A Matter of Only Personal Interest.

We humans do so like to attach names to everything, and that includes the labels we give to periods of time.

Where time is concerned, we do it in one of two ways. For some we use events of cosmic significance – what we call a year is the time it takes the planet to make one orbit of the sun, and a day is how long it takes for it to make one revolution of its axis. The rest – seconds, minutes, hours, and even months, are merely artificial constructs to help us organise our activities and rationalise the progress of life. It’s why I’m of the opinion that New Year’s Day should be placed on either the winter or summer solstice when the sun is at its lowest or highest. January 1^st is meaningless.

So tonight, it being nearly 1^st February, I was wondering whether there is any point in recognising the Gaelic tradition of celebrating Imbolc (or Beltane, Lughnasa, or Samhain.) I asked myself why 1^st February, a mere artificial construct, should be worthy of a major seasonal celebration.

But of course, the first few days of February do have a connection of sorts with matters of cosmic significance because they occur at the halfway point between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. That’s why 1^st February is taken to represent the end of winter and the start of spring, even though February can sometimes be the harshest month of the year. And in these two temperate islands off the north-west coast of Europe, it’s also the time of year when the first of the spring wild flowers begin to bloom. (And incidentally, that precious little vanguard of winter flowering – the lonely snowdrop – has been late this year. I don’t know why.)

So now I’m content. Spring starts tomorrow whatever the weather.

And you know, this is the point at which people usually roll their eyes or switch off completely when I talk to them. They do the same if I talk about God, psychology, the persistence of consciousness, the possibility of there being an infinite number of parallel universes, or anything else which has nothing to do with wealth, soaps, or the performance of Premier League football teams. I’m used to it.

The bluebottle count, by the way, reached twenty six this morning, but I think the plague might now be over.