Still snowing. I head out on my rounds, trudging through the snow. Time to check-up on various folk. The restrictions of Covid mean conversations on the doorstop. The restrictions of snow mean I cannot stay chatting – more snow spirals down from above as I walk. The mounds of snow edging the pavements make crossing from one side to another is an obstacle course. In the square the big lorries have arrived, along with a giant snow-blower. Slowly they fill to the brim with snow. The ploughmen are working hard today, up and down the streets. The drive is blocked again, but a neighbour pops by with his own small snow blower. Ten minutes and it is done. Then the digging of the front path, and, today, steps made in the plough debris for postie. Time for a well-earned cup of tea while toes and nose defrost.
5th February 2021
Relentless. White on white, swirling clouds, greying the skies. The foot of snow causes the log pile roof to collapse, covering the path to the logshed. Time to call in reinforcements. We dig and chat, slowly clearing the weight so that the plywood sheet can be lifted out of the way. Then a sit and a catch-up, forming seats from the banks of snow, packed hard under our weight. The tea is a welcome warmth in the icy air. Next the entrance to the drive. Another 5 inches and the plough debris to clear. Round to the front, struggling through the depth of snow round the side of the house. Clear out the path to the front door yet again – I did this yesterday, and the days before. Today the access to the street is blocked – snowplough debris again. We slowly chip away at it, until we can get out on to the road. And the snow still falls. Relentless.
4th February
The sideroad and track are no longer passable by car. It is two days since I’ve been up on the hill. The tractor ploughs ahead, between white walls two feet high. In front of the porch the drifts have gathered, three feet tall, scuplted by the wind. I wade through to the door. While I collect what is needed, and pack a bag, the men dig a wider path. All this will need the box on the tractor to take it down to the cars, parked near the main road. The men load and we head back down. A quick unload and reload, and we are off in convoy, back to Ballater. The snow continues to fall. Snow shovels out and my drive is quickly cleared, then a quick wave and off they go. This is community.
28th January
Ahead lie only faint marks of passing traffic. All day long the snow has fallen. It whirls in my headlights, a dizzying spin of white. Slowly onwards I go, watching for the turning. The road is a narrow channel between white walls. A flash from the reflector on the fence warns me that I’m here. Slowly swing into the opening, then chug up the hill. I have arrived.
27th January 2021
First time in a while to walk alongside the river. The constant cold this month means that it has almost frozen over, only a narrow channel left where the water rushes through. The fresh snow lies on top of the ice, creating the illusion of solid ground. If you listen carefully, you can hear the water shushing beneath. Step gently here.
15th January 2021
Time for something completely different. Anster, Fellstone, Kirkham’s Lancashire, Hafod, Sparkenhoe Vintage, Sparkenhoe Blue… the names trip off the tongue like a musical tour of the British Isles. Indeed, it is. In cheese. A zoom cheese tasting, cheese arriving through the post, packaged in wax paper, well cushioned and chilled. Cheese speaks of the geography of Britain, different types from different regions. Anster is creamy and crumbly; Fellstone more mellow in character. Kirkham’s is wonderful, a buttery, smooth, taste that soothes. Hafod is harder and harsher, while Sparkenhoe Vintage tangs on the tongue. The blue is a blue, with that unforgettable taste. We taste and taste, savour the textures, learn the reasons, listen to the tales. An experience to be repeated.
NB for those who are interested, we did an online zoom cheese tasting with Andy Swinscoe from the Courtyard Dairy, near Settle (www.thecourtyarddairy.co.uk). We can thoroughly recommend it.
14th January 2021
The dwindling snow follows the descent downwards into Aberdeen today. By the time we reach Kincardine O’Neill the white has almost disappeared, leaving icy shadows under hedges and on the edges of roads. Torphins is clear, while the road as far as Raemoir is clinging on to the cold on its edges. By the time we hit the turning for Echt the fields are showing new growth, as though winter’s chill has been conquered. Here and there in the lea of the fields, frozen puddles belie the green. And the wind outside the car tells the story of more snow yet to come.
