Inside my Hibernaculum

my winter manifesto

The gusts from the latest storm came in so fast that I didn’t have time to check that doors were secured and windows were closed. Drafts whistled through the gaps in the beams, strong enough to blow my hair, even indoors. From one side of the room to the next the gales sounded like an out of tune woodwind orchestra; dissonant and putting me on edge. Most of the time I forget that we’re an island nation in the UK. I’m far inland and don’t often make it to the coast, so it’s only in stormy weather that I remember this is all quite…normal? I make a mental note to check the shipping forecast later. I don’t sail nor am I a fisherman, but I listen because it soothes me. I’ve always made fun of my mother for being a Radio 4 Bore. It turns out that I’m also turning into one.

The past week has been extreme in many ways (for the UK anyway). Storms, gales and hammering rain have come in quick succession behind chilling temperatures that felt like they could shatter bone. But with these extremes, particularly the cold, came the most beautiful ice patterns, making frosted tapestries on glass surfaces. Even this month’s waxing Wolf Moon looked like it was made of ice crystals.

This weather is another excuse for me to do what I do best: make like a house cat. Every January (with or without extreme weather) I retreat into my hibernaculum. A hibernaculum (or hibernacula, plural) is a place in which an animal seeks refuge, such as a bear using a cave to overwinter. I first came across this word in a nature reserve. It was written on a sign indicating the location of a winter shelter for the wildlife. It felt like such a wonderful idea, a safe place for hibernating creatures to see out the winter months; a sort of "tent for winter quarters". I thought it sounded fitting and it resonated enough that since then I have been creating my own hibernaculum every winter (sadly without the actual hibernating part). But still, I am all for cosiness, warmth and rest, whenever I can get it.

I love January for all its plain stillness and quiet contemplation. I don’t pay any attention to it as a new year or the accompanying resolutions that try to assault my remaining sanity. I’m afraid I don’t even choose a word of the year. But I am all for nestling into my own winter quarters. My hibernaculum.

This is my accompanying Winter Manifesto, for when life won’t let me hibernate.

When the sky is felt grey, soft pools of amber lamplight bring succour to watery eyes. Woolly jumpers form an inbuilt hug, layered under cardigans and shawls, without a mirror in the vicinity to chastise the blurry edges. Soft landings on the sofa with thick woven blankets to cocoon stray extremities. Socks wrapped around hot water bottles then slipped around frozen toes. Slippers that swaddle and hold in the freshly acquired heat. Lip balm in every room and pocket to soothe when the wind has been unkind. A pot of steaming tea next to the sofa and a stash of biscuits to dunk. Furry collaborators seeking gaps in layers in exchange for extra body heat. Low lighting with warm tones and candles and absolutely no ceiling lights allowed. Vitamin D, faithfully. Spiced hot chocolate in my best mug. Thick hand cream with essential oils for smoothing and circulation. Peace, quiet, calm and slow breathing for even just part of the weekend. As for weekdays? I’m still learning to winter on the move.

Last night was a night of snuggling. Despite the winds becoming battering rams on each side of the house, I counted my blessings as I lay inside, warm and dry. I could feel myself dozing as the radio told me about Viking, increasing storm 10 or violent storm 11. “The roof” I thought. Will the roof be okay? Will we still have one in the morning?

If you enjoyed this post, perhaps you’d like to read some of my other seasonal journal entries. Below you’ll find a selection from my archive. Click on the headings to read more…

Notes from the Trees

Wassailing

The Birds

The Call of the Waves

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