‘The arrival of the first snap of cold is invigorating, like jumping into an ice pool after the long sauna of summer. Winter feels like a renewal, at least it does to me. I long for that ice-bright light, skies of pale blue and soft grey light that is at once calm and gentle, fresh and crisp. Away from the stifling airlessness of summer. I once again have more energy. Winter has arrived. I can breathe again.’
Nigel Slater, The Christmas Chronicles
The thing is, not all of us run hot. I certainly don’t. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been excited by winter. It has a quieter beauty than the rest of the year, and it feels like a refuge. I watch the weather forecast to see when the temperature will drop. That moment when I can really, truly put on a scarf and gloves and mean it.
Why is winter more, somehow? The chill and the smells of it wake me up. It isn’t just the crisp, bright days that I love. I am a huge fan of rain, too, especially when it hits the windows of the attic room where I work. The sound of it is soothing, reassuring, just good. The shortest day is a particular thrill (‘ ’Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s’). The depth of winter. Deep green, deep weather, deep light, deep peace.
I am not a Scrooge about summer (okay, sometimes I am). I love the early mornings and the late evenings especially, the cool after the heat (cooler is always better, for me, even in summer, and perhaps especially then). Walking or driving on a summer evening with the sound of the leaves in the trees and the scent of the day. Then there is spring with its blossom, and autumn with its orange light and soft, mildewed scent. But winter wins. Maybe there is just less pressure. Summer brings the expectation of joy, outdoorsiness, heat, sun, sand. Winter lowers the levels a little. People are more subdued, and I’m afraid I quite like them that way. Or perhaps I’m just contrary (no ‘perhaps’ about it, I fear). As summer approaches, I see it as a thing to be got through, albeit punctuated with lovely moments. Winter is when I can truly live, think, be.
It isn’t only about temperament (though I suppose I could just have a cold, cold heart, as Norah Jones would say). I was brought up by parents who worked in the summer tourist trade. Hot weather, for them, meant visitors who would go to the beach for the day rather than coming to see the place they had worked so hard to make work. Rain meant visitors who might come after all. And summer meant even more hard work: ten-hour days and being on show all the time, and being the engine of other people’s relaxation. Winter was the time things slowed a little. The place they managed was still open, but there were only ever a few visitors, and (even better for me), there was hot chocolate and peace and quiet. Of course, the food does play a big part. I love summer fruit, but I love spiced cakes and hot drinks even more. I remember being taken as a child to see the Christmas garland at Cotehele. I remember the metallic tang of the air outside, and the scent of woodsmoke from the fire inside, and the beauty of the dried flowers. But yes, the memory of the hot chocolate is strong too. I think winter may be the season for the greedy, and I’m certainly one of them.
I’ve written before about the luxury of being able to enjoy weather from a heated house and a life spent working largely indoors. Even more true of my love of winter, I suppose. I know there are those who dread the dark days: the cost of heating; the lack of light; the fear of slipping on the ice. But I love what Pasternak called the ‘solstice days’ at this time of year. My brain wakes up when it’s cold. I can write more, and read more too, and read bigger. I suppose that’s why my favourite books and music are wintry too, for the most part. War and Peace, I finally discovered, after years of walking nervously around it, is the perfect winter read. You have to sink into it, have hours to love it, and then you do, and alongside the battlefields and the misunderstandings and the unhappiness there are sleigh rides where the snow glistens like sugar and all is right with the world. Schubert’s Winterreise is another thing I came to late, after years of turning the radio off whenever I heard singing. Now, I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. For me, the best recording is by Ian Bostridge, and his book about it took me even further into winter. Perfect.
A big part of loving winter is loving Christmas. I couldn’t cope, I think, if it were ‘always winter, but never Christmas’, that state of misery under which Narnia lives until the White Witch’s spell is finally broken. In fact, I like Christmas so much that I tend to postpone the moment at which I allow myself to jump into it. I ration it, with the result that I always leave it too late and find myself scrambling to finish all my favourite Christmas Eve books (The Children of Green Knowe, The Box of Delights, Moominland Midwinter) when there simply isn’t enough time. And what I’m waiting to jump into isn’t relatives and wrapping paper, but it is candles and music and stillness, and the feeling of letting go that comes when (almost) everyone just stops, even if it’s only for a few days. And I enjoy the solitude that comes from not being part of a big family. I like to dip in and then pretty quickly out of festivity with others. I like winter walks that have to finish by 2 p.m. because the light is fading, and the chance to go to bed with a book in the afternoon and drift off into sleep, and the space and quiet to dream all day. Winter Bliss.
