The Shire is shivering in a stiff, sub-arctic breeze
tonight. The hunter’s moon is only three days away and the wood for the Hallowe’en
bonfire is occupying much of the pub car park. Chimneys in old cottages and
farmhouses now have smoke billowing out of them after nightfall.
I find this the most difficult of the year’s transitions. By
the time winter starts officially at the solstice, I’ve become acclimatised to
the lower temperatures and take them for granted. But a cold spell in autumn
brings the onset of chills, extreme tiredness and low moods. And I think this
must be a natural thing because it was never such an issue when I lived in the
town. I think this is nature telling me that the land has gone to sleep, so
maybe I should, too.
Tonight’s attempt to ward off nature’s imperative consists
of hot buttered toast and mugs of tea which steam in my unheated kitchen. At
the moment it’s being reasonably successful, and I’ll take a shower some time
before midnight which will probably work even better. Nature has no knowledge
of hot water in this part of the world, and so has no guard against it.
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