Yuletide Thoughts

Ask a dratsi what does time mean.

Our sea furry mammals are oblivious to a watch… They nonetheless respond better to moon and tides.

Time for humans means something else. If you too obey timetables, you are shackled to a routine.

When school bells ring for a last time, you suddenly feel lost for words. Aye, no more alarm clock for a while! Yule has returned with its magic. Home is ready for the pagan and the scent of the pine tree. Cinnamon sticks and melting wax as darkness has reached its climax…

First day of freedom in the snow, as icicles graced the garden to my delight. It is a moment of reconnection with the natural world I treasure so dearly. Out in my Caribou snow-boots, I wandered off in the perfection of nature, feeding my dear garden dwellers and free water out of the ice.

Their constant presence feels my heart with so much joy, I owe them help for survival in such seasonal conditions. After all, why should we be the only ones to feast at Yule?

What is Yule without its cortège of hellery? 60N at a crossroads with the Nordic realm means everything.

Two mighty storms in between Hogmanay and now, have swept across geos and skerries…

Storm force winds swept the old year away, as one would sweep away old dust.

January welcomes brand new gales.

So I hold tight to candle sticks until the sky turns to bird tunes.

Tis nearly over, this Yuletide.

Nisse will return to the barn for a final bowl of porridge; tinsels and baulbs, back to the den… Blue mantelpiece back to candles without Yöl cairds…

But then, again, Nisse still smiles.

And Aa da best fur da new year.

Thanking you all for your presence, likes and contributions to Arcania.

Namaste 🙏🏻 fae da wild North!

white

Merlin

I am the hawk perched on the fence in between winter and da voar – this Shetland spring held in snowflakes in a month deemed everlasting. I am the hawk, smallest of all, slashing through time and arctic air. My pointed wings now retracted, elevate my heart to thee, sun. In between ice and celandine, gold of petals hidden in white, I am the hawk so statuesque and yet so small, men may not notice me at all… Aloft I feel invisible.

Hoswick

I am the water, not the rock: home to life wild – waders, wild fins or wanderers – today, two swans drank off the mouth of my own burn (that stream that flows from nearby hills) since I do not offer a river. Today I shone in blue and white… A glorious sun against ripples and icicles. Men live nearby in small cottages by my beach.

Greylags

We are the ones fae a population steeped in ice. Land of fire, we have conquered every field; flown through the stars and icicles to find respite by every bay. In such tough times of survival, we leave our footprints in snowflakes. This island bare yet bountiful, we are awaiting the great thaw.

Burn

I am still abducted by ice. My water tastes rich and peaty under this thin layer of ice. Winter filled me to feed the sea so shamelessly… But as the sun feels strong again, I am awaking one more time. Soon, celandine and marigold will strive again. March is a trickster as a month and Mother Earth, so resilient.

Dusk

I am a dame all clad that blue always ending as indigo, where Venus kisses Jupiter. I am the home of the entire Milky Way – and when I trap those solar flares, I dress my self with a sari in hues of green or orange… Men fear da mørkin of my world (darkness of winter or just night) so they will marvel at my magic multicolour. As ice settled on the island, I refract blue of icicles.

Tonight, I will feast with the Moon, the ebbing tide and Orion.

free

Shetland Wren, spring 2022

Too long have I awaited this joyous month of April, free from March – this month of miracles & tears – even if gales and remnants of winter are clutching at straw…

The island is slowly emerging from its great seasonal slumber to start and display more vibrant colours as daylight is overriding black.

Too long have I looked at my homeworld from behind glass overlooking an empty loch. Even though I love the view, my eyes belong to the younglings facing me during term time.

Vista fae North Loch Drive.

Watched snow come and go, return since our passage through the Vernal Equinox – morning and dusk in many tones, yet always with the same magic, as our sun rise and glow over Mousa Isle, to colour this Western sky in the kerb just before Quarff.

Only one road fae S to N – also known as da meal road by many islanders whose ancestors in the 19th century, at a time of tattie famine, were (like in the rest of the British Isles, and most notoriously reported from Ireland) rewarded with a meagre meal to build roads… Attempting to survive dire times in the history of the isles. The cheapest labour anyone with gold could find…

Two other side roads in the South Mainland linking da tuns (or human settlements) were added to the great North-South road. Those remain my favourites. Teeming with life, mostly wild, they turn magical in spring.

Da Clumlie Road

This is where freedom begins.