12th January 2021
Last nights dusting of snow lies over the ice, disguising it. Only the passing of people show what lies beneath. We stick carefully to the grassy edges, picking our way along. Golden afternoon light drapes over the trees, creating a shadowland beneath. Twig and shade merge, and shapes seem to twist and change. A faint rustle betrays the presence of blackbird, guddling in the frozen leaves for its dinner. Above a bluetit perches, singing an alarm at our presence, silhouetted against the pale blue of oncoming dusk.
1st January 2024
The world is decorated in sparkling frost, crunching under our feet. Leaves outlined in spikes of white. We wander through the village, gazing in shop windows at twinkling lights. The New Year’s quiet still rests on the streets, shops shut fast against winter cold. Down to the river we go. The morning mist still hovers in the valley, mingled with wood smoke from warm hearths. We stop and look and listen to the sounds around us. Then it’s homeward bound to do the Christmas jigsaw.
Shiva
The phone goes in the middle of the crowded room. Surrounded by laughter and chatter, I move to a quiet place. The final breath has been drawn, and the curtain has come down. Leaving quietly, I drive up the hill to where he lies. Aware of my brittleness, I move through the house to sit and pray and be a while. The words of the Nunc Dimmitis are stilled. He has departed in peace. An embrace from his daughter opens the floodgates. Aninut – the rendering of grief.
I walk the path up to the stone circle, to stare into a sobbing sky. The sound of curlew and lapwing rise on the breeze, a mournful elegy. A colleague joins me at the tearooms. We tiptoe our way round the topic and onto another. But I am aware he mourns with me. Shiva.
The days turn into night and night into day. I retreat into my shell, like a hermit crab hiding from the hurts of the world. A friend feeds me tea in copious quantities. Puts food in front of me and I eat. Seudat havra’ah – the meal of comforting. The emails flood in on the tide, full of support and love and grief outpoured. Shiva.
My normal suspended, I go for a walk. The rain and snow hurl themselves around me, torn into shreds by the wind. I am rescued and taken away to be fed again. There is a task for me, mindless activity to soothe the soul. The day is negotiated. Shiva
Day follows day. The funeral sees the descent of friends from near and far. A house full of people. Bagpipes soar on earth and in heaven. I am upheld on a sea of love, cushioning me from the worst of the waves. The rituals help. Old familiar words in a new context. Shiva
One friend stays on for a while longer, a quiet presence. With me while I weep. My soul quietens and joy is found. Covid, picked up at the funeral, is a boon and a chore. I cannot dive back into life at high speed but must instead pause a little longer. Grieving is hard work, and my body tells me so. Shiva to sheloshim.
Almost 30 days now. The details still catch my breath. Friend departed, I have the house to myself, and try not to brood. On Saturday I will run a hot bubble bath, and relax. A glass of wine and some classical music. Wash my hair. Trim my nails, and put some moisturiser on. My fingernails will be painted with nail polish. The day of resurrection is near. And in this I will rejoice.
Farewell and Memories
Last Saturday we said a final farewell to the man who has been part of my life for the last 6 1/2 years. After three years of dwindling until the body was a hollowed out husk, the sense of humour, the listening ear still remained. My cariad, my delight, my annoyance. A loving father to four amazing children, having been widowed over 20 years ago. The one who encouraged, supported, sustained me. He was by no means perfect – irrascible, impatient, at times a snob. I can’t paint a full picture of him here, for I only knew part, as we all can do. We bonded over a love of language and languages, music, scottish country dancing, the countryside and nature, and our faith. He taught me the intricacies of the bagpipes, to appreciate a decent wine, and how to cook venison, pheasant, pigeon. We learnt how to make shakshuka together – and his long time favourite of sausage casserole. His linguistic skills in Ghurkhali got us fantastic service in Nepalese restaurants. My linguistic skills got us excellent service in Belgium. On a brief holiday to Bruges he steadfastly kept me company when I ended up in hospital for the day on IV antibiotics – despite being told to go away and enjoy himself. When I managed to combine a chest infection with concussion he collected me from a hospital at 4.30 in the morning and drove me home – where he hovered for the next 12 hours. When I got stir-crazy he popped me in the car and took me up to the house on the hill where he handed me a cup of tea to drink in the car and planted daffodil bulbs in the rain. We walked miles over the countryside, him looking at the estate, me admiring the wildlife. Sat on a wall in the dusk, a juvenile badger passed under our shadows, snuffling his way along.
