Jonathan Dodd’s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
Many great poems have been written about the seasons of the year. The hope and energy of Spring has been celebrated in verse, and the happiness and comfort of Summer, as well as the satisfactions of Autumn, with its fruitfulness and beautiful colours. Winter’s a slightly harder package to sell.
There’s always the reverse sell, emphasizing the extremes of Winter. E.g. Snow and bitter cold. You can make a case for the so-called sport of strapping your feet to planks and throwing yourself down snow-covered mountains. You can make very pretty pictures of snowmen and the tips of fir trees poking up enticingly from mile after mile of white, shining so hard in the winter sun that you have to wear expensive sunglasses.
Spending a lot of money on special clothing and equipment
There’s always the prospect of visits to extreme northern destinations, to see the wonders of glaciers, or the Aurora Borealis, or polar bears, and you can take cruises to witness the fjords of Norway. You can have the pleasure of spending a lot of money on special clothing and equipment so you survive the climate, which is marginally less dangerous to an unprotected human than that of Mercury or Venus.
I suppose the good things about such holidays or expeditions are that you can have the satisfaction of actually surviving something, and you’ll have a slew of pretty photos to show anyone who’s interested afterwards. And you might appreciate the comforts and relative warmth and safety of your normal life and home. You won’t have to strap on snowshoes and get the snowmobile out to visit the nearest Tesco either.
Just as the snow is sliding off the mountains
There’s no doubt that there are parts of the world where Winter can be very picturesque. As long as it’s not actually snowing, you can see beautiful landscapes if you choose your location well. So it’s best to avoid unattractive places for your Winter holiday, and it’s probably best to find somewhere with very low temperatures. It wouldn’t do to visit Lapland when it’s raining, or Switzerland just as the snow is sliding off the mountains.
We here in England have a climate that’s envied by countries that are too hot and dry, because we’re very green. In general we don’t get too hot and we don’t get too cold, and we hardly ever run out of water. But we never seem to become consistently hot-but-not-too-hot in the Summer, and it does annoyingly rain a lot when we don’t want it to.
Even a muddy field can look attractive
For me the most annoying thing about English weather is the general lack of anything worth looking at or living through between Christmas and late March. It hardly ever snows, and when it does the snow is minimal and cripples our entire travel infrastructure. It can rain a lot, and the sun is hardly ever seen. Even a muddy field can look attractive when the sun is out. As long as you’re inside and warm.
The worst thing about Winter for me is that it hangs about for ages, like an unwanted visitor who ignores all hints about going somewhere else, and lays a heavy depressed cloud over everything. We don’t live in hope during this part of the year, we look forward to the time when hope reappears.
All the shops are over-heated like saunas
When we greet or console each other at this time of year it’s always thin gruel. There’s the desperately cheery “Terrible weather!” and the forlornly-baleful “At least the days are getting longer!” We stamp our feet, to dislodge mud or try to get blood to reach frozen toes, and we put on more and more layers as we scurry from one not-quite-warm-enough place to the next. When we go out all the shops are over-heated like saunas, so we have to take all the layers of clothing off and try to carry them without dropping bits all over the place, only to have to put them all on again before entering the next superheated cave of commercial jolliness.
Winter in England is a trail of lost mittens and scarves, and steamy breath, and damp skin under multiple layers of clothes. Laundry is tiresome, and we never remember to stock up on windscreen-washing liquid, so our view out of our cars is smeary. It’s no surprise that we don’t have a lot of poetry written about January and February. I have a sneaking suspicion that most of the lovely poetry about the good parts of the year are written in the depths of January in a dark living room with the curtains closed, trying to recall the joys of summer and sunshine.
I can’t quite give in to despair
And yet, as I squelch through the ruins of my lawn, or survey the drifts of sodden leaves clogging the gutters, I can’t quite give in to despair. Even a hint of sun makes me raise my eyes upwards, and I’m able to view many sights (on a clear day) that are obscured by trees with actual leaves on during the Summer. It’s a real effort to force myself to go out for a walk, but when I do, it’s surprisingly enjoyable. Every time. And it makes me laugh how completely I forget the pleasure of the previous walk when I’m struggling to make myself get ready for the next one.
Perhaps that’s the best metaphor for life at this time of year. How hard it is to force yourself to make the effort to do anything, and how easy it is to forget that doing things is pleasurable, often against all the odds.
Especially when accompanied by reindeer
I don’t know if you were able to see the Sleigh Ride programme on BBC over Christmas, but it did convey not only the most beautiful countryside around the top of Norway, but also the enormous pleasure that a walk in cold weather when properly prepared can give us. Especially when accompanied by reindeer. Catch it on iPlayer if you can. It’s magical.
I was very taken with the sight of all this, but I was even more impressed with the life of the people who do indeed live up there the whole year round. To be honest, I can’t imagine what it must be like, and I can only admire the Sami people and their reindeer, whilst admitting that I have no idea what joys and pleasures compensate them for the all-year-round hardships and danger that accompany them throughout their lives. I salute the Samis, and I’m glad that my cynical view of the world’s weather isn’t echoed by so many cultures and experiences that are completely different to mine.
The mud puddles are sparkling
I just looked out, and noticed that the sun’s peering out from behind a cloud. The mud puddles are sparkling, the houses across the road are gleaming like wet pebbles on the beach, and the wind has dropped. It’s lovely. Maybe Spring is coming. I feel the urge to go outside. Where are my gloves?
Oh! Wait a moment. The sun has gone in again, it’s gone dark. The wind has resumed its aimless leaf-blowing across the road. A car just went past with its headlights on. It raised a bow wave as it ploughed through a large puddle.
Maybe tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. Spring will come. I’m sure it will.
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
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