I’m holding a small blue flower in my hand as I stand here on the driveway thinking about the dark of winter.
Although the calendar tells us we’ve passed the solstice, we won’t be noticing the longer days for some time yet. Few of us enjoy this prolonged period of diminished light, but for many in the past it must have been more than cold or depressing. It must have been downright scary. What if the sun was ailing or angry? What if it faded out altogether? Around the temperate world we humans have felt the need to coax the faltering disc back to life with rituals and ceremonies, which not only worked – whoopee! – but brought much needed warmth and cheer to the dullest time of year.
Scotland is well known for its winter fire festivals when normally canny citizens take to the streets swinging hefty fireballs, burning tar barrels, or setting light to full sized birch trees soaked in paraffin. If a mob of brawny kilted highlanders awhirl with crackling flames and flying sparks fails to perk up a sullen sun, at least it may help to ward off bouts of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Up Helly Aa in Shetland is perhaps the most famous, though not the most ancient, of such revels. Hundreds of costumed participants, including the all-important Jarl’s squad, elaborately helmeted and kitted out in ways that would have astonished any bona fide Viking, parade at dusk through crowded streets bearing blazing torches, which amid much cheering and lusty singing they hurl onto a replica longboat. Fuelled by the spectacular inferno and possibly the odd nip of whisky, the festivities continue through the night as citizens live it up in a jolly circus of feasting, drinking, play-acting and dancing.
Our son was born in Shetland at Up Helly Aa and, hours old, received a ceremonial visit from a splendid Viking troupe, a benediction which probably guaranteed the newborn lifelong immunity to the winter blahs. My own immunity isn’t entirely foolproof, but as usual the garden has come to my rescue.
On this very day when my faith in the future showed signs of wavering, a touch of colour half buried in tufts of grassy foliage caught my eye. Winter iris grows by the driveway in parched soil under the eaves, and every year its fragile flowers reappear in defiance of the weather. The sky-blue petals of the iris that I’m holding are exquisitely marked with tiger stripes and are so insubstantial they barely register under my clumsy fingertips. Here’s a promise that, with or without the encouragement of latter-day Vikings, the sun will ride high in the sky once more and the world will bloom again.
This small treasure speaks to a question that’s been on my mind throughout the year. In addition to my many blessings which include, of course, the garden itself, I’ve enjoyed the privilege of time. I’ve had the chance to spend the last twelve months steeped in this world of the nearby. But while I’ve been reporting on its little goings-on, news from the bigger world has been a looming presence, its reports so grave they’ve threatened to overwhelm such trifling topics as a feisty hummingbird, a motherly woodlice, or a little blue flower. How can I justify the time spent on such trivia? How to reconcile such disparate views of life?
After twelve months of mental negotiations, I’ve reached a settlement. We must pay attention to the big stuff – of course we must – and act on it as we see fit. The obligation, however, is not the destination. To make our way in peace among such humble gifts as a wren’s song, a butterfly, a passing kindness or a smile exchanged – isn’t that how most of us would ultimately choose to spend and end our days? And so I conclude, dear iris, that small as you are, you’re by no means inconsequential.
With that brief philosophical digression off my chest, and with a sigh of relief, I return to my tour of the driveway where the weather may be uninspiring, but the garden is not. On closer inspection, this iris is not the only symbol of hope out here. The unstoppable cycle of the seasons is shoving up the crocuses, and slender spears of daffodils are spiking through the muddy soil below the elm. The newly leafless trees are showing off their secret project of the last few months. There, there and there! Magnolia, dogwood and stewartia have arrayed themselves in brand new buds, some fuzzy, some bunchy, some sleek, but all primed and ready to break out as soon as spring gives the go ahead. The future is well underway.
Although I too feel an eagerness to get growing, I may be getting ahead of myself. We may be tilting back to longer days, but the great bulk of the earth is slow to catch up. The bitterest cold of winter is still to come, and our rations of sunshine will be skimpy for some time yet. I should warn the crocuses to slow down. I should warn myself to slow down. Stay tucked underground, pale petals! Stay snug in your dens and your drays, my furry friends! Sleep tight awhile, you garter snakes, you alligator lizards, you little brown bats, you frail and fluttery things! Be patient all you gardeners, and I’ll try to be patient too!
Already the dimming sky is telling me it’s time to call it a day, time to head back indoors, to place this iris in a small glass vase, and to hunker down for a cosy evening with a brand-new travel book.
TIME TO CALL IT A YEAR
I didn’t think I’d take to social media. I didn’t even like the word Blog. It was only with gentle prodding from the family that I began this year of posts, and it was only with their ‘techy’ help (thanks especially, Jean and Isabel!) that I sent my first tentative pieces flying off into the ether. I certainly didn’t know how much your responses would mean to me, or how the weeks would race by, fuelled with your encouragement. I’ve enjoyed every minute of our journey together. A shout-out to Terry for letting me to bring her along, and huge thanks to you all for keeping me company on the way. It’s been a joy.
May the new year delight you with a host of small adventures in your own nearby!
Elspeth
You are a star ! We loved it and the video of UHA is so good - you will have put Shetland on many people's bucket list to visit !
Thank you for sharing all your garden strolls - surely this can't be the final one?
Everyone will be wanting more - even if less frequently - but please don't stop for good.
Have a very Good, Happy and Healthy 2024.
Love to all the family from all of us in Shetland xxxx
Thank you for the joy you have brought to me. And thank you for all the memories that get stirred up when I read of your adventures on land that I once gleefully roamed and treasured. I am sending warm wishes to you and your family and all the best for the coming year. Dana