Memories of Seasons

The longer pause between the first sleep and second sleep of the night can be mistaken for insomnia - it is, however, a natural phenomenon. Rather than worry that 'I can't get back to sleep', one should use this natural return to the wakeful state for quiet contemplation; sleep should naturally come. The pause could be longer if you went to bed early, had a nap during the day or slept in the previous morning.

This was the case for me last night, I went to bed at 10pm, having slept in to 9am! During the break between sleeps, I pondered upon my childhood memories of the passing of seasons and came to an interesting conclusion - I have no recollections of spring! 

My awareness of the passing of the seasons would begin with the excitement of the approaching summer holidays - six weeks off school, playing in the garden as it filled with fruit - first, the berries, then as autumn approached - apples; long evenings, playing in the street - then the family vacation (five out of ten of my childhood holidays were to Poland or France). Summer would end; then there'd be the start of the new school year, all floor-varnish and Magic Marker smells - the onset of autumn, the nature table in our class, my birthday (usually rainy); wet horse-chestnut leaves in the park; mists; the days darkening. And then excitement as Christmas drew nearer, the chance of some brief snow, New Year - and then - nothing. No more seasonally inspired emotions until the end of the school year, class outings to London or Windsor Castle - and then the long, lazy, summer holidays again.

Spring only really got to me as a teenager; leaves reappearing on branches, the gradual onset of greenery in the garden and in Cleveland Park; birdsong; longer evenings as the clocks went forward. Yet somehow, my appreciation of the waxing year, spring in bloom, didn't strike me as a child. Only the waning year; that overhanging melancholia as summers came to an end, bright days replaced by foggy, damp autumns by the black-and-white television and the orange glow of electric fires; the encroaching darkness and appearance of Christmas lights in the high street, the magic of snow. 

Other than the lilacs on the tree in the back garden, and magnolia in bloom in the front garden, I can't say I ever noticed flowers as a child. (Now as I write, I can recall lilies of the valley growing just outside the back door. But I can't even remember in which month they or the lilacs and magnolia blossomed.)

Perhaps it has something to do with the temperate climate of the British Isles; snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils can appear in February; winters are short and mild, and so the passing from winter into spring is long and not well defined. In Poland, springs tend to explode - I have experienced the change from snow on ground to T-shirt weather in one week. Here, winter, a drab, grey, damp, monotonous winter, drags on and on, right into early April.

Perhaps it has something to do with the school year, perhaps with me having been born in October, my earliest firm memories going back to Christmas 1959, when I was two years, two months and three weeks old. The Christmas tree, decorations and presents anchoring the seasons at the year's darkest point.

"Sunshine, I'm only dreaming,
Sunshine, I'm only dreaming... 

But this is England on a winter's afternoon,
There is no sun, there's just a pale and tired moon,
And shivering sparrows on the smoking chimney tops,
And all the children suffer from cold and flu and raindrops"

- from Don't Stop the Carnival by the Alan Price Set (a hit in early-1968, when I was ten)

Whatever the reason, I feel no connection with spring in childhood in the same way I can connect with memories of summer, autumn and winter. Which is strange - because right now, I crave it, knowing that spring is still 11 to 13 weeks away. I'm craving something that, as I child, I was hardly aware of. Unlike Poland, where spring can explode out of winter in a matter of days, in England it's a long, subtle process lasting from the first snowdrops (late January), to trees in full leaf (early May). Too weak to even recognise for a child.

This time last year:
Pictures in the Winter Sun
[Could do with a glimmer of some right now!]

This time two years ago:
Magic sky

This time three years ago:

Too good to skip over

This time five years ago:
The Hunt for Tony Blair
[Apologies to UK readers - the YouTube link is geo-blocked there]

This time seven years ago:
Lux Selene

This time ten years ago:
David Cameron, Conservatism and Europe

This time 11 years ago:
Citizen Action Against Rat Runners

This time 12 years ago:
Moni at 18 (and 18 months)

This time 13 years ago:
Building the S79 - Sasanki-Węzeł Lotnisko, midwinter