For seasonal cycles on end, the magic remains intact. The return of life, skylarks (wir laverick) arriving with meadow pipits & oystercatchers (wir shalders) depending on the year, though after shelducks (our traditional earliest migrants) . Northern wheatears (wir steinshaakers) also land back in our fields and meadows by April.

The elegance of loons, red-throated divers follow suite.

Tis when our land and sky turn cacophonous on a boannie day i’da voar (a sunny spring day).

Skylark, Meadow Pipit and Northern Wheatear, Apr 2022.

April is when our gardens begin to share flowers and buds against all odds. Haily puckles and thin snowflakes might still rage at this time of year, all seem to resist so far…

I love their resilience.

A return to my old belfry – Sumburgh Head where I worked 20 years ago this month as an ambassador for nature (RSPB Nature Reserve) – proved wonderful with a friend on Monday. We lunched in style overlooking the magnificent panorama. Strangely enough, Martin Heubeck roamed my mind as I was watching empty cliffs. Yes, it was barely early April on a day of hellery (adverse weather). Yet kittiwakes, guillemots and razorbills are coming back every year in fewer numbers.

Tis no secret.

Our great marine birds signal the return of better days from April onwards. By the time you discover the headland around da Simmer Dim (the summer solstice) you are welcomed by bird calls from every directions, as well as constant gannets fly-pasts on their way to more and more distant fishing grounds. They are striving as a species around our coastline.

Yet barely weeks to Beltane and the galloping to the solstice. Tis when the island really turns cacophonous.

Meanwhile, we make do with chilling conditions, and brace ourselves for days battered by gales and hail that keep you alive (!)

Tis a world bathed by a sea and an ocean, geographically so far away from it all, sheltered, somehow from any torpor…

And yet, listening to the whole world.

Wheeled to Life

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Hours away.

So far away from its power, and yet mighty for just hours, as night reigns as an empress. We are reaching the longest night as Yule prevails.

Yesterday’s walk around da voe, this inlet of water where birds and selkies venture for survival looked so magic at the golden hour.

Tis like a dream.

As long as light warms rocks and kelp uprooted by the latest storm, starlings and shore birds feast like kings.

Tis just magic.

They all fly in. Our homeworld feels so generous in such harsh times.

Within hours, gold turns purple as our star vanishes so fast.

Tis now the time for da haigrie to fish at dusk.

I watched it wade and stand solemn like a statue; a sudden flick of eyes and neck as it scanned all around its world in search of prey…

Then went the catch.

Night creeps too fast. Just around 4, p.m. that is… I had to rekindle head beams to trek back home.

Another day just gone to rust… Wheeled inside life and realm of death, Yule celebrates every lost soul. Time to reconvene with spirits, night, candle light so precious feels life of us all.

Tonight, my heart back in each voe where life is tied to ebbing tides; where selkies find respite out on boulders…

Tomorrow we cross the solstice, as mid-winter settles at last.

I hear the return of the snow, the longest night and the sweet smell of cinnamon inside my home.

Tis that moment when I reconvene with angels; freedom to wander through my world, in my own time and place.

Happy Yuletide to each and all!

Hame

This place on Earth and in my heart where I belong, because my senses say it so, has recovered seasonal white, or even bluish icicles now we stand so far from the sun.

And yet shorter days can shine.

This morning, I’m waking up to a hot bowl of porridge whilst the cabin heats up a bit. If my duck down quilt kept human and cat warm whilst the temperature plummeted below what can be read on room thermometers, that polar wind from Arctic Tromsø is still blasting…  Tis the realm of Yule encroaching on my Nordic world.

Yule, the festive time as we come to a halt – light candles on window sills or on chimney mantlepieces… Share a table free from the pressure of time, tokens of love and marvel at the starry sky from the back steps of our own home.

My bowl of porridge cooled too fast.

This little light we cling onto as darkness vanishes juist a few hours to let our star hover below 10 degrees of elevation either in a shameless crystalline sky (or sometimes in a halo that fills a light metallic sky) feels so precious. Tis the moment to wander through mires an braes (mossy areas of fields or meadows and hillsides) and reconvene with our own bays bathing in light.

How I love walking to the sea.

It fills my heart with happiness, this inner peace that has no price. Tis this moment when we reconnect with the higher self, the child within eager to reach edge of the most magical world.

Because it really is magical!

