Tales From The North Monique Sliedrecht

The morning is cold.  A light sparkly dusting of frost covers the ground and the clear blue sky reveals the stars and waning slice of moon above.  It is 8:30 and it is already getting lighter out, a rosy orange glow graces the horizon- evidence of the days getting longer.

I find the matchbox and notice there is only one match left, so I decide to use it to light a candle and bring some feeling of warmth to my indoor surroundings.

The last match in the box reminds me of my time of teacher training in an outdoor education programme in Northern Michigan many years ago.  One of the courses involved teaching ways of surviving in the snow, and what to do if we were stuck out in the wilderness with only one match left.  We taught the pupils to gather and light small branches and leaves to start it off, and gradually as the flame grew, larger branches were added until we (hopefully) had a roaring fire in the middle of the woods.   It was an interesting and sometimes painstaking challenge, theoretically a matter of life and death!

For another lesson we built a lean-to with our 12-year-old students and afterwards took turns going in and experiencing what it might be like to sit in such a frozen cocoon.  As it happened, inhabiting the insulated space meant that it soon became cozy and warm, not to mention very quiet!  A few of my colleagues took their sleeping bags inside and slept in it one night to test it out further,.  They woke up fully rested the next morning!

That particular winter in January involved a lot of constantly falling snow which accumulated to a height way over my head.  So the snowshoes and skis came out often.

When groups of children visited the centre for a day, we would take them out for walks in the woods, each with their own pair of snowshoes, and hunt for animal prints, or anything else nature had to offer.

We’d often see rabbit or deer tracks.  Though I remember once coming across a kind of brush mark in the snow.  Our professor at the time suggested that it was most likely a ruffed grouse or ptarmigan that had left the mark when it got up from its snowy nest and flew away.  I remember thinking how perceptive he was to spot that.

Another time, on my Saturday off, it was -25 degrees Celsius. I decided to layer up and stepped out of my wooden cabin accommodation to do a bit of cross country skiing through the woods.  I was very content, gliding through the snow, until an hour later I did not know where I was. I was starting to make circles with my ski tracks, unsure of what direction I was moving in, and stupidly had forgotten my compass.  It was another 2 hours before I came across another human being who pointed me in the right direction, and I made it back by early evening light, so relieved, and cold, and happy to see my friends.

…

A flock of geese flying overhead interrupts my thoughts….

…

Yesterday, here in the north of Scotland, I went out onto the frozen beach for a break from the day’s tasks and to get some fresh air, crunching through the frosty sand and seaweed.  Eventually I came upon some tracks that could only have belonged to a sea otter.  I had seen him from a distance in the late summer, a rare sight indeed.  I followed the five-toed footprints for a while, until they vanished and I found myself in a patch of low tidal rocks and egg wrack swishing this way and that in the rising tide.   I looked up to see how far I had gone, and decided to turn around and walk back, retracing my steps that ran parallel to the otter’s.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted birds of black and white in the sky, flying in a flock and turning this way and that...



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At this late and magical hour, I decided to go out for a walk - something I used to do quite often when the moon was full and shining bright.  I would go out without a lantern, my eyes easily adjusting to see the way ahead and much more besides.

There was a rustling in the bushes as I walked past the house, a creature scuttling to a safer place.  Then a flutter of wings sounded from the tree branches.

Turning back to look at the house, I can see the indoor warmth through the windows.  The twinkling of the small lights that frame the window, echo the silent stars above, and the faint sound of music drifts through the still frosty air.

I continue my walk and as the music fades a flock of geese replace the choral tones with their honking sounds above and then flap away into the darkness.

As I follow the winding road I wonder why I haven’t done this midnight walk more often in recent years.

The burn is flowing steadily, cutting through the ancient land and rocks, carving its peaty path to the sea.

The incandescent moon shines full in the dark sky casting a bright light across the moorland. I can pick out objects, buildings and grasses in the night silence and tree branches and hills against the horizon.  The outline of the castle stands tall against the wide open sea and landscape, its shape defined by the blue glow;  and the waves reflect a momentary sparkle of silver white as they gently rolled into the shore.  And if I look out toward the sea, even in the darkness I can make out the moving lights of ships passing on the horizon.  The inkiness of the ocean merges with the headland, which merges with the large expanse of sky, hardly any distinction can be made between one and the other,  and therein sits a smattering of house lights - or are they stars?

These days are at their shortest, the nights long.

As the moon gradually waxes, the stars are still strongly visible in the dark sky.

The earth continues its usual rhythms and the world waits with anticipation. With hope. In stillness. Something is different. I stop in the sand on the beach and stand motionless for a time, awed by the silence and beauty and lulled by the incoming tide, the waves gently lapping the shore.

I look up to see the stars, outshone by the moonlight, but there nonetheless. There is Orion … and the Big Dipper, or the 'Plough’ as the call it here in the UK.

'Twas in the moon of wintertime… '

The lines from a song I learned in school back in Canada called ‘The Huron Carol’ comes to my mind.  I know we are all emerging from this past festive season, but looking back, it remains one of my favourite Christmas hymns…



'Twas in the moon of winter-time

When all the birds had fled,

That mighty Gitchi Manitou

Sent angel choirs instead;

Before their light the stars grew dim,

And wandering hunters heard the hymn:

"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,

In excelsis gloria."



