The sombre but exhilarating days of British winter
“NO sun – no moon!/no morn – no noon –/No dawn – no dusk – no proper time of day … No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,/no comfortable feel in any member –/No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,/no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.” So wrote Thomas Hood in his 1884 poem November.
But, really, what a disservice Mr Hood does the British winter. At this time of year I’m reminded how very fortunate we are to live on this ravaged isle, where each week the weather shifts like Sahara sand.
We may have lost so much of our nature in Britain over the centuries – sadly, it is not just November but indeed any month where one can ponder the lack of butterflies, bees and birds – but our weather, mercifully, remains an elemental force: tumultuous, wild and ever-shifting.
I pondered this on Thursday during a trip to Dumfries in the Scottish borders. So much of the landscape seemed empty and desolate, bar a swirl of rooks clattering over the fields. But my gaze kept drifting upwards away from this uninspiring scene to the sky, a roiling mass of magenta and all the other florid shades of a good bruise.
Were it not for the driving rain I could have watched for hours. As it was I lasted barely five minutes before running to the car and shaking myself down like a wet collie.
After the storms and downpours of the past 24 hours, things remain unsettled over the weekend. In the south-east and north-east expect further gales before a welcome burst of low-lying winter sun.
Then temperatures are predicted once more to begin dropping next week, with clearer days, starrier night skies and a bracing widespread frost to wake up to.
No warmth, no comfortable feel and no leaves, unarguably. But oh how I cherish these dark days of winter.