The last few months have been difficult to endure. Normally a staunch fan of autumn and winter, even I have been forced to think twice this year. Whether it’s down to El Nino, climate change, the planet’s cycles or, more likely, some combination of all three, winters are certainly becoming milder and wetter in my small corner of the word and I have, these last months, felt totally unprepared for the long, damp slog.
Years ago, winter would have been a traditional shutting-down time that bookended the warmer seasons of the year. With both the growing and the harvesting done, there would have been little else to do with the darker months than hunker down, enjoy the fruits of summer’s labour and weave together all those plans for the following spring, though this would have well suited many of those who spent long months toiling in the fields.
Farmers aside, our modern world barely seems to remember such cycles, let alone live by them, so we are left with the unfortunate combination of pent-up energy and wet, cool weather, making fed-up kids of all of us. I have struggled gamely on but that last deep lungful of late summer’s warm air that I drew so long ago has begun to turn stale, having been held for so long.
So we’ve waited for something to do, the monotony of hanging around broken only by the frequent storms and weather fronts, all of which now seem to be given names by the Met. Office which make them sound like unwanted visitors, bringing with them the undesirable gifts of cold, damp and mould which, no matter how well we prepare, irrespective of how much treating and painting and sealing we do in the summer months, always seems to find its way in. Damp outside, damp inside; from the bathroom grout to the growth spackling the inside of the shed roof like a half-finished map of the world. The rain seems to mix with steam and condensation from each bath run, every load of washing tumble-dried, until, at times, we’ve felt completely submerged beneath it all.
But then, as if by the granting of an often-repeated wish, the first vanguard days of softer weather arrived, allowing us all, even if only for a short interval, to expel those stale breaths and take a long, deep pull of what feels like the year’s first fresh air.
Rachel and I wasted no time. The central heating was switched off and all the windows in the house, as well as the back door, were thrown open, allowing cool, fresh air to flow through the house, giving the rooms an Augean newness in no time. So too was the shed laid open, its double doors weighted back with rocks so as to allow the dank, fusty air to escape while I sponged away the scribblings of the mould.
Of course, this is still only a temporary measure. Spring showers are still to come and go for some time yet, leaving days like today as clear blue way markers wedged in between them.
Still, we have today’s hours yet to use, and plenty of time for this most pleasant of chores – pegging out the year’s first load of line-dried washing. The breeze riffles through the dresses, then the trousers and shirts, trying them on for size and fleshing them out momentarily, causing them to cast light-hearted shadow-waltzes on the kitchen walls. Then, with a sudden THWACK! it bellies a bedsheet out like a sail and we’re off, shaking away the fug of winter and navigating our way toward spring once again.
