Family

Latitude vs Attitude

Legend has it, there exists in this world a curious type of person who proclaims winter to be their favourite season.  I’ve never encountered such a person and doubt that we’d share more than passing pleasantries if we did meet.  Certainly, we could never hold down a genuine friendship, on account of how I tend to leave the country once the north wind begins to blow and the agonising countdown to Christmas commences.  We could be pen pals, at most.

I blame my parents for my barefoot ways and my insatiable need for vitamin D.  My Australian father is a legitimate sufferer of S.A.D. and a genuine candidate for light therapy.  My mother was a Sagittarian sun-chaser who believed that if she did not travel physically then her mind would travel – in other words, she would go completely and irrevocably mad.  Neither parent demonstrated much tolerance for the winter months.  My father would frequently pepper conversations with the following fun fact: “The weeks between your mother’s birthday on 24th November and my birthday on 17th January are the darkest six weeks of the year”.  Their solution to winter was to escape it, whenever possible.  I never stood a chance, did I?

photo 2I accept that I am a fairweather Brit, that I love my country but only when its skies are smiling at me.  I can take the abuse thrown at me by friends when I mention a flight booked, or a foreign adventure fantasised.  I am a lizard who soaks up the sun, a seasonal escape artist who misses the X-Factor final because I’m usually ankle deep in sand.  It’s simply who I am, and it has never concerned me.  Until now.

Now, life has taken a different shape.  No longer the drifter, I am now the nine-to-five-er, the post-work-grocery-shopper.  I made a choice to be here, beside my man while he carves out a beautiful creative existence and puts his stamp on the thespian world.  Currently, he is the artist, the drifter, the dreamer, the freelancer, and I’m OK with that for a while  But here’s the crux of the matter: I am not in the least bit mentally or physically equipped to endure the impending winter.  I can’t change my latitude this year, so I need a plan.  Pronto.

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I’ve often entertained the idea of becoming one of those “man up and knuckle down” types, but could never grasp the key ingredients of turning that concept into reality.  However two events occurred, not so long ago, which confirmed that it’s time I try: I purchased my first onesie and subsequently declined an invitation to a fun social engagement in order to stay home and suffocate in the hot, fleecy heaven of said onesie.  I literally hid, and felt guilty for being a social let-down.  It was Saturday night, people, Saturday night.  But with perfect cosmic timing, a game-changing article came to my attention, outlining the practice of hygge; the Danish notion of cramming as much guilt-free, feel-good, fun-loving, family-centred, book-reading, duvet-swaddling, dog-walking, pastry-indulging, cinnamon-scented cosiness into life as is humanly possible.  I don’t believe I need guidance on how to enjoy life in general, but as I believe we have established I could do with a few pointers between the dark months of October and February, and finally I discovered something of great impact.  

These clever, inspiring Danes allow themselves – without apology – to indulge in whatever makes them feel positive.  They don’t deny themselves experiences which will increase their happiness, nor do they force upon themselves experiences which will induce stress.  Hygge has no literal translation in English, but my understanding of the sentiment goes something like this: however simple, if it feels/smells/tastes/sounds/appears lovely in any way to you personally, seize that little bit of magic and glide with it all the way to Spring.  If lighting a few candles makes you feel snug and peaceful, knock yourself out. If your idea of rock and roll is cooking quesadillas in your slippers for a bunch of friends who are also wearing their slippers, then rock on.    

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I’m now officially obsessed with hygge.  Each day I evaluate activities, emotions, invitations, ideas, items and sensory experiences by how hygge they are.  If they’re not hitting at least an 8/10, forget about it.  My wardrobe door even displays a list I’ve compiled – mostly red wine and open fires – as a daily reminder of Nice Things About Winter.  And, quite crucially, I’m curbing the guilt feelings of my inner social butterfly – the one who hates cancelling plans – because if I don’t nourish myself during this testing period, my loved ones won’t want to spend time looking at my miserable face anyway.  I’m fairly certain that somewhere over the waters, there was a Danish version of me wearing a similarly ridiculous onesie on that very same Saturday night, ignoring calls from her trendy, vodka-sipping friends, and she didn’t feel a shred of guilt for having taken the quiet, cosy option.  She is now my heroine.

