Last gasp of winter

snowrooftops

I cannot sleep. I’m not sure why. Ordinarily I don’t have this problem. I’ve slept through neighbouring houses being struck by lightning (Black Isle, 2000), a marching pipe band rehearsing outside my window (Aberdeen, 2003), waves crashing against the front door (Black Isle, 2005 + Islay, 2012), 90mph winds against my window (Uist, 2014) and the countless, endless noises that come with years of city-living. But at the moment not even the relative silence of suburbia I find myself in can help me sleep.

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This morning I stood awake at 4am, alone, quietly watching the weather outside. I felt like some auld fisherwoman, waiting for her man to return from the high seas. Despite it being the middle of the night, in Scotland, in February, it was quite bright. We are experiencing a late winter burst of weather complete with snow. The snow clouds working hard above us have an almost luminous effect; I find it irresistible.

Later, at an hour most would regard as a bit more human, I went out for a walk with my partner. It was real daytime, not the middle of the night, but that strange snow-light remained, bathing us in the gloom, surrounding us with drifting snow showers.

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I appreciate that unpredictable weather must be a hindrance to so many people, but I adore it. I take little more pleasure than wrapping up for a walk and facing the weather head-on. At those times I feel less like an auld fisherwoman and more like an intrepid explorer. Perhaps I will sleep tonight, cocooned safely from the great white outdoors.

According to Dwelly, February was once, somewhere, referred to as am mìos garbh-fhrasachthe month abounding in boisterous showers. It seems fitting to think of it as such today.

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Winter colour

I managed to steal a few days at home; North in the Highlands, my childhood home. It is a place under pressure from expanding towns, struggling to maintain it’s own identity and not get swallowed up by ever-encroaching suburbia. That said, it is part of an incredibly beautiful area quite different from so much of people think of when they hear “Highlands”; it is low rolling hills and lush, fertile farmland. It is my home.

I’m not quite sure what gorse is doing in bloom just now (I’m not sure it knows, either) but it, alongside the rosehips and the occasional elderberry and unripened bramble, provides the most fantastic contrast of colours between the frost on the ground, the snow on distant hills and icy blue sky.