winter – VR Stories

I stood a while looking over Black Sod Bay, a hum of grievance in between the gusts of wind and the angry waves. Lenny, an old Mayo pony, lingered happily in the wet jaws of soggy moss. There was no snow yet, not even a light dusting on the Nephin mountains.

November has morphed into December, the air is sharper, and life is lived in the shadows of the shortening day. Shadows are a labyrinth of beauty, where nothing is fully revealed and remains uncertain. I feel at home in the grey shades.

Clouds crept in from the Wild Atlantic, dimming the afternoon. Soon, the landscape would be cloaked in midwinter darkness. I have arrived at the bay, delighted to have escaped from loud, overstimulating grey concrete environments. I wasn’t totally convinced that I was at peace, but here I was waiting for this old year to slip away and bring forth 2026. This year, I won’t be making any New Year’s resolutions, as I have learned they are short-lived.

It’s at the bay that I forget all the inklings which take residence in my mind. I forget about all the complexities of life and surrender to the fury of the waves. It is then that I wonder what message, if any, the bay may be telling me. I turned my gaze back to the path from whence I came. My eyes glanced at the trees stripped bare, and I was gripped by impermanence. The cycle of life, with its constant shifts from the yellow of spring, the pink of summer, the copper of autumn, to the ice blue of winter. So why do I burden myself with silly concerns which, at their core, are inconsequential? A day will come when an exhalation won’t be followed by an inhalation. And in the stillness of the moment, I was grateful to take in the cold, clean air.

Isn’t winter symbolic of ageing? The latter part of the seasons and the elder years. Perhaps, it’s inevitable when one adds another year to life that thoughts move towards one’s own personal winter. The lines on my face have deepened, and my body has settled into manoeuvring at a slower pace. I have lived my Spring, Summer and Autumn; now I have landed in the cold, dark season of winter, and it is certainly chilly. In this vast universe, I have no idea when my winter will end—only God knows, but until that time, I aim to make everyday matter.

I am reminded that, despite the bleakness of the landscape which surrounds me, there is light. The soft glow of twinkling lights which adorn homes, shops and trees casts an enchanting atmosphere that always transports me to another world—a place where time slows down and every moment feels magical. The air is filled with the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon spice. I dislike December, but I equally love it.

I observed a solitary beech tree in the distance. It is not barren; it is holding on to its leaves despite it being December. Its fierce grasp on life gave me a moment of pause. I can relate to it. Isn’t it wonderful, I thought, how nature can speak its wisdom into one’s life if only we can free ourselves from the mad dash of living and surviving.

Since coming to Achill Island, I have stepped into a season of reflection in the hope for renewal. Maybe it’s part of the human condition, a time when old age is lived with a remembrance of life gone by, when days of old are more than days ahead. 2024 was a challenging year of loss, and I totally needed time out, somewhere unfamiliar. In essence, somewhere with a new canvas waiting for brush strokes to create a picture. The canvas remains blank.

The dankness seeped into my bones, and I took a few steps back towards Timmy. His coat is a patchwork of whites and greys and dishevelled by the early morning downpour. His round chestnut eyes fixed on me as if to say, What’s up? “Nothing,” I said in a weary voice and then added, “Why, with a large dry field and shelter, are you happy to stand in the sodden spot in the rain? Timmy, hardy and resilient to harsh environments said nothing, but I pondered that Timmy and I are not so unlike. Haven’t I landed in squelchy spots when I could have chosen more life-affirming areas?

So, what burdened me on that dreary skied afternoon? I had been looking into activities which I could participate in. A cheerful, white-haired woman told me about a walking group. Although I wasn’t particularly interested, before she moved on to mention another group, she added, “Oh, you have to use sticks for this walking group.”

My whole body tensed, and my mouth became tight. My initial reaction – irritation. There is no need for me to use sticks. As far as I am concerned, I am able in mind to make that decision for myself.

Seething inside, I bit my tongue, but it was her next comment which caused me to become rude-red. “I can’t be certain, but I think it’s an HSE mandate.”

Is it really? I mumbled beneath my breath then smiled, pushing my infuriation down into the pit of my stomach.

As I walked home, any resentment I was retaining was taken out on the stony path. Ah, the experts. Experts often claim authority and influence policy based on academic data, and before you know it becomes set in stone. On social media, government ministers seem to address their children—not citizens—about what’s best for us. So, is it best for me to walk with a stick despite being physically able, and I must add it is not as though any of the walks are undertaken on tough terrain. In the wisdom of a so-called expert, I am lumped into a homogenous mass of over-60s who are all physically unable to walk.

But here is the rub, any disagreement on my part opens the door to me being labelled as some deviant woman, in essence someone who just wants to rock the boat or worse, showing off. I have no issue with anyone, young or old, who uses a stick. Why would I? My point is I want to age in my way, and at present, I certainly have no need for sticks, and I am certain that I am not alone in my thinking. I am not fearful of ageing, but rather society’s expectations.

My annoyance softened when, from the corner of my eye, I spied a heron; the sight was like a soothing balm, and my breathing slowed. She demonstrated seamless integration with the river, exhibiting a composed and solitary presence that underscored her graceful isolation. “Oh, heron, I admire your patience.”

I am not suggesting that because I don’t need sticks that I am able to attempt some adventurous endeavour like climbing Mount Everest. Certainly not, I find this applause to someone who has years on them and does something considered out of the ordinary patronising. I am merely asking – stop and discern the person on their own ability.

