When snowdrops appear, spring must be near
This is a place for me to hold forth on matters both serious and silly. You are invited to participate.
Like February just past, this update is a little on the short side – a stubby summation, so to speak. I could have waited for the many things happening in March, but I decided against it; I rather like the way these -TT+ posts have been appearing at roughly two‑and‑a‑bit‑month intervals. It gives me the pleasing illusion of being an organised sort with a structured writing and reading routine. Besides, I would far rather get this one out of the way before spring arrives.
I’ve had a thoroughly wintry winter, by which I mean there has been much dashing through icy rain while cursing a forgotten brolly; cosy evenings and the odd snifter‑lifter with friends in our local pub; and deep readings of Nordic fairytales on dark nights.
I felt it might be motivating to read seasonally in 2026 – hence all the frost‑themed titles of late. I am also rather hoping all this wholehearted embracing of the coldest months will allow me, if not quite to love what I have long regarded as a gloomy and thoroughly dislikable time of year, then at least to tolerate – or even become fond of – certain aspects. I will report back once winter is comfortably at a distance.
The Tove Trove project continues apace, but since my hitherto informal posts about Tove Jansson’s works have been more introductory than analytical, I hope in time to delve more deeply into her creative life, influences and the wider context of her writing. My recent burrowings now resemble not so much a rabbit hole as an extensive, multi‑chambered badgers’ sett. There are so many possible directions in which to travel, with some tunnels more tantalizing than others, that I doubt I shall live long enough to complete my subterranean explorations. Still, I will at least depart this life with islands, seabirds and Moomins vividly in my thoughts.
I sometimes worry that those of you who are… how shall I put it? … less besotted with Tove Jansson than I may grow weary of my continual references to her. This is partly why I created a dedicated space for the latest Tovian news and announcements – the Tove Telegraph – a post designed expressly for such updates. It helps keep my regular wind ups relatively Tove‑free. Even so, she still pops up here and there – this being a prime example – for which I apologise profusely, even as I persist.
Moving on:
Reading, Thinking and Doing: An Amalgamation
“Winter is a time for libraries: the muffled quiet of book-stacks and the scent of old pages and dust. In winter I can spend hours in silent pursuit of a half-understood concept, or detail of history. There is nowhere else to be, after all.”
– Katherine May
Getting into my seasonal stride, I followed my instincts and reached for appropriately themed books during December and January – not because it is the ‘done thing’, but because it feels highly irregular to be cerebrally shivering when sea pinks are sprouting cheerfully as far as the eye can see. One such book, which I read early in the year, was Wintering by Katherine May, a title I first downloaded to my Kindle from NetGalley prior to lockdown. When Covid arrived, my concentration skedaddled in befuddlement and the book was quickly forgotten – at least until the middle of last year, when I began following the author at The Clearing.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m not a fan of self‑help guides, but my interest here was – initially, at least – in the author herself, who is on the autistic spectrum, having been diagnosed relatively late in life. She explored this part of her history in her 2018 memoir The Electricity of Every Living Thing (which I’ve yet to read), but in Wintering it is mentioned only once, and in passing, which is entirely as it should be.
No, this book is, in her own words, about that “fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider.” She goes on to explain that “some winterings creep upon us […] slowly”, while others are “appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete” or “the company you worked for has gone bankrupt”. Regardless of how it arrives, we can at least expect to “find wisdom” in our winter, and “once it’s over,” it will be our responsibility to “pass it on” to those just starting out.
Despite the subject matter, her book is far from depressing. Quite the opposite, in fact. Katherine, who lives by the sea in Whitstable, a town on the north coast of Kent, famous since Roman times for its oyster beds, wends her way through wintry parallels, weaving into her narrative a multitude of topics ranging from wolves, wild swimming in sub‑zero temperatures and somewhat bizarrely Margaret Thatcher’s voice training, alongside her “boreal wanderlust”, solstice celebrations and deliberations on rituals opening doorways into “the psyche”.
