solstice – Páraig – Grow Write Repeat

I don’t mind losing things. Secateurs disappear. The blue jumper with the hole in one elbow has vanished. But losing something I’ve written tightens a knot in my stomach in a way nothing else does.

So I was delighted to find where I had kept “The Dark”, adapted from an RTE documentary in 2023, on one of my old blogs, and I want to use it again as we northerners celebrate Winter Solstice.

“The experience of darkness is such a different condition to light and is often sadly stigmatised. We are so accustomed to beginning things when the light is turned on, when the sun rises and when we open our eyes and adjust. Yet nature says the beginnings are in the dark. Life first is dreamed and vibrates in the absence of light. The seeds sown in autumn germinate underground through winter before appearing as shoots in spring. Each one of us reading this lived our first nine months or thereabouts in our mother’s dark womb.” – Dr. Karen Ward

I await brighter days of warm sunshine and I’ll sit awhile to soak it all in. Today is for slowing down and being content to wait for these brighter days ahead.

Finally, based upon this theme I’ve a more reflective version over on my Reflections Blog. Perhaps you might like to reflect further? Here it is.

Páraig

Another week of downpours and deluges. However, this time it was only every second day, with hard frosts and bright sunshine in between. The downpour days were double downpours and they did test my spirits, they did. In the middle of these testing deluges, news from Bondi Beach brought a sobering perspective. Seems a bit pointless to be getting upset over rain.

Closer to home, I had two days of hard labour in Wexford: physical work that left its mark but also delivered a quiet sense of purpose. In between, there were lots of Christmas preparations—lists, small rituals and cautious hopes. And so, with boots still damp, perspective restored, and one eye on the calendar, here we go again — another Six On Saturday.

1. Beech Hedging

Spoiler alert: not my garden.

We spent two days planting two hundred beech whips at Méabh and Jimmy’s place in Wexford. It was a very satisfying job. Afterwards, less so. I discovered aches in places that had clearly been idle for some time.

Although this is very definitely not my garden, I may adopt it. Our daughter and other half seem willing to give me (almost) free rein to develop their site from scratch. It will never be my garden but I’d like to leave my mark. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to say: I was here.

“Whips” is the term used for small bare-root beech plants. I didn’t know that. Read more.

2. Pansy

There are six of these—two in the window boxes and four among the pots beneath the pergola. A hard frost paid a visit last Monday night, but this little plant stands tall regardless, silently asking the weather, Is that all you’ve got? Small plant. Big attitude. Winter can bring its worst; the pansy has already read the forecast and remains unimpressed.

3. Geranium & Operator Error

It’s really a pelargonium, though it’s commonly known as a geranium. John prefers it by its proper name, so I’m happy to oblige. A small correction, quietly noted.

It also lends some support to the rumour that I’m far from perfect. This was confirmed to me last Sunday when I emptied the washing machine and hung everything neatly on the clothes horse — all before breakfast. I allowed myself a moment of mild satisfaction.

It didn’t last.

None of it had been washed.

A little Operator Error, nothing serious. Still, it may be how habits begin.

4. Another Hellebore

I included a hellebore last week. Lo and behold, here’s another. This one is a textbook hellebore: head bowed, flowers facing the ground, and a firm insistence that you kneel to appreciate it properly. Photographs must be taken from below, camera pointing skywards.

Consider it a combined gardening and wellness exercise. As with all such pursuits, overdoing it is discouraged.

Reminder re: overdoing it… planting of the beech whips is a sad reminder that I really should listen to my own good advice!

5. Malus

That’s the fruit of a crab apple tree (Malus). Small apples hanging on long, thin stalks, often blotched or scabby. They cling on long after the leaves have gone.

There are hundreds, if not thousands of tiny red apples. Every now and then I notice a blackbird teasing one off for breakfast. She does not feast. It’s a pantry, not a party.

6. Mont Ventoux

In my garden there’s a small piece of metal that carries a big memory. It speaks of effort, companionship, and the curious satisfaction of having gone up something very big—only to come safely down again. Like all good garden features, it rewards close inspection, reveals a gentle truth, and asks a question just for fun.

This plaque is to remind me that Marion and I, along with eight other members of Dungarvan Cycling Club, cycled to the summit of Mont Ventoux in September 2023, climbing the 1,910 metres in 2h22m. Extinct French volcanoes are trez magnifique.

The descent back to Bedoin took about 45 minutes.

Close inspection of the plaque reveals a subtle, symbolic detail: Marion is slightly ahead as is only right, while I am in minding mode. Some things, it seems, are captured perfectly in metal.

Mastermind or University Challenge question: what do the letters TC on the plaque mean?

I wish everyone a Happy Christmas. Meanwhile Jim, chewing the cud at Garden Ruminations, reminds me that beggars can’t be choosers and to be grateful for even small flower colour at this time of the year.

Summary:

Some weeks ask very little of us. Others ask for effort, patience, and a bit of kindness — to plants, to people, and occasionally to ourselves. This one asked for all three.