AS a fan of TV property shows set in foreign parts, I know that the couple who plan to renovate a farmhouse in Andalucia and take up olive pressing stand little chance of surviving if they don’t speak like natives.
Chances are they’ll be back in Blighty within a year. As I have discovered, though, even within your own country there are places where you have to pick up the lingo fast. I’m not talking Gaelic or Glaswegian. When you move from city to country, there’s an entirely new vocabulary to learn. It includes words such as kiln dried, chimney sheep (sic) and Rockwool.
In these parts there is much discussion of Brexit, Donald Trump and independence, but they are trivial matters. The serious subject, on which every one has a position, is where to get the best logs, what sort and size, how to store them, protect and eke them out.
Sub-categories of this hot topic include insulation – cavity, loft, underfloor, cellar, interior, exterior – and how to mend a snow shovel.
Whether they live in an old cottage like ours, from which heat leaks faster than gossip from the White House, or have a cosy double-glazed bungalow, the exorbitant cost of heating and the cheapest ways of countering the cold are themes close to everyone’s heart.
Some things, of course, are never discussed, such as thermal underwear. Since nobody around here bends easily to tie their laces I assume that’s because it is a given.
During a lull in the snow last week, I watched a young man step out of his Glasgow flat for a fag and stand surveying the scene. He was bare-armed in a T-shirt. Goodness knows the setting on his thermostat, his own and that of his apartment, but it made me shiver just to look at him. Down in these parts, he wouldn’t last. If he went out like that, he would be found half an hour later, curled up like a comma around his packet of Benson and Hedges.
Urban dweller or farmsteader, the cold affects us all. But as recent weather has made all too clear, there’s a growing gulf between those who take the winter seriously and those who think it’s a temporary inconvenience best treated, like a drunk on the bus, by trying to
ignore it.
I find this a curious state of mind. It’s not as if winter comes as a surprise. It arrives every year in some form or another. Admittedly, it’s been growing less severe, but it is still a recognisable season.
It should be approached with respect, not annoyance; possibly even with pleasure. After watching the chaos caused by blizzards on the motorways, one neighbour, long used to driving in snow in the north, said people had lost this skill. As well as the technique required, sacking and a shovel are part of the essential kit.
But the art of wintering goes further than this. Nobody should venture out on the roads in the worst storms. (Even a snow plough got stuck in the village and needed tractors to pull it free.) When you are snug in your house or car, you forget the power of the cold.
Yet it can freeze and disorientate you in minutes. This is not to scare, but to state the obvious. When we go to hot countries, we know the drill: put on sunscreen and loose clothing, avoid the midday blaze and drink gallons of water.
Preparing for winter is no different. To those in rural parts, it is more troublesome because it’s more disruptive, yet there is an acceptance of it that suggests long familiarity and good sense.
Stores of provisions are laid down, likewise fuel and bird seed. It is not that the pace of life is necessarily slower in the country but that being prevented from getting around as usual is not an affront or outrage; it is simply to be expected.
Attitudes in the city, meanwhile, are more often of shock and dismay. How could a bus be cancelled or a shop run low on milk? People head out in bad weather dressed for the office or pub, thinking there will be only a dash between centrally-heated havens. Women hurry along snowy streets in Cinderella slippers, or heels as spiked as crampons, which you might think was a sensible choice were it not for the bare legs above them.
You just hope they find a taxi when they need to get home.
The Danes have tried exporting their winter wisdom, in the form of hygge: the concept of revelling in the darkest months by snuggling up in chic layers of wool, with candles and good food and friends.
And how persuasively appealing their philosophy is; only a Nordic country could make bed-socks look desirable.
And that is perhaps the root of our refusal to embrace winter as we should. There’s nothing glamorous about being swaddled in jumpers and scarves, taking sensible precautions when travelling and discussing with strangers the moisture reading on your last delivery of logs.
Yet there is a deep satisfaction in learning to live well in a cold climate. It’s even possible to grow to love it.
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