The blue of sky and horizon so inviting, the playful selkie (seal) inside kelp – the gentleness of water flirting with pebbles as tide retreats at a slow pace… Our Earth’s rhythm allows it all.

All around us, what looks barren and just dormant under snowflakes will wake again in a few months. Yet, for now, my whole world shines in blue and white. As as snow melts on higher grounds, wir local burn swells and runs down to the sea. Cycle of water, source of life.

Late.

Our first snow came late this autumn, not till the end of November. Mother Earth has her own agenda. Unusually warm, Hairst (autumn) felt a long Indian summer… Only to vanish inside flying gales the island knows at this time of year. We brace ourselves for the season of bleaker times.

First snow feels a welcoming sign winter with its palette of own colours has its own grip on us.

First snow invites us to get out and reconnect with Mother Earth, Nature and life we can take so much for granted… Blessed with the place that holds so many treasures, the call of the wild is strong.

First snow has come and gone, yet each return of icicles draw us so closer to the magic of Yule. My heart rejoices at each furtive appearance from our boreal sun. Today, it is shining in a glacial NE wind, and as the cabin warms slowly, I will make my trek out, refill my heart and let da bairn inside to reconnect with the natural world. It feels my shield against the artificial world – that manmade realm shackled to the material, where gold prevails above sand grains, shells and pebbles.

My island is my treasure chest.

shenanigans

There are moments when we just need to step back and dream…

Step back and sleep, dream in the arms of the dragon. April the joker, the trickster, that turned the island back to ice.

Our spring buds deprived of sap, light and that warmth, had to yield to the wrath, shenanigans from a planet déboussolée…

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It all happened within minutes…

Even Saoirse the Cat had to give in to da bliind moorie -a violent snow storm – that engulfed us in its millions of horizontal icicles.

I’m pretty sure she dreamt of bees and bugs she loves so much to play with… She looks a meerkat on her back limbs. So comical at times.

I was dreaming of summer.

Voar – our springtime – is a season to respect. As Mother Earth turns generous once more, life in all its forms begins again. The island back in a sky filled with birdsong – oystercatchers, curlews, skylarks and snipes to name but a few… We seed to harvest and yet we are aware of its harshness.

In their life-driven waves, our seabirds feel magnetised to our cliffs. Guillemots, razorbills and puffins had to battle a polar flying gale to reconvene in our boreal world.

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Life back on land

April still clawed by cold air.

And yet nature is resilient. From daffodils to primroses, from Skylarks to Meadow Pipits or Northern Wheatears, wir voar means life.

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On and around the island, magic occurs. Last weekend alone was graced by a pod of orcas on Saturday followed by a showcase of wir tammie nories (that delightful local name for our Atlantic Puffins) at sundown.

Magical.

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We really live on an extraordinary planet.

It does not take much to tear down preconceived ideas and marvel at the diversity of life. The trick being to open our eyes and heart, and feel part of it.

Life is everywhere: in the wild, in cities – Mother Nature finds her ways in the most incredible places, from a stone wall to the great depths of our oceans…

We are all guests on our planet, that has a twin, so different.

Now, the following piece of verse is all about our Earth’s sister.

Planet Walk (Venus) 


YOU ARE HERE,

between 
Mercury and my world, 
one grain of 
sand on a lone beach, 
                                     in easy reach to 
solar winds, rotating eye around 
                       stardust; 
you, Earth’s 
sister, 
encased in hell and 
                    toxic clouds, 
                    sun, volcanoes and hurricanes – 
you too look blue from the distance through 
a filter. 
So far away from 
                              Tahiti, you caught the eye of 
                                          a captain when 
you appeared as a black disc, 
so elusive before 
                             the sun. 
Amazing grace, 
your rotation in slow motion – 
                         each sunrise lasts, 
          days outclass years on 
your surface – 
the odd one out waltzing clockwise in 
                       our West sky. 
You are beauty without seasons, 
               hottest of all, void of 
water, rocky-basalt in a cocktail so 
                                                            Molotov… 
Satellite irresistible, 
                you are goddess among the stars, 
                        no one will dare to plant 
                                                         a flag; 
                       but 
still wonder if 
                      there is life, 
                                          love in 
                                                     your 
                                                           clouds.✨ 

© Nat Hall 2021. 

I love my homeworld.

Iced (2)

Imbolc was veiled in icicles… ❄️

Imbolc welcomed Brigid as a maiden, clad in immaculate snowflakes.

