Quiet Days
That lull between the Big Day and New Year is, I've come to realise, the Best Part...
Christmas itself has been and gone: a few days of being home, doing nothing in particular (but indulging in a lot of rich food). And now - in the space between Christmas Eve and New Year - mornings unfold slowly, the afternoons tick by.
The days are punctuated by the odd little event. A walk cut short by the presence of the cat (he waits by the front door when he sees us pulling on coats and boots). A phone call from family.
I’ve been watching the Christmas ghost stories Mark Gatiss has adapted for TV. The most recent, The Room in the Tower, was beautifully shot and delightfully creepy, if a little confusing. I found several more (they’re only half an hour in duration) and particularly liked The Mezzotint. The sense of dread builds throughout, just perfect for a dark night by the fire.
We like to go up to a particular spot at this time of year. It’s most definitely a winter kind of place, and more often than not there’ll be a barn owl or two gliding silently through the fields.
It’s best enjoyed at dusk, and this requires a bit of planning with regards to departure times. The drive isn’t a long one but it involves navigating plenty of narrow, steeply winding roads and traversing desolate stretches of moorland. So we leave just before the sun begins to set, capturing the final throes of ‘golden hour’ along the way.
By the time we stop and climb out of the car, the moon’s up and the sky’s turning rosy. A wash of blue, fir and larch branches silhouetted against it.
And it’s cold. Biting. Little hollows are dusted with frost. Our faces tingle.
Up here, there are no gardens to admire or warmly-illuminated windows casting their light onto the world outside. But there is colour.
A single apple tree on the banks of the stream, its branches bare and tangled with the surrounding pines, is still laden with copper-coloured fruit. The little spheres glow like Christmas ornaments against a backdrop of shadowy greens and browns.
Hawthorns are covered with their bright, jewel-like berries. Their stems and twigs are gilded and encrusted with lichen, sulphur-yellow and verdigris.
We head upwards through the woods. The sun’s setting behind the trees. Suddenly, it’s dusk.
There are no owls to be seen this time around, but we do spot pheasants and flocks of birds readying themselves to roost for the night. Flocks of sheep huddle closely together along the dry stone walls.
Driving back, the intensity of the sky has softened. Marshmallow shades of lilac and pink, interrupted only by the occasional wind-twisted tree or tumbledown barn.
Farm entrances with their leafless shrubs have been adorned with glittering lights, like nets of tiny stars. The reservoirs are choppy, waves breaking in the freezing wind.
We’re glad to return home. Lamps and candles are lit, tea’s brewed.
This is why I love these in-between days. They give you a chance to wind down, to notice things.
And because we were later than usual this year with installing the tree and decorating the house, I feel in no hurry to clear it all away again.
Still: there’s a stirring. Like the tiny green shoots already appearing outside, my mind’s turning to new things. I’m updating my diary, jotting down plans. Making lists. There’s no urgency or pressure to actually do anything, but I’m enjoying the sense of purpose, the sparks of inspiration.
Last year, I decided I’d learn to crochet. I wanted to make a blanket. But eventually I conceded defeat. The yarn I’d bought has kept me busy for weeks, and I now have an extremely long striped scarf in neat, tactile moss stitch.
And I’ve decided to instead develop my knitting skills. The plan: to make an actual garment (other than a hat or scarf). So I chose a pattern, and bought the yarn, and several new sets of needles - because it involves knitting in the round, which I won’t be put off by - and am looking forward to getting started.
There’s something about planning a creative project; a process to be undertaken and enjoyed, the opportunity to learn without it feeling like an obligation.
We have plans for this week, but nothing taxing. We visited family yesterday, and will meet up with my brother on New Year’s eve. That’ll be after I’ve taken flowers to my mother’s grave - a sad ritual, but one we always follow with something uplifting. So on the way back we’ll go to one of my favourite places, and then take a walk with my brother, and finally we’ll head home for a quiet New Year.
It seems that once you’re past childhood, and somewhere around - or approaching - middle age (whatever that is), the focus shifts. Christmas Day and New Year’s eve are no longer the be all and end all. Admittedly, once settled into my thirties I felt the confidence to admit that I’m a homebody. Blurry nights in bars and at random house parties were a thing of the past. It was a relief to embrace quiet.
And so this little pause in between festivities has become my favourite part of Christmas. More so every year.
Thank you for reading.
Sarah.