One hundred more days

A ladybird shelters on a raspberry leaf, before the rain comes.

Words have been hesitant on this space, for one hundred more days it seems. One hundred days passed by in June. Long, light, warm days where we could slowly connect in outside, safe spaces. The summer breezes softly shifted the raw edges of fear, placing anxiety a little to the side just slightly out of focus for many of us. And as midsummer has retreated slowly into the distance, somehow another hundred days have passed. Two hundred days since that Friday evening in mid March when I closed my door on the world I knew. Two hundred days in this new isolated living.

I am not quire sure where those days have gone. But in that time the fruits have grown, ripened and mostly been eaten, baked or frozen to bring reminders of sunshine in the coming winter months. The autumnal equinox slipped quietly past us last week and the light fades from the sky three minutes earlier each day. There is a chill in the air in the mornings, and the leaves on the trees are taking on warm colours as they ready to wither and drop.

We know that the coming northern winter will bring a darkness which is not just seen in the reduced daylight, but will be accompanied by a sense of nervousness and caution. As outside spaces become less welcoming and the prevalence of illness increases, our connection with others reduces. It is time to snuggle in and find ways of keeping our spirits warm.

As the days have marched on through this strange year, I have sought and found reassurance in the patterns of nature. The little cotton buds on the pear tree have formed into confident, blushing pears. Raspberries have generously formed week after week, finding their way into breakfasts, jams and the occasional glass of prosecco. More plums than I have ever seen, have formed from those tiny little promises and been transformed into pies and plum jam. The bees have continued their work untroubled by talk of the pandemic.

Being the first year in this new garden, there have been many surprises as blooms and colours have appeared. The greatest secret was held closely by the plum tree at the front. Those little plums were so slow to ripen, remaining hard to the touch so I brought a couple inside to see if they might ripen more quickly. A few days later, with no noticeable change, I bit into one. To discover that it was not a plum at all, but a mischievous tiny red apple in a very convincing disguise.

These little plums held a surprise for me
On close inspection – they are tiny, deep red apples.

Those patterns of nature continue, and the birds are the birds are gathering in preparation for their seasonal journey southwards. Lights are switched on a little earlier each day and soon it will be dark before the work day has finished.

We know that the days and weeks ahead will bring dark moments for many of us. Yet, we also know that the days will continue onwards. Every new sunrise and sunset, taking us towards a new season of regrowth and brighter, sunnier days. And as we move ever forwards, I am reminded that this too shall pass. We need to live in these days, not to wish them away, but to bring our own warmth and hope while we do wish for healthier, less precarious times.

The season transitions, leaves falling on the still green grass, as a bee gathers late season pollen.

One Hundred Days

Just a few days before the spring equinox and a couple of days shy of the Ides of March, I took this picture on the way home from work. The bare branches of the trees silhouetted against the deep blue evening in that half light after the sun has rested for the day, just as darkness begins to settle. A northern sky which held the promise of spring and lightening, lengthening days ahead, cloaked with the unseen threat of COVID-19.

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As I made my way homewards, I passed the shop, the houses and my neighbours, unknowingly, for what would be the last time in many days. Indeed, now one hundred days, and still counting.

This was the evening I took my regular journey home from work, knowing that the world was changing rapidly and drawing in around us. Not knowing that this would be the start of a strange and surreal period of lengthy isolation. That evening saw the long and emotional conversation with family which drew the inevitable conclusion that I would close my door on the outside world for the foreseeable future, if I wanted to stay safe from the hold which the virus was taking around us. That evening I captured this image of what I thought was an everyday moment, my last photo before everything changed.

I had been anticipating those longer evenings, and the days when I would arrive home from work in daylight. I had moved into my new home as autumn turned into winter, a few days after the autumnal equinox, as the days smartly shorten towards those long, dark days of Scottish winter. Six months later, I knew that I would soon be able to enjoy daylight time at home in the evening after the day at work.

But that certainty was lost in the new uncertainty that was isolation and lockdown.

It has been replaced with another certainty though, one which I hold on to tightly. While humankind has spun out of control in the most developed of contexts, nature has taken a firmer grip to remind us that we are guests on this earth. Around ten days into isolation, the weather brightened and I ventured out into my garden. My curiosity was piqued by a blaze of blue colour beneath a fruit tree. The beauty of newly moving into a home with a garden is that the coming year and seasons will bring surprises. Snowdrops and daffodils had welcomed me home as the year started, but hidden in weekday darkness I had missed much of their presence. This blueness was to be my first garden surprise, as the season continued to march forward, while humankind stood still, holding its breath and counting the R number.

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I am still not quite sure what these little blue heralds of hope were, my first excited thought as I spotted them at a distance was that they might be bluebells. I have always wished for a garden with bluebells. As they took their shape, they continued to puzzle me and I still don’t know exactly what they were. Perhaps some unusual crocus or another early spring flower. But not bluebells. For bluebells were starting to sprout elsewhere in the garden fulfilling my bluebell dreams.

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Gradually as the days determinedly lengthened, the outline of spindly branches on the trees softened and little growths appeared. Tiny blossom buds were forming, in shades of white and pink .Little promises of hope and regeneration.

I have always dreamed of a blossoming tree in my own garden. My dreams were taking life in front of my eyes.

The labours of an elderly woman over many years in a garden have gifted to me, a season of colour, surprise and even flavour.

Have you ever wondered how blossoms transform into fruits? I have followed the journey of these miracles over the past weeks, fascinated. As the petals gradually fell, I could see tiny promises form in the stalks. Baby pears the size of cotton buds, a cheeky miniature apple the size of a marble,

Through May and into June, the fruits continue to develop and mature. The young, tiny pears are slowly growing, cherries begin to ripen, delicate plums and apples take shape. Gooseberries appear. Gooseberries. I had forgotten about gooseberries, once a staple Scottish summer fruit, now rarely seen as more exotic imports take over popularity. I seem to have the makings of an orchard. I didn’t know I dreamed of having fruit trees in my garden, but my happiness suggests that secretly I did.

The surprises keep catching me. unawares. Just the other day I spotted a glimpse of red through the green foliage. The green berries which had been forming on the raspberry bushes, have been ripening. Smatterings of red appeared as I approached the bushes. The raspberries are quietly and studiously sweetening and maturing.

This is Day One Hundred, the summer solstice, a solar eclipse far over the horizon in the southern sphere and the seasons moving steadily forward as the planet continues to journey around the sun.

This is a day I could not have imagined back in March when I headed home, pausing to take a photograph of a wintry branches silhouetted against a changing sky. While the everyday activities we took for granted are paused, what more powerful reminder that we are guests on a moving, breathing earth.

This morning, my one hundredth morning in isolation, I enjoyed a handful of those fresh raspberries with my breakfast. Yoghurt streaked vibrant red, carrying a taste of childhood summers. I relish the flavour as much as I embrace the promise of hope and recovery that those raspberries have brought to me.

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