Spring Awakening

In Scotland, the early spring feels invariably like winter. Far away in the valley and the mountain, the winds rave, gales rage and rains lash down and whirl up powdery sleet. The ground is as cold as ice. There will be severe frosts in the early morning waiting to snub and pinch the tender, green shoots with their icy fingers. The young leaves will be put to sleep with frosty kiss of death until the sunlight pours on them with mild intensity to wake them up again.  The sodden earth is freshly turned over and ready for the sowing. It has the colour of deep mahogany and the scent of which curls into my nostrils when the breeze stirs. The wood smoke from the chimneys is redolent, nostalgic and slightly melancholy.

The awakening dawn (4:00 AM)



'Peace and quiet...and open air'

© Photography by ASD

After a sleepless night, I rose to watch the dawn between three and four o’ clock from my window this morning. I went out for a walk and the countryside looked disarmingly optimistic. There was a peaceful stillness and hallowing tranquility except the birds, the messengers of the day, were singing, hopping and bobbing on the trees which were laden with morning dews. Even this time of the year, some of the trees were still bare and skeleton. They reminded me of old, arthritic hands ready to hold back the dawn.

Pink Camellia, my favourite colour, in my garden

 

The clouds were like alabaster in the windless sky. There were snowdrops and primroses, delicate and shy, hiding among mosses and green ivy.  The stream was swollen with rain overnight and the current from the stream was fringed with seaweeds, which were clinging to bits of rock.  As I gazed from the edge of the village, I saw a net of vapour from the sea rolled into the village without any warning. The sea mist prowled and scanned the whole village with its hooded eyes like a predator and ready to snap off every living creature with a vindictive fury of dead impersonal force. The trees shivered and shrank beneath the sea haar (mist).

Wild Primroses, hiding among dripping mosses and dry branches 

 

6:00 AM. All the trees and their branches seemed to be caught under a net of sea mist. The birds who had been chirping from their nests since the darkness of the dawn were now hushed.  

Next to the country lane, there were branches and twigs twisting and turning, clustered in a jungle, odorous with aromatic herbs. The branches were laden with new buds, glistening with transparent masses of dew-drops like a myriad of twinkling stars on a frosty night.



The multitudinous stars

Unchanging galaxies and glimmering constellations



No sound of human step or car or rustling tree disturbed the silence

Empty, weather-beaten birdfeeder. Birds have begun to nest and even hatched a first brood, only to see them perish over a weekend of bitter frost.  

 

Butterflies taking refuge in my house. It's too horrible for them to go out to play among the flowers. They look down upon me as I read my papers.

Two butterflies, one represents spring and the other summer. They are playing a game of romance and showing off their bright colourful wings to lure ethereal suitors and lock in the fatalistic embrace.

 

I bought the newspaper from the village shop and came home to have my breakfast. In my dining room, the temperature was warm enough to foster every kind of butterflies, flapping their wings and showing off their colours to lure ethereal suitors, near the windows. I decided to stay indoors and listen to the low voice of birds and watch the magnificent swoop and twitter of the swallow. But no windows were opened, no echoes were heard and no spirits set free...

The swallows arrive in huge numbers. They are soaring high and circling and diving for food all the time. They are not natural musicians. They have the indescribable mournful squall, slightly out of tune when they sing. Half melodies, half tone-deaf - music without harmony.

On a clear day, I adore watching the sailing boat from my window.

If it is a foggy day outside and you can't see the sea, there is always a boat inside the house to look at. This is my boy doll, Thomas, sitting on my bookcase, with his antique boat.

 

When it is too dank and dismal to go outside, one has to entertain oneself with reading books, drinking endless cups of tea or listening to one's old music box on the sofa. I love musical automata and music boxes (especially the antique ones, made in Switzerland and France by Fabrique De Geneve, c. 1870, which come in the most exquisitely designed case). The tune from the music box reminds me of a gentler time.