We argued about money – I am stubbornly independent – he would have hung me with jewellry if I let him. Instead he bought me slippers, and a fan for the logburning stove. He chopped and stacked logs for my woodpile, and dug the vegetable patch. I taught him about growing potatoes and herbs, gave him a rhubarb crown. Booked trains and coordinated travel. Pruned rose bushes. Drove him to countless appointments. Whisked him off for afternoons out to the Rose Garden at Drum, or off to Castle Fraser – where the gravel on the courtyard was so deep I almost tipped him out of the wheelchair. We slow-danced around the big room to 1950’s big band music (he hated the music, loved the dancing). I made and hung curtains, darned holes in jumpers, and sewed a lap quilt out of his old jumpers to keep him warm in the last few weeks. Knitted socks and kilt hose. I would fall asleep on the sofa, feet on his lap, while he read the paper, or listened to music, or just sat and sipped his whisky. We would chase down meanings of words in the etymological dictionary – where does the word bereavement come from? – and bounce around quotes from favourite authors. He introduced me to ‘Other Men’s Flowers’ and Captain Hornblower – I introduced him to Mrs Pollifax, Terry Pratchett and Alan Plater. We learnt about kidney failure and dialysis and strokes. About walking frames and wheelchairs and occupational therapists. For three years my phone was left on at night – just in case he wanted me – or latterly the carers needed me. I still can’t turn it off at night.
The world is peopled by his absence. He pops up in the most unexpectedly places. I was ambushed by Percy Pigs sweets in Marks and Spencers the other day – they were the first food his daughter got him to eat after he went into acute kidney failure four years ago. At a concert I bought a programme – as I always do – before realising that there was no person to show it to, to tell about the music. The daffodils will be blooming up on the hill now, as they are in my garden. I store up things in my mind to tell him about – tree-creepers going up the tree, woodpeckers having a drumming festival, the first bumblebee of spring, toad-spawn in the pond, dolphins in the bay, a red kite hovering above. Then realise he is no longer there to tell. I am learning to recalibrate my life, to adjust diary and energy and ways of being. I suddenly have time to do my ironing. My Fridays are free again. I could not wish for him to have continued any longer. Yet – the world is peopled by his absence.
Snowmelt and sleet
The river is rushing by today, whisky brown water swollen with snowmelt. From the trees you can hear it roar, tumbling over rocks. The path is icy underfoot, rain on ice on snow. I pick my way along until I am stood on the river bank, wtaching and listening to the sound of the season.
Autumn Rainbow
Dressed for rain, I set off. Raindrops fall into puddles, echoes spreading outwards. I splash my way through the water with silent glee. Down the hill to where the pool stands waiting, trees reflected in their autumn glory. The rain slows to a drip. Then back up along the board walk, peering down at muddied stream. A sudden movement and I stop. Red squirrels scurrying from tree to tree, tails held aloft. A dog barks in the distance and off they go, up the trunk. I climb the dirt path, heading for shelter. A rainbow catches my eye, carpeting the floor.
12th February
Outside the kitchen window, an alarm call alerts me to an unexpected presence. Glancing out, the movement catches my eye. It seems I have a new neighbour. Russet brown against white snow. A weasel pops out of a hole formed between snow and wall. A hastily run out and then back in again. Then again. Head pokes out first, trembling. A quick dart to the side, out of sight, under the snow. Then a return, running low, grey mouse in mouth. It shimmers up the snow bank, and then down under the oil tank. At least under there it will be dry, and sheltered from the worst of the elements.
10th February
Outside is cold, a monochrome world. Grey skies laden with more snow above. The community has rallied round, paths are being cleared, roads kept open. The bird feeders have almost descended to ground level, the bush in which they hang is so weighted down by the snow. Getting to the feeders requires an athletic feat, plunging thigh deep in snow. Still the birds come, desperate for food in this freezing land.
8th February
The snow continues to fall. Over the top of my knees today. I declare play-time and head out, wrapped up warmly. I clear a path to the woodshed, piling the snow in one heap. Then time to be creative. I pat down the snow around the hump, creating a snowman. Then another lump for a head, patted firmly in place, snow inserted to support the neck. A couple of old branches for the arms, some gravel for the smile. Twenty minutes of simple pleasure, before nose and toes grow numb again.
iggandfriends 