I can see why people say they reread her book every year – though I don’t feel compelled to do so myself – but it goes without saying that she earned a barrowful of brownie points from me for writing about Moominland Midwinter (see what I mean?) and the Finnish way of life in general, as it fits so perfectly into her theme of having the “courage to stare down the worst parts of our experience and commit to healing them the best we can”.
“More than any other season, winter requires a kind of metronome that ticks away its darkest beats, giving us a melody to follow into spring.”
– Katherine May
Wintering: The Power of rest and retreat in difficult times
As for articles and essays I enjoyed reading that didn’t for one reason or another make it into my weekly wind up:
Often, using humour in one’s writing to make a point or draw attention to a particular issue is by far the most successful way to bring others around to your way of thinking. Shouty and arrogant pieces rarely achieve this outcome and are far more likely to provoke outrage and end with injured feelings on all sides. I say this some months after reading an opinion piece of sorts (more a ‘grumpy old man’ listicle I would suggest) by columnist Gareth Roberts in The Spectator (‘26 lessons for surviving 2026’). As is usual when I read something of this sort, I agree with certain aspects and not others – but he made me chuckle on a drizzly day in January, so I was prepared to indulge him.
I’ll share here a sprinkling of insights from his “handy hints list” into the best ways one might live “tolerably in an increasingly intolerable world”, or at any rate, the parts that most amused me.
As a fair-weather creature, I wholeheartedly agree with Gareth that “New Year’s resolutions are a cruel and demoralising prank” and one shouldn’t “start any personal alterations until April”, because “Spring is the real beginning of the year, as the Romans once knew and the taxman still does.” Indeed, “attempting to remodel yourself as a fountain of self-improvement in the bleak midwinter is just silly.”
Very sensibly (I felt), he advised his readers:
To allow “up to 20 minutes, and no more, of despair daily. But don’t tell anybody about it.”
To come to terms with the fact that the “culture war isn’t a war, it is a culture annihilation [but it] is good to care about it, because culture is important.”
“Having delusions is fine. We all need them to get by”, however “insisting that other people must share them is impolite at best. Passing laws enforcing them is totally unacceptable” and we should therefore “ignore any such laws.”
Also, “if a rebellion isn’t costing you anything then it isn’t a rebellion at all, it’s just a pose, and you should stop it immediately.”
Finally, one that tickled me (probably because I identify with it far more than I should) is, “find something that interests you – it can be anything at all, useful or useless – and make an exhaustive private study of it, for no other purpose than to satisfy your idle curiosity. Even if you can only spare a minute or two to do this, do it every day. Don’t tell anybody else you’re doing it. It’s your little thing.”
A small taster, but I have a link 🔓 to the full article from Internet Archive Today if you would like to read it in its entirety but cannot for some peculiar reason access the original page.
“Don’t be too quick to congratulate yourself on taking a brave stand. Often, courage and stupidity are very difficult to tell apart.”
– Gareth Roberts
(of The Culture Bunker)
The old castle stands guard over my home town
In the run‑up to Christmas and beyond, Mrs J and I enjoyed a lively evening of music in Chester Cathedral, numerous theatre visits, concerts, meals out, two birthday parties and – along with what seemed like half the population of Wales – another bout or two of jolly‑holly festive influenza, complete with lashings of respiratory‑tract infections and chill trimmings. It’s an annual tradition in our house, doncha know.
It has been some time since I last shared my ‘dish of the moment’ with you, so from the winter menu at Dylan’s Conwy – a temple of fresh, local goodness – I bring you their vegetarian Pasta Linguine with goat’s cheese (and oh, how I would love to slide a forkful your way if you were sitting beside me). It’s a dish made for dawdling: creamy, comforting and just decadent enough to make the afternoon feel deliciously unhurried. Or put another way, it is seriously scrummy.
Finally, I include the comic strip below because, as the slowest of slow readers, Snoops is a dog after my own heart and speaks to my inner straggler.
Why not let me know what you’ve been doing with your days, or better still, compile your own Three Things-type post.
Categories: Three Things
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