There are times when I receive too much interest in my style. I am acquainted with a barbed comment or two, maybe three. A whispered hiss about my fingerless gloves, the way I wear my beret, even the shade of nail polish. There’s always the probing question to justify my reason. There is only ever one answer, and it is “because I want to.”

Let me give you an example: some years ago, on a blue-sky summer day, I put a temporary tattoo on my shoulder. I was feeling joyful. As it was Tuesday, I made my way to attend a women’s group. I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a chat. However, about ten minutes into the group, my tattoo was noticed, and it developed into a lengthy conversation. My shoulders became hunched, and slowly, minute by minute, I slid down, down, down into the chair. A tsunami of comments was launched towards me, their words merging into an undecipherable clatter. I am introverted, and I don’t like being the centre of attention. Please don’t suggest that I should slip into a t-shirt and jeans. I love colour, it’s part of my creative inner landscape. Besides, life is too short for explanations over clothes.

The clouds turned slate grey, and the soft pitter-patter turned into heavy darts. Waves crashed with deafening energy against the rocks, forcing plumes of white spray high into the air. “What does it matter?” I shout,” It’s not easy letting go.”

When one does not quite fit with the status quo, it can be lonely. I yearn for acceptance to be seen without the focus on my style and interests. But as I stood at the little quay, it came to me that maybe the season of winter is inevitably lonely.

But the rain, now thick and heavy on my head and shoulders, wakes me: December is Christmas. Thus, December is full of light. I revel in the anticipation and excitement, the Christmas trees, the carols, even the mince pies and hot scrumptious chocolate. It is indeed a time of celebration, and it is at Christmas that I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the birth of Jesus. And as I stood with fingers and toes chilled, I held onto the Christmas gift of hope.

Until next time.

The wheel of the year is speeding towards Samhain, the season of remembrance. November is one of my favourite months, perhaps it’s because when the days shorten and the sun courses low, it allows for reflection and renewal. Memories; the place where my bygone days gather always gives me an invitation to visit at this time of year.

I have always preferred the scents of Spring and Autumn. I must confess that I don’t like heatwaves at all. Yes, I admit, I am holding my hands up to admit that I am one of those annoying moaning persons when there is too much sun. At this point I would have to say that it is my opinion that seasons have changed since I was a child. I did like summer as a child but they were less scorching. I will expand on this in a later post but for now I am reminded of the annual end of October occurrence, the visit to the shoe shop.

October always prompts me to the memory of getting new winter boots. As a child I much preferred boots to shoes. My favourite boots were what I would describe as tufty boots, they were beige, fake fur line and tied up at the front. Boots allowed better freedom for climbing and a favourite winter pastime – sliding. My tufty boots had the perfect soles for sliding. The latter two weeks in October pavements were more than often dusted with frost. It was also the time when the greengrocer had an abundance of fruit, and my grandmother would bake my favourite treacle scones. A batch of which would be sent over to us. Oh! the memories of those long frozen slideways of November. One by one, us children would line up, then tear down a long thin stretch of ice. Of course, there were scraped cheeks, limbs and unfortunately the occasional broken bone. I was fortunate, my only injuries were on my hands, I disliked gloves, but I was always padded up in a hat, coat and boots. However, we were brave, and no scrape stopped us from having winter fun. Until that is, some adult, would spoil our fun by destroying our slide by throwing salt on to melt the ice.

Ah! back to the present, enough of wandering down memory lane. Wisdom would suggest that residing in a rural area necessitates timely preparation for the winter season.

So, with that in mind I went to Achill Sound earlier today, to buy some provisions to store. Some of the items that I like to keep in storage include lentils, pasta, flour, suet, powdered milk, and although I don’t usually use instant potatoes, I’ve bought some to have on hand just in case. I also purchased tea bags to get through long, tough nights without power. With tea bags I can cope with the long nights at home. I also have books ready in case stormy weather knocks out my WiFi.

Achill Sound is a small town; smaller than many villages I’ve been to, but you can get most of what you need. The nearest towns are Westport and the county capital Castlebar. I do not miss living near a large town at all. I have discovered keeping my shopping simple has allowed me to be far more creative in my cooking and I save money because I have learned to buy only what I need. Nowadays, I always have a pot of soup on my stove, and I love experimenting with different vegetables and ingredients. My latest creation which is bubbling away on the stove is Cauliflower and Onion. It is so simple to make and very tasty, especially with a slice or two of garlic bread.

I’ve noted that I will need to order more oil for heating. I certainly don’t want to be sitting with no heat bluing with cold. Brrr, No! I have also just bought a hi viz vest for walking to the bus stop in the dark and have got easy access to items such as candles, a torch and matches. I have also treated myself to an electric blanket, ah the comforting thoughts of warm nights in bed, listening to the pitter patter of the rain on my windows – lovely.

As my life is simply ordinary there is nothing more but to write about the mundane things. However, I value my life style despite it may be classed as boring. I may be boring, but if so I don’t care. I enjoy my simple life. I have peace. Currently, I spend most of my time working on my comic. Unfortunately, I have had to revisit my comic, so it is taken longer than I originally thought. I will go into the reasons further in my next post.

Thus, it is just another day on Achill Island.

Until next time.

VR Stories

The Road Lies Ahead, The Road Lies Behind.

Tag: winter

Achill, Winter and Aging

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