Tis beautiful, so beautiful to look at. Who has not ever marvelled at such wondrous land, sky and ice scapes? Till now, February has been generous to us in terms of calm white & blue days. Yes, we just need to leave home a little earlier to de-ice the car… But what a pleasure to breathe in that crisp air and allow the sun to warm our epidermis and our hearts…

And even if our boreal sun strengthens in power through longer daylight and elevation, we, islanders from the great far north, have to make do with these polar conditions. As weird as it might sound, we have yet to learn that waddling technique so natural to penguins to stay up on our feet (!). A recent report from one of our local newspapers recorded a higher incidence of some 40 admissions to A&E linked to ice… Broken limbs, strains & sprains – as well as sledging accidents. Whereas folk still seem to favour the famous wellies (those yellow or khaki rubber boots) to tread on ice, I have adopted snow boots and grippers… And they have proven so lifesaving on many occasions.

And if wellies, waddling or grippers fail, then, our Antarctic flightless birds have also shown us another safer way to move swiftly… The belly sliding technique, as frequently used by, notably, Emperor penguins (!). And what more fun than this? Just look at kids having fun on ice… They use a similar technique. Note: I very much doubt many of us – human bipeds – adopt such a technique except for fun. 🥶

We have been so iced since January the whole Kingdom Animalia (including us, humans) depends on adaptations for survival.

Ice has continued to infiltrate our lives around our island world, and no creature is spared. Our winter survivors have to endure such harsh conditions. They may have developed their own adaptations, yet they still have to bear the brunt of it all.

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Whereas ponies have thick winter coats and thick hooves to provide insulation from iced ground, air and wintry showers & storms, birds rely on their respective layers of feathers called down. Some often stand on one leg to maximize insulation from freezing water or ground… All need to shelter to ensure survival. They don’t dwell very long on open ground, unless heavily coated – like ponies or highland cows – or fleeced like sheep.

Birds need all the tall grass, thickets and trees they can find around our valleys, hillsides and human gardens to survive.

Recently, I have not only noticed more visiting starlings, sparrows and blackbirds to the feeders at home, but far less common visitors, such as a young Song Thrush and a Redwing.

The human obligation to work from home (even on a part-time basis) allows for better nature watching from the comfort of our own home, as well as providing food for avian ground feeders on a more regular basis. Our Chief Executive encourages us to reconnect with nature for our own wellness… In my case, she is preaching the lifelong converted (!).

Each sunrise feels a new adventure!

Like you all in the northern hemisphere, I am becoming a little eager to welcome Ostara, the Vernal Equinox. It will come in due time, however, I am also savouring the magic of snowflakes, as well as Mother Earth’s slow re-awakening and the gradual return of some of our summer migrating visitors… Our avian friends!

Iced (1)

The world from my shore.

Days, hours from Imbolc, and the island (as well as the rest of the archipelago for that respect) firmly in prey to ice and icicles.

In such sub-arctic conditions, everything feels dormant. Our boreal sun has graced winter’s whiteness in an attempt to warm our hearts and souls. Even foreshore rocks and boulders turn blue… And yet it has brought us joy through the classic winter light. Tis so healing.

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A daily walk at around noon when our star reaches its zenith might feel best, and yet the eye favours the Golden Hour, a sheer moment when the wild world looks more industrious in its quest for survival. Tis the critical moment when life could flirt with death so scarce food is scarce, hidden under ice.

Whereas local crofters, our small holding farmers, feed their sheep at the manger, and storms uprooted kelp from the nearby bays, the bounty of summer feels a mirage.

Ice is everywhere.

In every book & crannies of our world where it can sneak, ice has petrified grass, water, heather … For the first time, the birds’ water holes, pots and lochs have reached a point of polar scapes…

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….As if giants and gods from Jotunheim descended straight on us!

And yet the island holds fast. We feast from the sun’s kindness; walk through the land in search of signs of more green-ness. With the gradual return of the light, we may feel clawed inside winter, yet Mother Earth has already begun to wake…

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Life signs.

Like you, I am looking forward to the rebirth and the promise of spring, da voar, as it is known here locally.

Meantime, I am counting the hours to Imbolc, the very first murmuration of our waking home world, as a prelude to our very own chant du monde.

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Jul, Yöl & Aa

Spirit of Yule

Yuletide is a magic, signalling a new life cycle start – a slow return to light, the sun, currently at 6.6 degree elevation at its zenith… And in those times of darkness, the faintest spark feels a treasure.

