Through Chronicles from Arcania, I shall attempt to share walks with you, this poetics from 60N, where I feel at one with our Earth, my sense of place so maritime.
Nothing prepares us for such cosmic rite of passage. Not even the dazzling displays of aurora borealis that filled our sky since last summer's dusk... As we wandered through February, the island began to display precocious signs of revival. Strangely, our trees began to share so early buds... Winter bowed out without complaint, as milder air filtered through March. Not ice, but rain dominated our Nordic skies. March, month of rainbows and wild hares!
Revival, renaissance, a promise of return From Imbolc to Ostara, our earthly calendar of life feels more than generous. Celandine popped up with a good fortnight in advance... Avian movements have turned our skies into fantastic motorways! From wildfowl to waders, via blackbirds, skylarks and common guillemots, the island gradually welcomes back its summer visitors.
And wherever you decide to walk, Greylag geese feast about everywhere! Their sound and sights slash days and nights. I love to listen to bird calls in a crepuscular sky. Geese make the best use of stars for night navigation. Somehow, I think of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Vol de Nuit.
Night. The one that weaves solace and fears through a curtain of love & hate...
Yet night will shrink even further as we jig with spring equinox! What began from late January will now accelerate at some amazing speed. So until then, I shall make the most of our stars and walk through spring till they faint away past Beltaine - enjoy a walk through the meadows and re-discover my world's palette of colours, though quite timid at first, when petals open to the sun. On Sunday morning, I heard my first skylark. Now I can truly welcome Voar, that wonderful dialect word for spring.
February remains an extraordinary month. It is a time when life returns, even if only through whispers. For every journey through the land, familiar sounds add to the light. If gales still prevail through most mornings, precocious signs of renewal become more flagrant after dawn. One hears excitement through the bare trees of my garden. Blackbirds, sparrows, gulls, corvids of northern kinds... Geese in gaggles or above heads. All so more noticeable now. It is a hymn to early spring.
That main trunk of tarmac that links the island from north to south. My daily run to the town means a good opportunity to watch one of my favourite birds: ravens. February draped by their early aerial display, those majestic jet black flyers defy laws of acrobatics. Now they come to perch by the roadside for breakfast. Tarmac offers free restaurants for them and all our local gulls that come to feast on carrion. Some unusual and strange way to survive... Yet their success for survival depend on our rate of road kills, mostly rabbits that plague the land. Ravens have learnt to tame tarmac. Usually found perched on fenceposts, they reconvene every morning in gangs of three, four, five or six and clean the roads of fur and bones... They've learnt patience and great timing on the approach of vehicles, and will get aloft as headlights become too near to their feathers. As morbid as it may sound, those muckrakers have turned such formidable opportunists, and their dare-devil flying skills have made them one of the most successful species in our world.
Fascinating species that inspires tales of all kinds. From folklore to music, their jet black wings do not cease to amaze and awake musings of all sorts. According to culture, they turn devil or gods... In Native American realms, they bring change and allow you to travel between worlds. In Scandinavian history, Vikings came to our land to collect young ravens as means of GPS - by launching them at sea to find land ahead - on their travels westwards/north-westwards. They are present in so many folk tales, songs and omens!
In Music, as here:
And There, the tale of The Three Ravens, Germanic style.
To my humble heart, ravens remain fantastic birds that symbolise freedom in flight. Every morning begins with them.
We have been warned. That exotic (anything above zero Celsius) air would not last long... Kate's 50 words for Snowis playing inside the hut, as am I'm savouring a bowl of warm porridge. The island once more caught in some Arctic spell, with a thin, though icy sheet of snow, has clad every meadow, garden and geo. Our three felines ventured fully clawed on the icy blue.
Peewit the Cat clambered over the crab basket and watched geese in mid-morning sky from his post. He looked a sphinx in this ocean of ice. Frozen garden in glorious light on Sunday morning. Overnight gales let us enjoy more magic from our Nordic sky, with yet another luminous display of aurora. Mirrie Dancers delighted eyes late in darkness. So cold though through this Arctic air. If at the start of February, I felt on the shore of the Labrador, today makes me think of Svalbard, or somewhere near the horizon of South Georgia, South Shetland or Orkney Islands, or even Iles Kerguélen... A short walk around my patch transports my heart to those desolate freezing realms. Scott, Charcot and Shackleton belong to this catalogue of famous polar explorers, and yet, other names, no so well remembered, adorn this list. No leopard or elephant seal, just common and grey ones can be found all around my shore. Each print of snow boot has its rewards. I heard a snippick (snipe) in the nearby field, and geese calling above my head. So was the theme of my stravaig before lunchtime.
