Imbolc

Midway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox lies the ancient Celtic festival of Imbolc. One of the cornerstones of the Celtic calendar, it fell each year on the first of February and as our distant ancestors awoke, they gathered together to celebrate the passing of winter, the start of spring; the return of the sun and the stirring of new life. They were close to earth in a way that we will never be again. They were farmers. Their lives turned with the seasons and Imbolc marked the beginning of the lambing season, the start of their agricultural year. After the darkness and harshness of winter they looked forward to the promise of new growth and the renewed warmth of the sun and celebrated its arrival with light and fire.

One of the symbols of Imbolc was the Snowdrop. The first gift of Spring in the bleakness of Winter.

There are snowdrops in the lane. Perched on the top of the bank at the side of the road where it bends sharply before falling away downhill through a tunnel of sycamore and ash. Tiny, soft white teardrops suspended below pale green stems that shiver in the biting wind. They have pushed their way through the pointed arrow, dark, glossy leaves of the ivy which sprawls across the bank and up the bare grey trunks of the trees above. Beneath them rain has loosened chalk from the bank and rivulets of grey mud cut through the soft, mushy piles of last year’s leaves lying at the side of the road. Sheltered by the trees from the wind and rain driving from the southwest, these tiny pearls, fooled into opening by the warmth of the sun over the last few days, wait defiantly for the grey heavy clouds to lift from the hills that rise all around them.

Harbingers of Spring. 

They are not alone. Down at the farm dozens of sparrows squabble endlessly in the bottom of the hedgerows. Skirmishes break out inside the hawthorn, scraps take place amongst the blackthorn; birds flash from branch to branch, on the move, busy, attention seeking, vying for a mate, loud and incessant.  In the plum trees, smart black and grey long tailed tits are performing acrobatics across the bare branches, showing off to potential partners. From the middle of a green limbed elder a robin pours forth his territorial ambitions and above him a blackbird, perched high against a grey sky adds his song to the dank mist drifting across the valley. The air is split by the yaffle of a green woodpecker bobbing across the field. Birds in waiting for the spring.

The wind blows and briefly the dark sky lightens and a tear appears in the heavy sheet of grey lying along the horizon. Watery sunlight spills from the cloud and suddenly the wood, at the top of the hill, erupts as hundreds of rooks spill out from the dark, black, bare limbs of the trees. Rising, falling on the wind they wheel and turn against each other, their cries scorching the air. They fly around the top of the trees, settling briefly, and lifting again until the noise rises above the hill top. They know, they are ready, ready to move on with the year, ready to start building their scruffy nests up in the tops of the wind battered branches.

And me?  As I lift my boots from the cloying mud outside the greenhouse and look up at them I know too. The year is turning. Maybe, I will light a candle to Imbolc tonight.