Looking through some books, there was a bookmark on this little piece by the late Orcadian writer George Mackay Brown, from 1987:
The Poets On Winter: 'As the the day lengthens the caald strengthens', the old folk used to say, drawing on a great hoard of folk memory. It's true enough. Looking back over many years, January seems always to be the month to be feared, with claws and teeth of ice. It is the month when Robert Burns was born- "Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win' .../ Blew hansel in on Robin'... There is a dark rich magic in this time of year that Burns loved and exploited to the full. It's impossible to imagine his greatest poem, 'Tam o' Shanter', in a summer setting: a storm, with darkness, was essential. His cantata, 'The Jolly Beggars', is a winter-time extravaganza. He weaves his magic about a winter-evicted mouse. 'The Cottar's Saturday Night'-that pious pastoral- falls in winter-time, when hearts and hearth-stone burn more brightly. Many of his lyrics too, are stoked to winter ardour- 'Oh, wert thou in the cold blast...' Does not the whole world sing 'Auld Lang Syne' at New Year? - though nearly always they get the words wrong.
It may be that high summer is too obviously 'practical' -with abundance of flowers, birdsong, fleeces, honey, sunshine - and poets like a thin soil to work in, so that the beauties of art can vie with the overflowing riches of nature. The coldness and cruelty of nature is in one of Keats's greatest poems, 'The Eve of Saint Agnes'. He makes a marvellous distillation from the bitter wind, the shivering sheep, the frozen breath of the bedesman that was 'like pious incense from a censer old'. Possibly the joy of winter for artists is the knowledge that the seed is lying under the snow, with all of summer's abundance locked in it. The waiting and the longing are more wonderful that the consumation.
'Twelfth Night'- that is, January the sixth- Shakespeare called one of the happiest of his plays. Another he titled 'The Winter's Tale': a title to enchant any audience, because it is at the time of darkness and snow that people draw in to the fireside to listen to the old men's stories. Even nowadays, I suppose, TV has more viewers than on lingering rose-scented evenings. George Mackay Brown.
Paintings one and three by John Arthur Malcolm Aldridge; middle painting by James McIntosh Patrick, 'Winter In Angus'.
Winter, in past times, was the most important season for tales; when people would gather round firesides and tell stories and make music. I was browsing my bookcase full of Scottish books and found the following extracts on just this subject. This evocative passage is from the introduction to an antique book entitled, 'Around The Orkney Peat-Fires: Being Sketches of Notable Orcadians And Characters, Smuggling Anecdotes, Stories Of The Press-Gang, And Witch And Other Tales.' By W.R. MacKintosh:
"Prior to the days of cheap periodical literature, neighbours were in the habit of meeting in each other's houses, and, seated round a rousing peat-fire, whiled away the long winter evenings recounting the achievements of notable Orcadians in every part of the world, telling of the eccentricities of local characters, describing all kinds of smuggling exploits, and relating many thrilling incidents connected with the press-gang. Before "the amers were raiked" for the night, something creepy, generally in the shape of a witch story, was usually thrown in, so that the members of the company wended their way home in the dark, prepared to see a ghost in each waving thistle, or troops of fairies on every rising knoll."
George Mackay Brown is probably Orkney's most famous writer, and he is one of my favourites. The following passages are from his writings. The first one is from his collection of stories, 'Winter Tales':
"The winter last year was cold and stormy. The first television sets had come to the island. They were the latest of the never-ending miracles of science, those half-dozen television sets installed in the bigger farms. They held children from their play and old men from their memories in the chimney corner. The poorer folk who couldn't afford to buy television sets would almost beg to spend their evenings in those fortunate houses where the grey images flickered and came and went.
I'm glad to say that the enchantment didn't last. The islanders came to the conclusion that there was probably more fun playing draughts on the kitchen table by lamplight. The fiddle was taken down from the wall again. Cherished books were brought from the wide windowsill and opened with reverence and delight. But while it lasted, even Ben the sailor was under the spell of the television set, going from house to house to that."
