The New Year Approaches, A Flare Of Blue & The Moon Touches Our Shoulders

There is a cold wind and it whips off the fields which we have just left and blows through the copse, the roost of jackdaws is forever being disturbed by it – when it gusts, they rise and when the wind abates, so they fall back into its cover – this cycle of events continues with such regularity I am surprised the birds do not abandon the roost and seek shelter of a calmer nature.

Closing the gate to the meadow and leaving jackdaws behind us,we make our way to the river. A will-o-the-wisp haunts the banks and the light is fast being lost. Sitting at the river’s side we watch the finale to a setting sun – it is cold – bitterly cold, the tips of my fingers have long forgotten any bodily connection, an inherent problem with fingerless gloves. The wind has finally dropped so at least the chill factor it carried has thankfully gone. All before us is settled and at peace, the only sounds being the gently receding conversations of waterhen, goose, swan and the now contented murmurs of rooks. The river is in a calming way and the day is uniformly disappearing before us. We light the fire and wait in warm anticipation…

I contemplate mulling over the past year – and then decide better of it and leave it to gather a little dust. Instead, I look ahead and to the heralding of a New Year. Earlier, my wife and I had collected a few sprigs of apple from the wood pile along with a number of well-seasoned ash logs. The storm kettle is full to the cork with mulled wine and our toasting-forks sit waiting atop the large iron skillet that appears to burden the forever groaning but serviceable oak bench.

With the fire taking hold, we both warm ourselves, mesmerised by the hissing and spitting of the flickering flames – with glasses raised we toast our families, friends and of course to a much brighter year ahead for all. Then…something extraordinary happens, an evening angler, the halcyon or the kingfisher (of all birds) divides the fragments of light left between earth and water. The river flattens and momentarily appears to slow at his passing – a blazing arrow shot from the heavens electrifies the glides in front of us – had he been summoned elsewhere? He appeared to be late; before a blink to our eyes his blue flare had gone. The kingfisher, if true to ancient laws of folk, will bring hope, calm and finer days ahead, an omen not to be ignored but embraced.

The moon, so low on the horizon, touches our shoulders and may well be descending rather than on the rise. By now the heat emanating from the base of the fire is so warming that I have to wrestle out of my Barbour due to the layers packed between it and my body. I hang the coat on an apple tree, the branch gives a nod or two and then steadies – the sweet smell from charred or burning apple sprigs is something to savour, and every time I smell its perfume I am instantly taken by the hand back to childhood. My father always added fruit sprigs to our fires, whether inside or out.

The remnants of a bright, albeit cold, day are now a memory, with the sun having slipped southwards to leave a ‘midnight blue’ glow where it set – even this channel of diffused light is depleting in intensity. Turning our toasting-forks evenly, we warm the mallows enough to yield a crisp outer and a meltingly smooth inner; not a lot beats a fired mallow. There’s a tawny in the oak, his hooting and the occasional return of a screech are so familiar to us; in fact,in the summer months their accumulative presence in the oaks by the cottage defines the aptly acquired collective noun for them of ‘a parliament’. In the summer we see them on occasion lining the lower boughs and listen in on their baffling tongues. Owls, wise most definitely but they are also very noisy, similar to the House on a debating day?

With the fire on the turn, we leave it to a natural end but before we say goodnight there is the simple ceremony of wrapping potatoes in foil and placing them in the embers to gently bake overnight, something I certainly look forward to eating the following day.

Writing & Images – Pallenpool, North Norfolk, Winter 2023