The swan was sleeping peacefully on the ice. No mean feat given how many birders were tramping up the path beside its pool, with all their heavy kit, footsteps crunching harshly on the frost of the East Bank, as they hurried on their way to see the flock of snow bunting out by the coastal shingle, or to peer hopefully around for the long-billed dowitcher rumoured to be in the neighbourhood.
I wondered if it was only the writers who paused by the pond to look upon the sleeping swan.
Perhaps not. Some of our group were concerned about the bird, and spoke to a passing reserve warden to ask if they should call it in. They were reassured that all was well. Reports had been made, so some others were taking note and caring as well - but it was all good.
A few moments pause to watch showed that to be so. Although the bird was on the ice, close observation showed it to be an ice-island. Most of the pool was frozen, but around her wintry nest there was a band of open water. It made me think of those hot-sleepers among us, forever seeking out a cooler part of the bed.
As if to acknowledge my thought she – no idea why I thought it a female, I’m no birder – lifted her neck, and stretched it round and straightened all the kinks out of it, peered blearily at the latest activity, and if a swan could yawn, I’d swear she did, and then full of all the purest innocence of her snow-white feathers, she curled that neck back down, snuggled her beak beneath her wing and decided to ignore us.
I wonder what swans dream about.
A week ago, we’d been down on the beach near here and it was COLD! Cold with a capital "Ouch"! Today was more perfect. Today was cold enough to hold the frost in the hollows and the shadows, for the ponds and dykes to be iced over, but warm enough in the sun to peel off hats and gloves, to hold a camera or a pen, to stand or sit, to wait and watch. Today was warm enough to linger. No’but’only, as my Dad would have said. Only just. But “only just” is all we need.
No getting away from it, I love the white of winter. And this winter, 2022/23, is proving to be a white that I have never known. I have seen a number of heavy-snow winters, and even one heavy-snow spring, but the depth of frost (without snow) that we are getting this year is something very different. I don’t think I have ever before seen frost this persistent, building upon itself for days, long crystals
forming, spider webs holding a weight of water they were not designed for and collapsing as soon as the ice ceased to hold them tight. Frost along our coastal shores is rare and yet there have been days of it this winter.
Deep cold and no snow. I have read about ice storms in America. Is this something we in the UK may now have to start planning for? We forget that when we talk about global heating, that we are talking about the overall ‘global’ position. We forget that the impact will be to mess up some of the stuff we’ve gotten used to. We forget that for some of us the local impact might well be significant cooling.
On some scenarios (and I’m no expert so don’t quote me) this could apply particularly to the UK which relies heavily on the Gulf Stream and the North Atlantic Drift for its temperate climate. That could be disrupted.
For now, some species are moving north. We are seeing birds and butterflies in the UK, that are following the cooler air northwards as Africa and the Mediterranean heat, but what happens if (when?) we lose the warming impact of the North Atlantic drift? What happens if (when?) the UK is reminded that we are on the same latitude as the Gulf of Alaska and the Kamchatka Peninsula
in Russia?
I love frost and snow, but I know that we as a country are not remotely geared up for it. I am one of the many whose central heating relies on a condensing boiler. Brilliant invention…except the condensing bit has a tendency to freeze after a few sub-zero days, which means it won’t ignite (don’t ask me why)…so…OK. I have a central heating boiler whose very design means it won’t work when I need it most.
My friendly local bricoleur and I are working on the Heath Robinsonsolution to that particular problem. In the meantime, I am determined to enjoy the cold weather as much as I can – which simply means being out in it.
I love how some leaves surrender completely and allow the crystals to form over their entire surface, while others seem to be able to anti-freeze the core and keep the sugaring to the edges. I was particularly taken by the leaves of a sapling hedge than had curled up against the cold, protecting their normally-upper side. They looked like unfolding winter roses.
In the garden next to my holiday cottage, a hen came out each morning, fluffed herself up to three times her size and stood in what little of the sun she could find. Silent and patient, wings tucked in, like some sister of mercy called to an empty chapel at Prime resolutely doing her duty, but with her hands holding something warming beneath the habit.
I can’t decide whether I prefer the really bright days of ice-blue skies and clarity, or the atmospheric mists and mystery. Give me both. And paths to walk. Even so, I feel the shortness of the days, I tire early, my energy sinking with the daylight. Perhaps that is why I love the frost; the reflected light is compensation for fewer hours of sun.
And yet, I know that although they call this the sleeping time of year, it is really the preparing time. There is more resting than when the days are longer, and we should bow to that, relish the coming indoors and settling to quiet pursuits, old-fashioned things like conversing, or communal cooking and sharing of food, or the private pleasures of reading or writing, maybe preparing ourselves for our own version of new life by gently studying, not to pass tests or needing to prove a thing, but
just to learn more about what has attracted our attention of late.
Or not. If what the winter months call us to do is to nestle down in our burrows and wait it out, well…why not? Those of us lucky enough to have some control over our timetables can be grateful for those mornings when we wake and think "still dark, don’t need to move" and those dark late-afternoons when we can light fires or candles or pull on silly socks and wrap ourselves in blankets, and think about the real “olden days” – beyond living memory, when winters were cave-stone cold or wattle-and-daub draughty – when gathering round the fire to doze was the most sensible thing to be done.
Winter is a story-telling time and so I have been re-reading Sutcliffe’s re-imagining of the Arthurian saga (Sword At Sunset), which is not a romantic tale of chivalry, but a bloody account of the wars between the Britons and the Saxons and Vikings and Scots and all the others. I’m struck by the details she drops into it, among them the work of the winter camps, when warring was stopped by weather. She has her characters use idle moments in repairing armour, sanding swords and shields against the rust. It makes me think of fisher-folk, mending nets and knitting. Preparing.
As the festivities recede and the new year gets well and truly under way, we know that winter is
not done with us just yet. This is a time for being gentle, to start the process of this new cycle of our lives, but calmly and quietly. Live each day, as the day falls, catch its beauty or create your own. Continue to value the gifts of quietness and restorative rest, while slowly re-awakening, stretching and yawning, polishing, mending, planning, and making ready.