It goes on, but I cannot remember all the words now.

It is the oldest Canadian Christmas hymn, written in around 1642 by Jean de Brébeuf, a Jesuit missionary at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons in Canada.

Brébeuf wrote the lyrics in the native language of the Huron/Wendat people; the song's original Huron title is "Jesous Ahatonhia". The song's melody is based on a traditional French folk song, "Une Jeune Pucelle". The well-known English lyrics were written in 1926 by Jesse Edgar Middleton .

As the song continues...





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Hello to all of you who are listening

This is a special short episode, different from the others,

for this Christmas Day.

I hope everyone is having a lovely time, whether with family

and friends, or if you’re self-isolating, or wherever you are.

For those of you who, like me, were unable to get back to have

Christmas with the family, I hope it is still a special time for you.

It’s Christmas Day afternoon now, and I’m sitting here all cozy

next to the Christmas tree, and the fire is glowing.

I’m raising a glass to you all and want to share with you this

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow at this special time.

Enjoy the rest of your holiday, and Happy Christmas!

The Three Kings

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Three Kings came riding from far away,

Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;

Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,

That all the other stars of the sky

Became a white mist in the atmosphere,

And by this they knew that the coming was near

Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,

Three caskets of gold with golden keys;

Their robes were of crimson silk with rows

Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,

Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.



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Before the windstorms recently, we had the good sense (or the tree surgeon had the good sense!) to come and cut the tops of some of the trees near the bungalow here.  They were growing too close to the electricity wires.

So the guys came in with their visor jackets and chainsaws, and gradually cut away the necessary branches. They chopped up the logs and stacked them in the shed for future use, and the branches were put in a separate pile underneath one of the trees.  At the time I was not sure what they would be used for!

In any case, it was a good thing those branches came down when they did, as I’m not sure they would have held up in the recent wind storms!

A few days ago I suddenly thought of those pine branches and how they would be perfect for my Christmas decorating.  Instead of going out and getting a Christmas tree, or enhancing my decor through store bought items, I decided to make my own garland and makeshift tree with the remaining pine.

On a still and clear, dry day. After a walk on the beach, I came back and went out to the stack of leftover branches to pick some out.  A crow called out and birds were twittering nearby, wondering about my visit to their territory.  I breathed in the fresh air…. It smelled sweetly of pine - a wonderful smell which always brings me back to the pine forests in Ontario, where I grew up as a child.

There were a lot of branches to choose from…. I picked out a few tucking them under my arm and walked to the house, plopping them on the porch where I could have a better look and trim some of the excess.  My boots were muddy so I stomped down a few times to try and get some of the dirt and debris off them.   A robin popped up on the outdoor wall to watch me inquisitively, or to alert me to its need for seeds, I’m not sure which!  But probably the latter!

I cut away a few bits of the pine branches and brought them inside, took off my boots and coat, and walked to the lounge with my stash, spreading them out over the floor.

Before continuing I decided to make it a festive occasion. In the kitchen I rummaged through the cupboards to find some spices, heated up some almond milk on the stove and made myself a spicy latte which I took with me back to the lounge.  Then I plugged in the small Christmas lights already framing the large window, and put on some Christmas music.  There, that was the right setting.

There was a perfect piece from the outdoor foliage to use as my small Christmas tree.

I found a terracotta pot and turned it upside down, inserting the stem of the branch in the hole at the bottom and placed it on a small tall table.  The makeshift tree was a little wobbly, but it would do!  Then I proceeded to trim up the other branches and lay them along the top of the fireplace mantle, tucking one piece behind another until they covered the stretch of ledge in a somewhat orderly way.  I put the leftover bits in a small pile to use for a fire later.

Moving around the room, I took other branches big and small and found places to display them, along with some of the ribbon and gold pinecones I had saved, nestling candles in where they could be suitably lit without setting it all aflame! There were so many branches to choose from!  But I chose carefully and before going over the top, decided to stop and stepped back to have a look. Feeling satisfied, I took the smaller pieces and put them in the fire, lit a match and set them alight, placing a log on top.  The fire crackled and spit, and soon was roaring away...



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It’s early.  A pigeon coos loudly outside my open window, bringing me to some level of consciousness.  As I struggle to open my sleepy eyes, I nestle under the warm covers and my mind slowly wanders from dream to practical thoughts about the day ahead.  I remember that I’ll be going into town later this morning, which spurs me into sudden movement and with hardly a second thought, I throw back the covers.  Shivering in the chill air, I put on some woolly socks beautifully knitted by my aunt, and shuffle over to the kitchen across the hall to boil the kettle and pop some bread in the toaster.

On returning to my room to eat my breakfast, I make up a short list of all that needs to be done today.

