Anois teacht an earraigh…

“Anois teacht an earraigh, beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh¹”

— Now with the coming of spring, the days will be getting longer.

No room on Inis Meáin stays silent or still for the singing of Cill Aodáin; shoulders sway gently as lake water, winter-paled faces brighten, fatigue-widened eyes soften slightly. I wonder did Antaine Raiftearaí ever know anything of the weight of his words? Did ever he think a line of his would become an alleluia to the winter-wearied? That line alone is medicine-melodic, tonal tonic.

For little is more welcome on a ‘wet rock in the Atlantic’² than the news that spring is coming.

A word or two on winter, if I may. The climate here is more temperate than that of the mainland, less given to downpours and freezing cold. But the air is damp having come from the sea, it’s full of water, it is cloud. So, it’s not extremes of weather that gets us, but a dismal and dispiriting mist.

Is the winter awful, horrendous? It is not.

Is it my favourite? It is not.

It’s like a head cold; one cannot say they’re truly sick, but neither are they firing on all cylinders.

Winter on the island takes a bit of resilience. In a seemingly isolated place, little occurs in isolation; colds and doses rarely limit themselves to one house, neither do apathy, crankiness or pessimism. When the land is grey and the sea is sullen, it’s easy to get in to giving out. When visibility is no further than the garden gate, being grand takes effort. That said, give us one bright day and watch gladness spread like prairie fire.

It depends on perspective, I suppose. I find winter here a bit pedestrian – there’s little by way of surprise after three months with 150 people – but my pedestrian is another’s secure. Likewise, what I consider cosy is likely claustrophobic to another.

-Any news?

-Sure where would I get news?

-Fair point.

Is tar éis na Féile Bríde ardóidh mé mo sheol… Oh Antaine, babe, just say the word, and our sails will be ready and raised. This early, signs of spring are hard spotted but change is afoot. Blue gaps between clouds have been spotted. The seed potatoes are being ordered from Donegal. Nine hours of daylight is a grand stretch of one whole hour and a half!³

Daffodils have appeared, long and lovely and lush. They’re surely the sign of spring? No says a learned friend; daffodils don’t count, they’re not wildflowers. Primroses, violets, and the blossoms of blackthorns are where it’s all at. And she’s right, for wildflowers in all their speckled, flecked, mottled, marbled colour embody our contentment here. When the wildflowers return, she and they are like old friends reunited. In buds and shoots and petals’ opening she measures spring.

My version of spring isn’t measurable (and thus difficult to keep sight of when I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when…). Spring for me is an effect, a sensation; scarcely measurable, simply felt. It’s an energy, a ravenous appetite for finding and feeling beauty. The sacred trinity of brightness, growth and creativity. A hyper-alertness to the draíocht, the magic, to that magnetic force of the west coast of Ireland that plays havoc with senses and sensibilities and seduces us silly. It’s a lightness of being; my body powered by wonder and a ferocious energy for absorbing it, processing it and channelling it outward.

Ah yes, outward. Or out; days-out, going-out, the outgoing, outrageous and outstanding, out in the air, out and about, mad for out.

And winter forgotten, all over again.

In the mean-time, there is now. A gale warning in place, no boats Thursday morning. What I left the house in this morning would see me across the Arctic. Aye, another while of being damp, and just slightly cold all the time. But I can do another while, for the beginning is nigh.

Brigid’s Day has passed, my sail is raised. Spring is coming.

Raiftearaí an file tells us so.