"One of the delights of winter is soup- good thick nourishing broth that will outbrave snow and gales." (From Rockpools and Daffodils). Although for me, who has a gift for making wonderful soups, soup is for every day of the year, in that I could be pleased to have it every day, winter or summer. Making a pot of good soup is very satisfying, easy, comforting, and another form of creativity. But homemade soup is particularly vital in the winter, it seems to be needed.
(On Midsummer): "I must say, I love this time of year best of all. But, strange to say, there are folk-and I've spoken to them-who find the long light monotonous, or unnatural, or maybe both. For them, the great thing is the cosiness of lighted lamp and blazing fire after tea-the easy-chair with book or newspaper or TV. They are the winter people; and who shall blame them, in a way? For winter has its own magic: mazes of stars, the changing moon, and rare-come Aurora."
Although country folk say that the worst of winter is yet to come, the gorse on the moor has lighted a few golden lamps to greet the New Year. And in the woodlands the hazel has hung grey tassels that tremble in the wind; about the keeper's cottage the jasmine displays points of yellow. On the weathered wall, moss has woven a mosaic of green and brown. In the churchyard ancient yews will soon open their curious clustered blossoms.
From a laneside elm, the mistlethrush utters his wild lay and, on days when an icy wind carries snow in his lap, the 'storm-cock' will sing his rattle song in defiance of the weather. But the robin is more cautious, for when storms are near he sings in the open. Thus, country lore gives to him the credit of being a weather prophet.
Down the lane a hedge-sparrow sings 'wee, sissy-weeso, wee, sissy-weeso.' Another name for this bird is dunnock. From the coppice a great- tit rings his repeated notes that remind one of a file on the teeth of a saw. From the hedgerow a wren sounds his alarm, for this little brown bird delights to play the sentinel.
Over the wheat field a skylark plays his pipes of Pan. On an average the lark sings throughout the year, except in August. As a slant of sunshine touches the side of the wood, a green woodpecker becomes a jester with a laugh, and pigeons coo in contentment. In the air hovers a kestrel, and the small birds vanish into the lattice of the hedges, and starlings deploy over the more distant fields. From the oster-beds comes the wail of peewits. Greenfinches, linnets, still keep together in flocks. But the snow-buntings will begin to depart, as they are winter visitors.
The following birds may be heard in song this month: Mistlethrush, thrush, blackbird, wren, robin, hedgesparrow, woodlark, chaffinch, and nuthatch.
When the winter sunshine gives a genial glow of warmth at the lane corner, one may glimpse the gnats in a crazy dance. They revel in the amber light, and their rapidly vibrating wings reflect the transient gleam of rainbow colours.
The rabbits feed at the edge of the wood, and indulge in a gambol, but the hares seek the shelter of the hedgerow. Dormice, hedgehogs, and squirrels are still sleeping. The hedgehog is not worried by lack of food and sleeps on till the sun is sufficiently warm to lure him forth; but on a fine day the dormice and squirrels may awaken to visit their stores, and an occasional pipistrelle may be seen on the wing. On the upland ridge, baby lambs bleat, and are answered by deep-voiced ewes. As the twilight deepens, the shepherd lights his pipe, and watches the sunset behind a heavy bank of clouds, which he knows forecasts rain or snow. Later a pale moon hangs above the hill, and the rugged form of the shepherd is silhouetted on the skyline. (unknown author)
'Downs in Winter' by Eric Ravilious
*Happy New Year and hello. How remiss of me to go so long without posting here...I will try to do better...
Let's begin with some rustic old verses by Thomas Tusser entitled 'Christmas Husbandly Fare':
'Get Ivye and hull, woman deck up thyne house: and take this same brawne, for to seeth and to souse.
Provide us good chere, for thou knowst the old guise: olde customs, that good be, let no man despise.
At Christmas be merry, and thanke God of all: and feast thy pore neighbours, the great with the small.
Yea al the yere long, have an eie to the poore: and God shall send luck, to kepe open thy doore.
Good husband and huswife, now chiefly be glad,
things handsome to have, as they ought to be had.
They both do provide, against Christmas do come,
to welcom their neighbours, good chere to have some.
Good bread and good drinke, a good fire in the hall,
brawne, pudding, and souse, and good mustarde withal.