So I may not love rain, or illness, or frozen windscreens, or dressing in layers, and I may never give up dreaming of warmer climes, but I do love the concept of hygge with all it can teach me –  and by conjuring all the cosy optimism I possess, I will make it out the other side.   

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Two Hearts, Two Hemispheres

Sunset in the southern hemisphere

Sunset in the southern hemisphere

My heart lives in two hemispheres

Two nationalities claim to own me

Two countries try to keep me

Two cities aim to delight me

 

My heart lives in two hemispheres

I have loved ones in both

I have possessions scattered here and there

I’ve called both halves my home

 

My heart lives in two hemispheres

It longs for both, in tormenting greed

It may live and breathe in the south

But in the north it truly beats

 

My heart lives in two hemispheres

Neither right, neither wrong

But in the north another heart beats

And with that heart, my heart belongs

Sunset in the northern hemisphere

Sunset in the northern hemisphere

60 Minutes with Bethan Roberts

Interview with author Bethan Roberts (first published in the Fiveways Directory)

It’s the morning after the launch party of her new book, and local author Bethan Roberts confesses to being a little fatigued (not that you’d know it from looking at her; she’s fresh-faced, smiley and impeccably dressed. I like her instantly).  When she presents me with a hardback copy of Mother Island I’m so thrilled I almost crack the spine and begin reading on the spot.  Remembering my manners, and the point of our meeting, we begin to discuss her source of inspiration.

Mother Island

The story is set in isolated Anglesey, a ruggedly beautiful island where Roberts spent time as a child, but rather than focusing on the island’s history, this story observes a more contemporary, domestic issue.  “When I started writing it I’d had a baby about a year earlier and I didn’t have time for the research a historical novel requires, so I decided to bite the bullet and write about what I knew: babies.  I’d employed a part time childminder and I started considering what it was like to be a nanny, to love those children and every night give them back.”  Pondering this whilst navigating her own fears as a mother lead her to write an utterly engaging tale which explores a darker side to childcare, and deals with what happens if the nanny doesn’t give the baby back.

“The experience of putting yourself in someone else’s shoes is really what writing novels is about,” explains Roberts, as we discuss the main character, Maggie, who abducts two-year-old Samuel from his family in a misguided quest to rebuild her shattered life.  Through opposing character perspectives, the novel dives into the fragile dynamics between parent and childminder; a delicate balance of authority, understanding, power and, most crucially, trust.

BETHAN ROBERTS, PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHARLIE HOPKINSON.

With Mother Island firmly on store bookshelves, Roberts must shift her focus to her next creation.  But she says she’s unlikely to complete anything in local coffee shops, joking that whilst she loves “feeling connected” to the area and having a sense of belonging, bumping into friends and neighbours is a slippery slope towards every writer’s worst enemy: procrastination.

Full of endearing modesty, Roberts leaves me with a list of “must-reads” by other authors, including her recent favourite, The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, hailing it a “wonderful” and “generous” book.  But it’s Mother Island I’m most keen to devour, and moments after her departure I’m immersed in the first chapter.  Perhaps it’s her ability to tackle uncomfortable subjects with effortless empathy, or the suspense she generates from page one, but for the next hour I’m unable to answer the phone or do anything besides let my imagination wander to that mysterious island and all the secrets it promises to reveal.

A Moment of Empathy

It’s an enduring image, the woman’s expression.  Her face is rigid, pinched with pain.  She’s losing her home and trying not to dissolve, but the magnitude of the event is triumphing over her emotional poise.  It’s 1992 and all my 8 year-old brain can think of is racing upstairs to my new room in the roof.  But this woman crying in the kitchen is reluctant to leave and it seems callous to hurry her.  We stand, awkwardly silent. Everything about the moment is acutely uncomfortable.  Eventually she relinquishes the keys.  Her home becomes our home, our joy becomes her sorrow.