There’ll be a few seconds of welcome heat from a March sun, making a brief appearance between dark lashing rainclouds, or the sense in August that hedgerows are neither fading nor pumping verdant.
Sometimes seasons arrive like a shocking late night knock at the door.
A couple of weeks ago I left Ireland in Autumn, crisp amber leaves catching the light of the glaring sun, as they clung to branches under clear blue skies.
Three days later I returned from London to find Winter ensconced.
At first I didn’t notice the gale howling around Shannon Airport, as instead of walking across the tarmac, we were awarded a covered walkway from the plane.
Then came that most bizarre of rituals: the journey to Shannon Airport’s immigration and baggage hall.
Up you go,
up several flights of stairs and escalators,
and then straight away down you go,
down several flight of stairs, and then
without walking any distance on flat surfaces,
up you go, climbing several flights of stairs
and then, yes, down again, and
down a little further,
until every cell in your body
feels sure you’ve just returned
to where you started.
Each time I take this epic airport trek, I wonder whether we could have just turned left as we entered the building, taken five steps and arrived at Immigration.
What’s with all the up and down?
Are our minds being subliminally dissembled, so that we might better appreciate the subtle ironies of Irish wit, or is it Fáilte Ireland’s way of preparing tourists for a land of mystic paradox?
Don’t get me wrong - I love Shannon Airport. Compared to the kettling experienced at other international airports, Shannon feels calm, friendly and intimate.
Wish they didn’t make everyone take their shoes off, though. They don’t even do that at UK airports.
Over-eager to get home, I started to drive like a bit of madman on the M18, until I realised through the darkness that the tarmac was flooded.
Like Mike Tyson stomach punches, gusts of wind slammed broadside into my car Joey SX.
Joey’s digital doodaa displayed the outside temperature as 3 degrees.
It was only six in the evening.
Winter had arrived in two days.
Further north I saw leaf and branch debris scattered all over the country roads. Must’ve been a northerly wind, as my little house felt freezing.
I’d left the heating on for an hour each end of the day while I was away, which is usually more than enough, given the three feet of stone wall between inside and out.
Not that night. Brrr! Light a fire pronto (control freak here had built one before I left), and let that back boiler get the rads singing their song of comfort.
Next morning, as my kettle boiled, I looked beyond my kitchen window, taking in the sudden change of season.
Bare trees, stark and wondrous upturned lungs, swaying in a brutally cold wind that pierces bone.
Cattle in the field grouped close together, to keep each other warm.
Right Adley, time to switch into Winter mode, inside and out.
Being a bloke it’s incredibly easy to sort my Winter wardrobe. Out with all the cotton jumpers, replaced by two piles of woollen sweaters: one mankier pile for wearing alone at home; the other finer, worthy of public consumption.
Switch notebook from three season anorak to trusty tweed coat, my second skin through the cold months.
Polish and beeswax my walking country boots and black town boots.
Wellies by the back door, ready for the morning walk across the lawn to empty the ash bucket.
Inside sorted.
Outside now, mulching the shrubs and herbs; sweeping up bags and bags of leaves; taking seeds from cornflowers, poppies, nigella and corncockle and sprinkling them all over the patch; choosing which plants to save seeds from for next year.
At the far end of the lawn lies a ridge of gooey rotted lawn cuttings and mashed up leaves, which I want to use to mulch the tiny bed outside my office window.
Barely a foot across, this strip bed runs only a few yards, but last year produced a constant conveyor belt of colour.
When I moved in, bluebells were just coming up. They were splendid, and followed by daffodils. Then I sowed Virginia Stock and sunflowers, and planted Crocosmia, all of which thrived in the tiny patch of soil.
Later in the Summer I dropped some corncockle and nigella seed in there, and still to this day they flower. Despite the glory of November colour, it’s a weeny bit frustrating, as I’ve a soft git rule that says if a plant offers a single bloom, it cannot be pulled.
I’ll have to wait to restore this tiny exhausted miracle of a bed with the protection, nutrients and goodness of that mulchy muck.
Finally I sit outside with a cuppa and sunglasses, admiring my clean leafless patio. Several years back, my landlord up in North Mayo paid me a huge compliment.
One night he declared in the pub: “You keep a tidy patch, you do.”
My chest swelled with pride, as I’d watched this farmer for years in his labours of animal and land husbandry, painting gates, rescuing ewes, nurturing foals and rebuilding fences.
Next I need to clean out the gutters and wash down the drains, but not now.
Now I‘m just going sit here, dazzled by the low sun, listening to Winter’s bliss-inducing absence of noise.
©Charlie Adley
25.11.2019
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