Biefe, mutton, and Porke, and good Pies of the best,
pig, veal, goose, and capon, and turkey well drest.
Chese, apples, and nuttes, and good Caroles to heare,
as then, in the country is counted good chere.
What cost to good husband, is any of this?
Good householde provision onely it is:
Of other the like, I do leave out a meny,
that costeth the husband never a peny.'
In Scottish Gaelic, Du'gan means the darkness of a loch, and Du'gan a' gheamhraidh, the darkest time in winter.
'There is a beauty in the trees peculiar to winter, when their fair delicate slender tracery unveiled by leaves and showing clearly against the sky rises bending with a lofty arch or sweeps gracefully drooping. The crossing and interlacing of the limbs, the smaller boughs and tender twigs make an exquisitely fine network which has something of the severe beauty of sculpture, while the tree in summer in its full pride and splendour and colour of foliage represents the loveliness of painting. The deciduous trees which seem to me most graceful and elegant in winter are birches, limes, beeches.' Francis Kilvert, Diary 1870-1879
The burning characteristics and qualities of various types of wood:
Logs to burn! Logs to burn! Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here's a word to make you wise when you hear the woodman's cries.
Beechwood fires burn bright and clear, hornbeam blazes too,
If the logs are kept a year to season through and through.
So beech logs for Christmastime and yew logs heat well,
But 'Scotch' logs it is a crime for anyone to sell.
Though pine is good and so is yew for warmth through wintry days,
But poplar and willow too, take long to dry or blaze.
Larch logs of pine wood smell but the sparks will fly.
Birch logs burn too fast, alder scarce at all.
Chestnut logs are good to last if cut well in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax, you should burn them green.
Elm logs burn like smouldering flax, no flame is seen.
Pear logs and apple logs, they will scent your room,
Cherry logs across the dogs smell like flowers in bloom.
But ash logs, all smooth and grey, burn them green or old.
Buy up all that come your way, they're worth their weight in gold.
'Still, they did manage to make a little festival of it. Every year the farmer killed an ox for the purpose and gave each of his men a joint of beef, which duly appeared on the Christmas dinner table together with plum pudding-not Christmas pudding, but suet duff with a good sprinkling of raisins. Ivy and other evergreens were hung from the ceiling and over the pictures; a bottle of homemade wine was uncorked, a good fire was made up, and, with doors and windows closed against the keen, wintry weather, they all settled down by their own firesides for a kind of super-Sunday...There were still bands of mummers in some of the larger villages, and village choirs went carol singing about the countryside; but none of these came to the hamlet, for they knew the collection to be expected there would not make it worth their while. A few families, sitting by their own firesides, would sing carols and songs; that, and more and better food and a better fire than usual, made up their Christmas cheer.'
Flora Thompson, Lark Rise To Candleford
Here are some excellent books along the line of old Christmas customs, stories and history: The Country Diary Christmas Book (my favourite); A Country House Christmas; A Fenland Christmas; Christmas In Shakespeare's England; Charles Dickens' Christmas Stories; Old Christmas by Washington Irving.
'The Children of Green Knowe', by Lucy M. Boston, from 1954, is a charming and cosy story set at Christmas that really isn't just for children (if you still have a little bit of child still in you, that is), in fact I only just read it myself for the first time about three years ago and recommend it.
'What if my grandmother is a witch,' thought Tolly as he waited in the hall at Green Knowe. He had come across the flooded fens in a boat to reach the old house that stood like an ark in the middle of the flood water. He'd come to spend Christmas with her in this strange lonely place. Queer flowers filled the vases and a bird's nest perched on the head of one of the carved oak cherubs who laughed down at him...Tolly's room was up under the eaves of the house, above the Knight's Hall, like a tent under the shape of the roof. It was full of old things, a rocking horse, a painted chest without a key and a doll's house exactly like Green Knowe...'