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The island, engulfed in some 5 and something hours of light on 21 Dec., is already scraping seconds away. Snowflakes dusted every inch of sand, heather and grass this polar felt 24 Dec. 2020.

Yule, Yöl Eve, julhaften, or réveillon, here comes two poems – one in Shetland dialect from Vagaland; the other, from my own pen.

Fae Mr Robertson, aka Vagaland,

Santie’s Reindeer 

Da Göd Man hings da starns 

Laek peerie lamps sae bricht,

Sae Santie Klaas can fin his wye,

Whin he comes here da nicht.

Dis nicht he yoks his reindeer up,

An drives dem trowe da sky;

Dan he taks on his muckle bag

An leaves his slaidge ootbye.

An, Maamie, whin you mylk da coo

You’ll geng an tak a 

O hey, or maybe twartree 

An laeve dem lyin furt.

Da reindeer haes sae far ta geng;

Dey’re maybe hed nae maet,

An he’ll be blyde if he can fin

A grain fir dem ta aet.

A’ll hing my sock apo da 

Jöst in below da brace,

An whin he’s trivveled trowe da 

He’ll aesy fin da place.

He’ll never come till A’m asleep,

Sae A’ll pit on my goon

An up da stairs ita da 

A’ll geng an lay me doon.

You’ll pit da claes aboot me noo,

Becaase he’s gittin late;

An, Maamie, whin you mylk da coo

You’ll mind da reindeer’s maet.

Vagaland.

Hame, at Yöl.

And if Vagaland leaves food for the reindeers, I will gladly leave some for a Norwegian character…

Julenissen

Julenissen loves julaften,

smell of hot porridge in a bowl

somebody left right by the barn.

His eyes peep through

edge of his cap,

that long

red

stocking to the floor;

his dwarf-like

size nearly

makes him invisible,

scraping a living with a cat,

a vole family and

owl...

Julenissen loves his barn,

each farmer, child and animal,

yet hot oatmeal on Christmas Eve 

will bring favours to

humankind -

this hog goblin is a guardian,

he, safe-keeper of

men’s farm world;

windows will be dressed with candles,

decorated in his honour.

Oatmeal or porridge for an oath,

Julenissen feels generous, with

auroras above reindeers.

© Nat Hall 2020

Have a joyous, safe and peaceful Yuletide/holiday 🌲❄️✨

spaekalation

November, month of hellery – this fine Shetland dialect word that encapsulates the worse from the sky in the form of storms of any kind – enshrouded in darkness since daylight feels more and more elusive.

Hel, hell, hellery, as 2020 has never matched our expectations; held us hostage within our walls, and loved ones disappear…

Spaekalation – another fine Shetland dialect word that translates as gossip – is a raw piece written at night, as an attempt to deal with both the savagery of the sky and a sudden and an unexpected bereavement. This poem was first written in the dialect and then translated in English

spaekalation


Whit's yun?

Is yun a gooster or a ghoul?

Twa goggly eens i'da tree, 

is yun an owl o some kind?

Ta da dare-say o'da mirken, da vaelensi is juist

begun;

dey say dat ghosts ir among wis,

waanderin, lone, aroond
wir laand - dy an

me hoose,

da tattie crö, barn an byre -

dey say dey travel wi da flan an da snitter,

skid juist laek bairns apö

da snaa an glerl o ice,

hide i'da white o'da moorie ta

mind da reek o chimney stacks.

Dey say dey sit by da fire atween

da caird an da wirsit -

da Slockit Licht,

crabbit embers ta keep 

da memory alive.

Deir shadows

glide alaang da waa,

listen ta da saang o'da nicht.

----

Gossip

What's this?

Is that a messy gust of wind or just a ghoul?

Two goggly eyes inside a tree,

is it an owl of some kind?

To the hear-say of dusk,

That brisk downpour has just begun;

They say that ghosts are among us,

wandering, lone, around

the land, my and

your house,

the spud corner, barn and cowshed -

they say they travel with wind gusts or biting cold air,

skid just like kids on

snow and ice,

hide in the white of a blizzard to

reminisce smoke from the stacks.

They say they sit by the fire, between

carding tool and the yarn -

Extinguished Light,

dodgy embers to

keep the

memory alive.

Their shadows glide along

the wall,

listen to the tune of

the night.


© Nat Hall 2020

For you, dear Nybakk Clan ♥️