Mid January

Not quite the third week, perhaps somewhere in the middle, reflections.

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It's a crisp day as I look out the kitchen window into the garden. I watch a yellow-beaked blackbird thrashing in amongst the frozen leaves. I can't tell if something has been found, or if this is part of the daily hustle. I wrap my hands around the cup of coffee I've just made thankful to be inside although the heating still needs to kick in for the day. The steam from the cup reminds me of how cold it is.

I find this time of year hard mentally, the cold is like an invisible prison for the mind. I want some exercise, to feel the air on my skin. It’s easy to escape the confines once out, wrapped up and pacing. I head up the local hill, a mini hike. I can’t face the usual 5k run; my knees can't take the cold. Wrapped up like the Michelin man, the steepness works. I soon have a sweat on.

To the north, the views stretch far. The outline of Fife is more pronounced than normal. The white outline of snow-capped hills in contrast against the sea. To the south, the Pentland Hills. They also wear their snow-covered coats. Even Hillend, the ski centre on the outskirts of the city, is dusted with snow for once.

My 18-year-old son took himself there the day before. Fearless in the way only the young can be, he flies down the slope, navigating the shift from a clump of real snow to the plastic carpet below without a second thought. A video comes through of him navigating it backwards. This is a technology and an activity I could only have dreamed of when I was his age.

I carry on with my hike, up and over the hill and down the steps, treacherous with ice. Someone runs down them in Lycra. In contrast, I navigate them carefully, although I breathe and try to tackle them with a little more gusto. Safely down, I start to think about the books I’m reading and where we are at in the food cycle.

What’s in the fridge? What’s in the freezer? What’s for dinner?

These simple, timeless questions hum through the day, ever more so at this time of year. January in Scotland can feel like a "nothing" sort of month, a time when the days stretch dark and cold, and meanwhile, the body knows that it needs fuel to keep going. Sub-consciously ringing the bell in order to keep the motor running.

Despite the fact I’m supposed to be nominally in charge of the kitchen at the moment, the boss runs a tight ship and there is a call to arms about eating the freezer down. It feels like we’ve been eating leftovers for months, and I know it’s not quite the case. Falling back on these things is no bad thing. I’m reminded by a fellow sub stacker that it’s time to clear down. I vow to finally throw that packet of Tamarind out.

Still, the land, and the kitchen has its rhythms. January, a birthday month gives me a fresh start and another bite at the beginning a new….a little further on with regard the earth’s cycle. Slowly but surely the days seem to be getting a little longer.

With the days the way they are, there seems to be a constant battle between light and dark, a blaze of glory as the guard switches over. Morning skies light up in warm oranges and soft pinks, as if the day itself is rallying its strength. By early afternoon, the dark has rallied back and mustered its troops, painting the horizon with deep reds, purples, and golds in one final, triumphant clash.

Sunset - Bruntsfield Links

I’m reading Pam Brunton’s Between Two Waters at the moment. It’s deepening my reflections on how the seas and fields answer our call, even in the lean months. The book’s blend of history, lessons in food, agriculture, and the responsibilities of our choices feels grounding and thought-provoking. A reminder of the inter-connectedness between what we eat and the world we inhabit.

Living in the heart of this little city, it’s easy to forget the ripple effect of our decisions. The convenience of supermarkets to my mind can mask the cost to the planet and the people who labour for our abundance. As the days slowly stretch longer, I find myself drawn to the idea of living more in tune with the seasons, eating what the land and sea offer, when they offer it, and making thoughtful choices for the future. Although I know it’s not that simple.

I’ll try to do better, just as the skies remind us of their fleeting majesty, so too does the earth. And perhaps, if we listen to its rhythms, we might learn to tread a little lighter.

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