Tis soon that time of year when we are kept in the dark the longest, the winter solstice. For the vast majority of people, I feel these days the solstice passes by with little, if any attention or fanfare. For myself it is an evening that I keenly look forward too, not for the naked dancing and frivolous fornication around a blazing fire of green oak logs sprinkled with pine cones for their heady aroma (oops said to much again), or any other Druidy type celebration for that matter. Nope, actually it is because the long nights do indeed affect my mood greatly and the realisation and expectation of the longest night being upon us and that the daylight will soon start to lengthen seems to lift my spirit with the promise of better times ahead. That and the fact that longer daylight hours means more work hours for moi.
Speaking of Druidy goings on brings to mind an occasion in my youth, many years ago. It was Hallows Eve and myself and a rather lovely female companion had decided to take a trip up to the top car park at Moel Fammau, a local spot notorious for dimly lit evening rendezvous of the errr.... romantic nature. Arriving there at a suitable late hour the car park was covered in a right pea soup of a fog, not an uncommon thing up there and also not unwelcome at such times. The hour was indeed late and we were fully engrossed in our hot and sweaty ...err ...political debate when I could have sworn I heard the crunch of many feet upon the gravel of the car park. Startled from .... discussion... I looked out when several people, just shadows in the fog, strode past my faithful Vauxhall Viva with flaming torches held high. Now I don't mean torches powered by bloody AA batteries, no these were actually flaming brands burning against the foggy air. I don't think that I have ever before or since moved as fast as I did that night, clambering into the drivers seat (well politics should always be discussed in the rear seat as any gentleman knows) and firing up Bertha's engine (the car's not the young lady's). Turning on the headlights the scene that unfolded was something out of one those Hammer House of Horror movies, there must have been at least twenty five of these white robed, flame wielding and hooded figures marching towards the path that leads to the Fammau's Jubilee tower ruin that sits atop its summit. Christ I thought it's the bloody KKK, either that or Frankenstein's monster has got out again. I can honestly state old Bertha broke the land speed record on the twisty road down the Fammau and then on to the town of Mold. It wasn't until we were approaching the very well lit street leading to the young ladies family abode did she softly whisper those never to be forgotten sweet words into my ear "are you putting your bloody cloths back on before my dad comes out?".
It wasn't until I was returning to my own home that I realised the date and that some daft sods were stomping up Moel Fammau with burning branches to bloody well enact out Druid rituals. I had half a mind to go back up there and give them a piece of my mind but a depleted fuel gauge and a 5am start (it was about 1am as I trundled home, not an unusual occurrence in those youthful days) saved the buggers from my wrath.
So what was going to be a somber post upon how the dark days of winter affect my state of mind and how the promise of the lengthening of days is a tonic to the system turns out to be one of many frivolous stories of my youthful escapades, who would seen that coming, not I for sure! Perhaps the next post I will not drift with the wind and get back on course, wherever that's supposedly going.
Till the next time take care and live your life well, after all tis not a practice run.
John t' Gardener