From the top floor window of the guest house where I am staying, I can see stately red and yellow brick houses on the other side of the street.  In my immediate view the branches of a large honey locust stretch out into the morning sky.  Having already shed most of its leaves, the remaining few dance bravely in the light winter breeze, still resplendent in their autumnal yellows, ochres and oranges.  An equally bright morning sun is rising against the clear late November sky.  I'm so enjoying the last of this autumn foliage and begin to realise how much I've missed trees and walking through fallen leaves, which is something of a rarity in the wild coastal landscapes of Caithness that I now call home. I gaze out of the window drinking it all in. The pigeon happily sits on its branch. Its calls are welcoming in the morning.

A bell begins to toll somewhere in the distance, along with the discordant sounds of a siren racing off to who knows where.  The world is waking up.  Sitting still for a moment longer, I watch the sun casting a shaft of light across my room, filling it with warmth.

It’s so good to be in the city again, especially here in beautiful, historic Oxford.  I gulp down the rest of my coffee, quickly dress and head out the door, eager to take in all this beautiful place has to offer.

Heading down two flights of stairs I push open the large wooden door to the outside and I’m hit by a cold blast of fresh air. I breath it in deeply and head my way down the street, towards Banbury Road and the town centre. Crunchy autumn leaves and long yellow pine needles are strewn across the walkway, and people are beginning to emerge from their homes. One lady sweeps the leaves from her porch.  A man dressed in a navy pin stripe and holding a brief-case strides to his shiny car busily pressing buttons on his keys.  The indicators flash and the car beeps as it unlocks.  He hops into the front seat slamming the door behind him and starts the engine.  Smoke billows from the rear exhaust and rises up into the crisp air.

I notice the white frost covering the edges of stone walkways, silver outlines the leaves, trees and houses, emphasising their shapes which glisten in the morning sun.

As I step into the main road, cars whiz past and I continue my walk towards the town centre.  It is a 20- minute trek at least, but I don’t mind.  I take in the late autumn sights and smells of this new environment.  A student pedals past me on her bicycle, her books filling a basket at the back. She wobbles slightly and maintains her balance on the road. Another bell tolls low in the distance and an elderly man walks slowly along the sidewalk, stopping at various points for his dog who shows an extreme interest in nearly all of the bushes along the way.

Eventually the light yellow stone buildings, spires and domes of old Oxford appear before me.  What a place!  Leaves continue to flutter across the street as people walk...



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Yesterday afternoon, at around 3:00, just before sunset, a friend and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to drive up to the most northerly point on the UK mainland, Dunnet Head. It was such a beautiful, crisp, bright day, it seemed a shame not to get out somewhere before dark.

Many are under the illusion that John O’Groats is the most northerly point, as it is at the ‘end of the road’ from Land’s End and host to many charity walks, runs and cycles. However, it is this more dramatic and high moorland a number of miles further that can claim the true title of ‘The Most Northerly Point of Britain’.

When we got to the cliff edge, the mist was rising from the sea into the crisp air, creating an atmosphere of mystery and such beauty. It was all I could do to stop attempting to capture it with my small Leica camera. For a while I paused from taking photos to try and drink in as much as I could before my teeth started chattering and it was time to move.

My friend and I managed to make it up to the look-out point before the sun dipped behind the horizon and the moon took it’s place as star of the late November show.

We made it.  Just in time.  Sometimes it pays to be spontaneous.   It was 4:00 and we decided to go to the nearby hotel to have a bite to eat before making our way home to do a little more work.

By 5:30 the moon was very high in the sky and there were distant lights of ships out at sea on this clearest of evenings.

Then this morning I got up to witness the first real frost of the season - a result of yesterday's cloudless advent skies. I woke later than I would have liked to see the sun casting its light on the frosty landscape, but I slipped into my warmer clothes and boots anyway, and trekked out to catch the last of the light before the sky was covered in a blanket of cloud.

The early part of the day felt fresh and still. I managed to alert a group of lapwings as I came tromping down to the beach through the frosty grass. They immediately flew off in their usual erratic group flight patterns, out over the bay.

The ducks were the next to take note of my presence and quacked away in a noisy flutter.

Aside from the birds, and the steady movement of the incoming tide, it was as though the seaside was waiting with baited breath. For what, I don’t know, though I suddenly became aware that today is the first day of Advent - a time of anticipation and hope.

What are we waiting for?

...

Well, that’s the cloud coming in....

Time to head back home for a coffee.

As I now sit in my chair, writing, and drinking my coffee, there seems no better way to finish than with the following advent poem by Christina Rossetti,

'Having devout faith, Rossetti composed a great number of poems that celebrated the season including amongst others In The Bleak Midwinter, which we now know as a popular Christmas carol. This selection is one of several verses she wrote about the period of Advent. The themes of watching and waiting are revealed to have two meanings, as not only does it relate to the darkness of the long nights at this time of year, making things in the horizon difficult to be aware of, but also as Advent is viewed as a time to recognise the coming of Christ once more.'  Lisa Spurgin, The Reader

Advent

This Advent moon shines cold and clear,

These Advent nights are long;

Our lamps have burned year after year,

And still their flame is strong.

“Watchman, what of the night?” we cry,

Heart-sick with hope deferred:

“No speaking signs are in the sky,”

Is still the watchman’s word...



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