Mr Blue Sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long
Where did we go wrong
(Jeff Lynne)

It seems to have been a long and lonely winter. Wet and windy rather than particularly cold. For the first time I’m beginning to understand why so many retired UK folk head off to warmer climes for a few months.

Duncan Foster’s pic – Manx Loghtan sheep at Devil’s Hole on Jersey’s north coast.

I’ve not found it easy to get out running the miles that I need to stay in race shape. (A ponderous 54min 10k last weekend.) Good intentions the night before have too often vanished on seeing what the next Atlantic front has blown in. Jersey sure is a windy and exposed spot in the wintertime.

Lydie & Maureen with the sand dunes as a backdrop.

But maybe we’ve turned the corner. Jersey’s 45 square miles beckons once more. Its endless country lanes with their banks, hedges and ancient walls. Forbidding old granite houses, brighter new developments in keeping with the landscape. Lush farmland which just needs to dry out a little more to welcome the Jersey herds from their winter quarters.

Jersey’s south coast cliffs with Corbière lighthouse in the distance.

Then our coastal paths with breathtaking views of bays, cliffs, the other Channel Islands. Wooded trails, quietly and unobtrusively upkept when we’re not watching. And, for the observant, so many reminders of bygone days and echoes of those that preceded us.

In the woods, St Peter.

Old Jersey lavoir, designed as a communal laundry facility.

Here’s hoping for a long summer and to ending it in better shape than when I started.

Little darling, I feel the ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
(George Harrison)

Winter solstice time again. The longest night. And of course it’s a sad and lonely time for many who see celebration and merriment all around but who feel utterly bereft, for varying personal reasons.

Molly Drake, in her poem Lost Blue, pondered if the darkness of night might continue and not give way to daylight.

In the deep uncertainty of the night
The blue plate hangs on the wall
And I wonder: is it really blue at all?
Or was that stolen by the thieving light
And who can say whether it will return?

Oh, how the quiet plate must yearn
For her lost blueness in the dark
For though the day has brought it off before
She cannot quite be sure

And how can I be sure in the uncertainty of the night
That dawn will bring the same world back again?
I take for granted the ceiling would be white
And shadows long
And the yellow morning light limpid with the little midnight rain
And apples lying rosy where long grass grows
But no one really knows

My suicidal character Tess Picot, on 22nd December 1935, woke up in hospital.

She became wide awake, conscious of the breathing, snoring and occasional groans of the other patients. At the end of the room, through the window, the night nurse was reading a book or magazine by the dim light of a lamp.

Here she was, Tess Picot, wide awake during the longest night. The nights could get no longer and the days no shorter. And, after the shortest day each day gets just a little longer. The ancients celebrated this time as the re-birth of the sun.

She had lived in her own all-consuming darkness for months. There had seemed to be no end to the darkness. However, of course there always is. There’s new life, lambs are born in the spring, the hedgehog awakes, the early potatoes are planted and thrive. Where there had seemed to be no life, indeed where there had been despair, nature from time immemorial had taught that the seasons turn inexorably and that from darkness comes light.

As the black night slowly turned to a hesitant dawn Tess saw things with sudden clarity. She made a vow. This was the bottom of her pit, she could get no lower. On this day she would start to climb again. She would draw on the strength that she knew was within her and she would grow again, and grow stronger. She would embrace the daylight and do her best to make her way in the world. Her dark days were behind her, starting today.

Winter Solstice, Newgrange, Co Meath. Alan Betson.

Eight years ago I was at a pretty low ebb personally. Running and writing kept me on an even keel and I soon bounced back. Over the last couple of days I’ve read two or three quite sad blog posts. I hope that those despairing at this time of year find it within themselves to await the light, which is around the corner. Happy Christmas everyone.