Everything belongs to the ice.
In defiance to eyes and claws of February, sparrows and starlings sang during snowfall on Saturday. So eager to chase this spell of desolation, they stood and chirped all around us. Every tree began to feel the weight of winter. Sticky snow whitened our world. But still, birdsong filled in sound this myriad of snowflakes. My Nordic world sounded so light.
Such desire to feel alive and sing in Saturday's bleakest moments...
June & Richard's Old Manse looks so romantic clad in white. The old stone walls harbour comfort and secret worlds fit for a starling, gull or wren. They too feed birds that come to shelter from harshness. Among bits of twisted branches and frozen garden, tubes of peanuts hang from bareness. Birds know it so well. later they will find a suitable tree to love and fare for their offspring... In the meantime, they have to make do with whiteworld.
Recent haiku & tweets from 60N
Morning distorted by raindrops that could crystallize by Saturday - will have to tell curlews & wrens... #Geopoetics
Tonight I heard the blackbird's Braille and caught our Moon in eastern sky. We, islanders, have endured gales instead of snow. Morning downpours led way to light.The air was as freezing as our wild North Atlantic. The Westerlies feel so bitter, as sun ventures across our sky. February, the coldest, harshest month with a desire to make you feel its sharpest claws... Raw, incisive, as wolf fangs through the flesh of a buffalo, and yet as invisible as a dream, snowless winter grips you and turns you blue. I could have felt on some shoreline in Hudson Bay; along the coast of Labrador... Those cold deserts, tundra landscapes, where permafrost still dreams of warmth and waders' calls, feel just like home. Each tongue of land holds its secrets.
Mine stands so proud in-between North Sea and Atlantic. Battered and constantly windswept, the island withstands anger from currents, rotating blades of each roller, ending their race on sculpted sand or against rocks, stacks and natural arches. Earthly Rodin. They shape our shores like a sculptor... They carve through basalt and Old Red Sandstone without shame and carry the world in their bellies. Every pebble locks its nomad's tale.
And yet I grab those precious stones, as I retrace my steps back home.
Birds unfolds wings to brave currents and reach heavens. Sweet freedom, flowing in my heart.
By sunset time, I watched gardens fill with our most common visitors. Since we planted trees in not such a distant past, they have now grown to perching springs, well above ground and feline eyes. As soon as I opened the door onto the sliding sun, the sky unveiled earth symphony, as starlings, sparrows and blackbirds hovered around barren branches. So many voices filled our sky.
Wintersong,
gathering on top branches from June's secluded garden and fly off for roosting time.
It has gained in stature. It is now known around the world.It leaps from island to island... It fills our sky with sparks and light and parrafin lingers in our hearts forever.
Each last Tuesday of January, fire fever sparks off all around town. The dragon's back around our walls, and with it, hordes of boys and men in starting blocks for merriment. In my night sky, Draco awaits curtain of night to show the way.
On this last day of January, young islanders turn warriors and invest corridors inside their own institution. Everyone gathers to applaud and marvel at shiny helmets. The atmosphere is bon enfant, as staff and pupils play the game until our squad of young Vikings join their elders by the harbour. It is indeed a special day for those young men who represent our school. They too have their own galley to set on fire and walk in footsteps of elders.
Fire fever animates hearts throughout the day. It kicks early and will demand another day to recover from party time! It culminates with the now famous procession. In the meantime, boys and men have to endure a much accepted marathon by visiting schools, hospital, care homes and whoever wants to see them before sunset.
The procession well after dusk shines as highlight. Folk from the world come to marvel at boys & men ready to march and turn their boat into ashes. Impressive prints left in your eyes. As night progresses, the guizing men will engulf halls where women wait to serve and feed with tattie soup (or reestit mutton) and other liquid concoctions until next dawn... For those of you familiar with the opening scene from the movie Beowulf - mind you, minus Grendel and treasures! - the allegory won't feel too strong. In our depth of winter, Up-Helly Aa feels so welcome as light begins to override night in a much more assertive way.
February born off ashes
This year,Imbolc follows so close to Lerwick's Up-Helly-Aa. Imbolc, the Earth's true beginning of Spring, and with it, the very first and timid steps to renewal.
Our dawns have become precocious - our afternoons linger longer... Sometimes sunsets turn pink and blue in pastel style and this precious nordic light carve smiles in eyes and hearts. It gives us time to wander ("stravaig") around our shore.
