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The Rhythm of the Seasons
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Links to pages in the Place Guide
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Links to pages in the Place Guide |
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| The Rhythm of the Seasons
The year on Islay is closely linked to the turning of the seasons. The autumnal equinox, the first breath of autumn, is heralded by the arrival of the geese. Great Vs cover the sky from horizon to horizon. Hunched bodies cover the fields and graze with an intensity humans reserve for soaps, to the despair of the farmers. Following the geese come the watchers, with their waxed jackets and long lenses, abandoning their cars at the side of the road as a hazard to the unwary motorist. Following shortly comes the wind, the lazy wind that doesn’t bother going round you but straight through you. There is little autumn as the wind rips the leaves off the branches prematurely, from summer to winter in one great blast. |
Peat stack on the moss |
| The days shorten towards the winter
solstice as the mild winter drags by, the geese get more adventurous and
are now seen round every corner and nook. The year turns, pivoting around
the solstice like a drunken reveler with the certainty of a great fall immediately
to follow.
Gales follow, you know that Poseidon has just been drawing breath so far for, with a great exhalation, the storms hurl themselves at us over the Atlantic. Slates rattle, fences topple, greenhouse owners despair once more. People at fourtyfive degrees trying, sometimes in vain, to keep contact with the ground. No bread in the Co-op, or newspapers, or fresh vegetables, no mail. Geese starting to get restless, heads up, cries take on that restless wild call, soon be gone then its spring. One day a field full, next away, need to think about the peats. |
Where is Islay anyway?
see on the weather map, |
| First the snowdrops, carpet of white,
gives way to brilliant yellow crocus and more yet daffodils, then blue(bells).
Locals, in on the secret, walk in the woods with minds full of Spring. As
the vernal (verdant?) equinox passes bodies as well as minds move onto the
moss. The drum and quiver of the peat the susurration of the spade as it
cuts the long, square blocks of chocolate fuel. Into stooks to dry during
balmy May, backs broken, clothes stained but wonderful tiny teepees along
the peat bank.
Taking the place of the geese the gannets move in, washed whiter than white they dive for food with barely a splash, divers pay close attention, that’s how it should be done. Seals bask on the rocks, wild orchids peep shyly through. Summer comes … briefly. Black rocks, silver sand, bodies warm themselves on miles of empty sand, migration of the tourists begins. |
The crust on the moss is thin,
the wellies half a size too big, the tummy heavier with the remains of the season’s excesses. Foot goes straight through and enthusiastic goo closes around it better than glue. Momentum does the rest, out comes the foot, waving around in the air, it’s going to go down in the certain knowledge that, wherever the spot, its cold, slimy, and deep, deep brown. |
| With luck, long and hot, as the summer
solstice passes, more likely damp and moist. Local shopkeepers pray for
the former, ‘hope springs eternal’. children scream and jump off the pier
into the pellucid ocean. Night is brief and grey giving way gratefully early
to dawn.
Peat stooks change to stacks, really backbreaking labour, those with banks near the road smile, those with miles to go grit their teeth and start loading the wee Grey Fergies for the trail off the moss. Never mind, for the cost of some work the fragrance of peat will adorn the winter streets of the villages. Weather begins to deteriorate as do tempers, visitors spend more time in the cafes and museum, only the truly pure of heart roam the hills. Geese will be with us soon. |
Come, fill the Cup, and in the |
