A Slow Emergence

Between the equinox and Bealtaine, I ease myself into the light.

I am awake at dawn, roused by the hooded crows in the ash. Pulling my coat over my pyjamas, I sneak out, taking care through the fields of lambs, racing the sun to the brow of the hill. Blackbirds shriek in the bushes and the birdsong builds every day - soon cuckoo will join in. I take my seat beside hawthorn on a well-worn slab of limestone. From here I can see Lough Gill, Slish Woods and the bog that leads to Inishfree. Behind me, the Sleeping Giant slumbers and in the west, the Atlantic tide turns.

Sunrise from the top of the hill.

I love this time between the equinox and Bealtaine. It is the last phase of Giamos, the dark half of the year, when we emerge from hibernation and take stock of the things winter taught us. In The Wheel of the Year, Fiona Cook writes that this season is, ‘a yawn: a big full-body stretch, a wiggling of the toes as the world warms up and gets ready to come alive.’

She also says it is a time of bud, not blossom. I see this everywhere: the tight fists of flowers on the blackthorn, biding their time, taking their cue from the strengthening sun; the coil of fern, its slow emergence; spring flowers that open when the sun shines, then close up shop in late afternoon; the scarlet mouth of a hazel flower, hungry for pollen, yet discreet; she won’t make a show of herself. Everything in its right time.

Hazel flowers.

…Spring, of all seasons most gratuitous,
Is fold of untaught flower, is race of water
Is earth’s most multiple, excited daughter;

And those she has least use for see her best,
Their paths grown craven and circuitous,
Their visions mountain-clear, their needs immodest.¹

I give hawthorn my attention, as the sun crests the hill and pigeons lament from the woodland. When we moved almost two years ago, I planted bulbs here as a gift for my arboreal ancestors. The first spring, the sheep ate them before they had a chance. This year, hawthorn has lowered her sharpest thorns to protect them, and two keen daffodils smile up at me. I consider Larkin’s words. How might the craven circuitous paths of the winter months now branch off into brighter days? If the invitation of winter is dreaming, withdrawal, rest and nourishment, then summer beckons with all its physical energy: building, achieving, taking action. What is my mountain-clear vision? What are my immodest needs?

Just Imagine

On Sunday, I am taking part in the Imagine Festival in Belfast. I will be in conversation with Ruby Free, author, wildlife protector, resident of the beautiful Rathlin Island. We will be talking about nature and how to write about it. It feels like the best way to dip my toe in the year before I jump right in. If you’re around, please do join us, and send your questions in advance.

Food of the Gods

As is often the case, I have lost track of time. There are lunchboxes to pack, washing to sort, tiny curls in need of detangling. I pull myself away from the ring of trees and the bright sun on the water. On my way down the hill, I stop at a willow thrumming with bees. They are pollen-gathering. Big deal, you might say. But if the world were a stage, and this a French scene, we would follow this honeybee to the hive and discover remarkable things.

She carries the willow pollen in baskets on her hind legs. At the hive, she packs it into a cell with a bit of honey or nectar and some bee saliva, which is full of beneficial bacteria, yeasts and enzymes. This is bee bread, also known as ‘The food of the Gods’. It is sealed in the cell with a thin layer of honey, then left to ferment for a few weeks. All our kombucha-brewing, sauerkraut-making, kefir-cleansing has nothing on bee bread. The pollen ferments until the proteins have broken down, and then it can be fed to the babies. In Ireland, we have top quality pollen from all the clover, oilseed rape and bramble. This diversity is essential as the protein content varies, and the healthiest bees are the ones who shop around. It would be really good for me too, if I ate it, but I don’t have the heart to take it from them.

Here they are, delighted to have me disturbing them again after a long winter of peace:

The Wisdom of the Hive

Back to the willow. I rub a little pollen on my wrist to remember the wisdom of my hives - they could not sustain this industry year round. In fact, a honeybee lives for six weeks at most, and the entire hive scales back over winter from 40,000 at the height of summer to 5,000. We have such an unnatural cultural practice of running from spring to summer to autumn to winter and back again without breaking stride.

Now, as the hive gathers strength, I dig deep for mine. Because, if I’m honest, I am more at home in the winter. I like to hide, to withdraw into my introverted lair, and dream my dreams. I love the moon and the dark nights. I’m more comfortable when my light is obscured by the bushel. But, just as the spiral takes us into the dark heart of winter at the solstice, it also sends us out into the long days of summer. Our juicy creativity is squeezed into the world around us, and we give it all we’ve got, pouring ourselves out in the knowledge that the wheel will turn, and the time of replenishment will come around once more.

I skip down the hill, past the gorse, through the bluebells, and into the fields. I pause for one last stretch and my shadow lengthens in front of me - I am ready.

‘I am, a shadow that grows longer as the sun moves, drawn out on a thread of wonder.’ (from Stepping Westward, Denise Levertov)

1. Spring by Phillip Larkin.