Long-tailed ducks mingle with Eiders & Goldeneyes, common Scoters, kittiwakes and selkies... Little auks have been seen. Ravens re-started their acrobatics, as courtship begins on roadsides at breakfast time. Ravens, once captured by Vikings around the island to be used as scouts & seekers of land beyond seafarers' horizon... Starlings and sparrows filled this morning's sky with calls and chirps, so quarrelsome can they become. Even if the land feels desolate, precocious signals are noticed. Our path to the Vernal Equinox looks now lit. And until then, we shall keep our beacons alight, watch out for ice at every dawn and salute Draco in our sky.
The hearth is keeping us warm. Candles bring smiles when all feels dark. And when our sky feels generous, the entire universe fills our eyes. In moonless night, we can enjoy our Northern Lights. Without a doubt, 60N is a magic place!
Today, prolific day at the wordbench. So here, a string of fresh haiku :-)
That sunset on the second day of the first month...
felt like a dream.
Rocket-red, winter blue or B&W.
I loved the cloud movement that gradually clads our Nordic sky on a crisp day. It was awesome. For a moment, I thought this sole image would encapsulate a glorious end of holiday...
Until the unexpected strikes!
He's not a cat, but a pirate. I won't forget my last two days of holiday. Peewit The Cat gave us a fright on the third day of January, as he retched, hid, and vocalised in a strange way. He even refused his favourite, cuddles & food. We did not wait long to jump on the handset and called the Feline A&E. The Vet on call had a somewhat familiar accent, which I first thought South African. Errare humanum Est! We put our feline in his box and rocketed to the Westside in a bleak end of afternoon - Peewit mimicking a diva in every kerb, as tarmac took us close through gales and rain. I suspected he eventually developed a secret love for the veterinary surgery! Little did we know we took him on time. He was awaited by a young Veterinary Officer, who quickly diagnosed feline bladder as the main culprit. Not South African, but Flemish, with beautiful French! This time, Peewit would taste emergency surgery with full board till he would be fit to go home. The hut felt strange without him, even though our two other feline pirates, Babooshka and Tystie, amused us till his return. Peewit came home yesterday with a shaved butt and many more loving miaows. I was ever so grateful & thankful to the devoted staff at the surgery, especially to Cathy (the Vet) and Kaye (the Nurse), who took so much good care of our muggy.Our hearts felt so lighter.Oh, yes, that first week of January will not be forgotten! I never saw classroom re-start, as days vanished like stones projected by a catapult.
Now, with the weekend came thrills and smiles! If yesterday, Saturday, was devoted to retrieve our loving feline, Sunday would take a twist none would suspect. As Peewit re-gained his gargantuan appetite, tuna chunks concealed his daily antibiotic mini-nugget. I first found Babooshka on the kitchen worktop foraging for any crumbs, just like a food hoover - or now nicknamed as "Googlegrub" - as she still thinks her grand age would let get away with anything... Tystie remains the only reasonable one. All three were tended with love and care.
By late morning, a series of Tweets alerted us of island fun in our inshore waters. Orcas, Killer whales, were spotted and, although I had to be in Lerwick for drama rehearsal in early afternoon, the chase began. Grutness, Levenwick, Hoswick, Broonies' Taing, Sanick, Noness. Magic placenames that rhyme with breathtaking seascapes and opportunities to enjoy not only seabirds, but cetaceans when the conditions are united. A first attempt to Broonies' Taing led us to the bay at Sanick, where dorsal fins were playing so close to the shore. Magic moment! Watching those wonderful beasts in the wild remains a formidable spectacle. Folk flocked to the roadside that leads to the headland of Noness, as the pod of orcas - one bull and two females, from what I could see - swam along. I felt like a child in a toyshop just before Yule! They were magnificent. Again I forgot time and sent a quick tweet to my Serpentine actors, for I knew I would be slightly late for the afternoon. I shan't forget my weekend either.
Life on the island is never dull!
With renewed thanks to my other half for photography :-)
AND grateful thanks to Helen Moncrieff & Magnie Shearer for keeping us on the right track! :-))
I love to wake to Nordic sun. A cold wind blows across the island. Last night's Réveillon at our friends began with a bang, as Andy lit that single rocket in black sky at the back of Midnight. We hung our last hour of 2011 on Monica's coat rack and gathered by a warm hearth for Hogmanay. We wished Cameron "Happy Birthday", smiled, kissed and toasted to a brand new year. Merriment de rigueur as we swung towards brand new dawn...