Once I came across a book called 'Christmas Curiosities: Odd, Dark and Forgotten Christmas', which was full of strange and sometimes shocking visions from Christmases long past, in old postcards and illustrations. Some of the images were funny, and some very morbid. Why did Victorians like to send cards with a poor dead bird on the front? There was a big emphasis on naughty children, some being thrown into a sack or beaten, or being chased by a terrifying devil-like creature, and some of the pictures would surely scare out the wickedness in the naughty wee ones!
Then there were the advertisements using Santa to promote them. One was for Ayer's Cherry Pectoral medicine in the 1880's, advertised showing children looking happy after taking the medicine. It was later discovered that it contained at least 20 percent ethyl alcohol and heroin!
Here is an amusing description of a Christmas music service, from 'Old Christmas' by Washington Irving:
'The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and labouring at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had obviously been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest foxhunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever, everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or rather as soon, as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding up all by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. '
For various reasons, I find that Christmas stories set in the present to be greatly lacking in atmosphere, they just fail to capture the right mood or feeling for me. In my mind, at least, I tend to create a kind of romantic mixture of elements from Medieval and Victorian England (in the decorations and mood), with the 1970s of childhood thrown in, which may sound unusual, but it's the way I like it; you'll never find any bland modernistic minimalism from me.
The Box Of Delights is one of the best stories to watch at Christmas, and if you've never seen it, here is the beginning, it's great; Kay Harker (who I mentioned earlier in 'The Midnight Folk') is coming home from school for Christmas and encounters some rather shifty-looking coves on the train:
Christmas should always be as happy as possible, and peaceful, with good home cooked food and the right atmosphere, though it can be tinged with sadness for those no longer with us. A jolly time had by all is what we should all strive for in some way, and when times are bad, at least make a little effort to have a special day, doing whatever you can to make it nice.
Here is a charming, and I believe old, (uncredited) description of December in the English countryside, in 'The Complete Country Bizarre', edited by Andy Pittaway and Bernard Scofield, 1976:
December
"Although the year grows old and the December days shorter, one still finds little adventures along the woodcraft trail. Even before dawn the farmyard cocks sound reveille and the rooks leave their dormitory to seek breakfast in the meadowland. When the blackbird gets out of bed, he chatters like an old gentleman with a nasty temper.
In the field by the wood are a motley company of birds, which include buntings, bramblings, chaffinches, greenfinches, and a detachment of sparrows. On the stubble, titmice give an acrobatic display on some dried stalks, and larks find something that suits their fancy on a piece of old ploughed land. Linnets wander from field to field in a restless nomadic manner. By the brook a pied wagtail says 'Chizzit, chizzit' when disturbed. From the wood an owl hoots before he goes to sleep and a jay is like a fleeting coloured shadow. Along Blackberry Lane the denseness of the bushes make a safe and warm harbourage for the birds, and the pine trees shelter a number of goldcrests. The rickyard also becomes a guest house in severe weather, and the grey church tower is a sanctuary for jackdaw and barn-owl.
Most of the thrush family are fond of berries, and the fruit of the yew attracts the mistlethrush while fieldfares visit the holly. According to old country lore, a heavy crop of berries foretells hard weather ahead.
The ploughman moves up and down the tawny acres with a plodding gait, which he occasionally breaks at the corner for a brief rest. On the broken soil, jackdaws, rooks, hooded crows, seagulls, plovers and robins find a variety of food.
Holly is cheerful with red berries, bramble shows a trace of green, dogwood is dyed red, wild clematis is pretty with grey-white plumes, and mistletoe is beautiful with pearl-white berries.
Trees are full of colour when caught in a loop of sunlight. Oak and beech buds shade brown, the ash is decorated with points of blackish-green, and limes glint red.
Already some shepherds have completed their pens, in readiness for the lambs that may arrive before the month is out. In the pastures sheep wait for fodder at the troughs, a seasonal picture of the month. Against a background a rural sounds the hum of the threshing-machine comes over the fields and will continue until sundown.
At nightfall winter moths will flock about the shepherd's lantern as he goes to the fold. The continuous hoot of brown owls in the moonlight mingles with the dog fox's bark as he journeys through deep shadows in search of a mate..."
Paintings one and three by John Arthur Malcolm Aldridge; middle painting by James McIntosh Patrick, 'Winter In Angus'.
