough to want to eat, never-mind actually cook. Luckily that has lifted and so with the barest fluffings of snow outside I made cinnamon buns from The Five O'Clock Apron and with their buttery, cinnamon-y raisin filling, they have gone down a treat. A little post-illness indulgence, if you will.

snowfall

Last night snow flakes started to fall and all their talk going to bed was would there be enough snow to make a snowman and would there be enough snow to get off school... 

Sunrise this morning. A dusting but not much more. William came down the stairs at 6.20am to check the time and check the snow. By 8.30am both he and Mide are out in the garden, throwing snowballs and whooping in the freezing air. Not much later they are back in. There isn't enough snow to stop school and off they go.

Sunlight in the dining-room. It is quiet. I roast a butternut squash with garlic and chilli to make salad for lunch and then print some linocut snowdrops, the only noise is the radio mumbling in the background and the crackle of wood in the stove. Then I make flapjacks with oats and golden syrup and butter for the boys when they come in from school. A snow day. A quiet day. Nothing out of the ordinary, but all the better for that.

shadows

The low January sun filtered through the sitting room curtains, with shadows.

winter light

This year we celebrated the turn of the year - the winter solstice - with a candlelit party at home. Family arrived at 4.30pm just as darkness had fallen. They came into the house lit only by candles, there were no other lights on except the Christmas tree ones. We played Christmas carols and drank mulled wine and ate lots of festive food and chatted among the flickering light. Our eyes became accustomed to the candles' gentle glow and the dancing shadows and even though the house was full of people there was a gentleness to the gathering, a reminder perhaps of older times when semi darkness and candlelight was commonplace, when the setting of the sun brought inevitable stillness, when there was peace and quiet and all were safely gathered in.

December days

November days

The rain, at times, has sounded like hail - icy fingernails tapping on the kitchen windows. The sky darkens and then, after the shower, sudden sunshine as though it had never rained at all. Today with the rain blowing on and off I made apple jelly. We'd been gifted a couple of kilos of apples and they sat for a while in a bowl until I could bear it no longer. So this morning I turned them into Fireside Jelly - apples and cloves with cinnamon and ginger... I have to admit I am proud of my morning's effort. I've tried jam making in the past and have had various results ranging from runny-jam to set-like-concrete jam, so I wasn't holding my breath. But this time it worked! And now the kitchen smells of buttery toast as I ate toast with apple jelly, for once not minding the squally rain outside.

November days are brown and squelchy underfoot. The leaves have mostly been blown off the trees and now we're left with browns and greys, muddy tracks and the birds rattling in the hedges. Still the dogs and I enjoy our walks, so long as it's not too wet.