I love this isle from this point of elevation. Brand new year, the wanderer walks through heather and looks for now bathed in pale blue and brand new sun. Kate Bush once wrote & sang, "stepping out of the page, into the sensual world..." This simple phrase sticks through my mind, as I stood still and felt this crisp first day against my skin. At around noon, my northern realm was so dazzling.
from blue to grey
But then light feels like trapped inside Pandora's Box as clouds gathered as if to signal end of gold... Birds hasted wingbeats and prepared for roosting time. But first, feast wherever it is offered to them. Inside willows and on feeders, before they switch to sleepy sky...
The wind still bites after sunset. And from the comfort of my hut, I celebrate this brand new year graced by a generous first sun.
Come to Arcania at high tide. Each side of the sand bridge acts like oracle. Oracle to the side of our own wandering. This afternoon, I wished to return to the shore and took this path so familiar. From the top of the brae (hillside) I watched as silvery the horizon glowing in my eyes. My heart filled with salt water, as I realised the mighty ocean would not be granting such right of passage. Tide was at its highest.
Rollers looked as that hue of jade-blue as the final days of December. Not many souls were in my sight. At least I thought at first. However, as I parked the motor, two other black vehicles flocked by the edge. Dog walkers. They too must have been mesmerised by the cloak of silver over the sand. So little patch of gold at our feet. Still a good hour till till dusk and I tossed my luck in pale blue sky to come as close as I could be from the edge of my world. The walk to this oceanic lace was littered with pebbles, shells, as well as a few signatures of humanity. Baltic air reached fingertips and still I advanced towards the very edge of flooded bridge. I felt the white lips of winter. I watched with awe the mighty power of each wave, roller, crashing and covering it with grace and anger. Already the island had been battered with so many hissing gales... This Nordic sky began to darken once again.
High tide would deny us.
Impressive, moving and so powerful in action. I will try again tomorrow.
I still remember beginning of Yuletide... The sky was kind to earth and folk. Our three felines, like clockwork mechanical toys, were sunbathing behind the glass of the kitchen and ate their saucer of tuna without raising an whisker... Rare moment of contemplation... We seized Yule light to pay homage to the many dwellers of the marsh, mire and loch. The island's rich in winter wildlife. Geese of many kinds and origins adorn hillsides and fields. Golden Plovers, Redshanks, Moorhens, Purple Sandpipers, and other waders grace our sky. Seals, all year round pop their heads at the surface of water... Winter visitors have arrived too. In addition to Redwings, Fieldfares & other thrushes, Long-tailed ducks & Goldeneyes paddle around.
I love wild geese. To my heart, they epitomise winter on this latitude. They're scattered in small or large gaggles everywhere. Yesterday again (27 Dec) Greylags (as pictured here) mingled with Barnacles at Fleck. But light came to end so abruptly I even did not try to capture them through the lens. Another time :-)
All was quiet till 24 December. Yule celebrated within the comfort of the hut, with candles and delights, as night covered the many homes on the island. Peaceful and joyous, it was later shared with friends till very late in the night.
December 25 December belonged to hurricane winds that wrapped homes day and night... Dancing tiles and incessant hissing gales always sound both impressive and terrifying, when the wind gusts at giddy speeds. Anyway, reprieve was felt yesterday and we seized the opportunity to check hut and garage for structural damage. So far, we resisted to the anger of winter... So we went out and spent the early afternoon at East Voe and Ninian's Sands in search of shells and adventures. And this we did. Our love of the natural world includes the shore, and what better place than an island? Among the few treasures brought home, I found a broken specimen of arctica islandica, which used to be on the menu of islanders in a non too distant past. Will have to submit my record to MarLIN... They might accept it.
Hmmm, each day has its own adventures and I hear more whistlers may hit us again. Argh weel, so is the fate of the island. A day of light and silence from the sky remains a treasure, just like wood, rocks and shells.
Nothing prepares us for such cosmic rite of passage. Not even the dazzling displays of aurora borealis that filled our sky since last summer's dusk... As we wandered through February, the island began to display precocious signs of revival. Strangely, our trees began to share so early buds... Winter bowed out without complaint, as milder air filtered through March. Not ice, but rain dominated our Nordic skies. March, month of rainbows and wild hares!
Yet night will shrink even further as we jig with spring equinox! What began from late January will now accelerate at some amazing speed. So until then, I shall make the most of our stars and walk through spring till they faint away past Beltaine - enjoy a walk through the meadows and re-discover my world's palette of colours, though quite timid at first, when petals open to the sun. On Sunday morning, I heard my first skylark. Now I can truly welcome Voar, that wonderful dialect word for spring.
