Winter

The weather closed in and the ferry changed to the winter schedule.  Winter brings a different set of visitors to the village.  Artists, writers and the sort looking for solitude.  Our village is quite accessible, the temperature seldom goes below zero, but the hills and the mountains are too dangerous in the worst weather and too miserable in the best.  So the hotel, and the other places of accomodation, offer longer lets and reduced rates.  We have a few regulars but only a few.  Some successful authors whose books get a prominent place in the bookshop window each winter, even if they have not wintered in the village for years.  It gives the aspiring writers hope, and reassures them they have made the right choice in wintering with us.  

The winter is quiet.  I still come to the harbour every day, of course.  We have little traffic other than the ferry, very little in the winter months, so much of my time is spent in solitude in my office.  Though I am not the creative type, and my storytelling does not extend beyond laboured recordings of the facts as I recall them, I can appreciate the gift of my office in winter.  It has windows on three sides giving me a panoramic view of our corner of the lake, on two sides the walls drop straight to the water, on the third is the deck on which I read my book on sunny afternoons.  There is no window onto the road behind my office so when I do not leave my office in winter I do not see the village, do not need to nod or say hello to my fellow villagers.  On the days when the ferry does not come I regularly do not see another’s face.  Particularly on days when the rain is forming patterns and rivulets on my windows and the wind is sighing then rushing then sighing then rushing.  I don’t listen to the radio as I have to keep the airwaves clear for messages from boats.  Of course I could listen quietly to a little music, or a news station, but I prefer the soundscape of the harbour.  The waves on the harbour wall.  The creaking of the beams and struts.  The aforementioned wind and the patter, or drumming, of the rain on my roof.  The winter light on the lake is even and consistently grey, a light grey on clear days and a dark grey when the storm clouds drive in.

Winter is a time of contrasts, when the ferry comes in there may be fewer passengers but there are more villagers to collect their deliveries.  Flour for the baker, veg for the grocer, meat for the butcher, wine for the vintner, even books for the bookseller.  My friend always has something for the hotel, I put his order aside and will often take it to him as I know how busy he gets.

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