A glorious end of year to all readers.

Yes, it’s that time again, 28 days since the last lunar event.
Just now we are hailing the “cold moon” in the sky.
For cold, read December.
Oddly, the name does not have any warm connotations of birth, re-birth or Nativity. It simply says what it is, the moon that hails the three coldest months of the year, December, followed by that deadly duo, January and February. The lack of reference to jolly Saturnalia is most likely because the 13-times yearly lunar cycles is rarely in synch with the quarterly solar calender, that is, the two solstices, plus the longest day and the shortest day. But whatever the reason, we can simply enjoy the lovely lustre of the December moon adding a touch of cosmic nous to the countless millions of artificial twinkles that grace our planet at this time. Until the light of 2025 sheds upon us all, a glorious end of year to all readers.

A super-sized Christmas to you

‘I hate Christmas,' said my sister angrily, one Christmas morning. 'I hate it; I wish they'd abolish it.'
'Yup, it's all humbug,' I replied, in effort to empathise. 
Friend, for me, Christmas is simply a time for loosening the belt, for eating and sleeping a bit more and working a bit less, for joining in family/friend networks, finishing books (both the reading and the writing of) and watching loads of silly DVDs. Which is why, a little later, I watched in growing astonishment as said sister, still in red/white Christmas jammies, went and steam-ironed lengths of mysterious, red-tinged net fabric and tied them into super-sized bows at the backs of the dining chairs. While I am far from bearing the mindset of Charles Dickens's famous miser, I do wonder at the mentality of a woman who holds a job as a TA, and looks after a husband, a cat and two daughters all at once, who grumbles vitriolically at the sheer amount of work that goes into the season of goodwill, and then who can still find it in her to transform her rational home into a Hollywood-ish, White (and red)  Christmas theme park.  And yes, I've said many times that Christmas is a feast of irrationality. But on that occasion, my sister was beyond all reason so I stood in solidarity, supporting her fantasy of the "perfect" Christmas. Whatever, we had a wonderful time that year, and we have upheld that ethos ever since, super-sized bows or no.
Whoever you are, whatever you do, a super-sized Christmas to you.

Horrible name, lovely sight

Every school kid is aware of the Anglo-Saxon nomenclature of our days of the week. Tiu was the god of warfare and battle, and gave us Tuesday or "Tiu's day", likened to Mars in the Roman religion. Woden, the leader of the Wild Hunt was one of the chief gods of the Anglo-Saxons before the Christian era. He gave us the modern Wednesday or Woden’s day. Thunor was the god of thunder, who ruled the storms and sky. His name gave rise to the modern Thursday or "Thunor's Day". Frig "Friday" was the goddess of love, wisdom, and was the wife of Wōden. She was one of the most powerful goddesses and quite possibly gave rise to the popular female name "Freya”. The A-S names of the months never quite stuck, however. This is not surprising when we consider that in Old English, November was known as "blodmonath" or "blood moon". It is as horrible as it sounds; a time when all "surplus" animals were slaughtered and rendered into meat so they would not have to be fed through the winter. Presumably, the trusty Anglo-Saxons hung on to enough animals for milking. I don't exactly know when this custom began and ended (I hope it has). With the glorious November moon now gracing our skies, it is time to leave this grisly past behind.

Big Beaver Moon

You don’t often hear it for the modest, hard-working little beaver. That’s because they are, well, modest and hard-working. But last night, I just happened to gaze out the window and straight into the face of the newly-risen beaver moon: yes folks, that’s what they call the October one. It was large and round and lustrous and every bit as magical as the October full moon should be. Like I said, you don’t often hear it for the modest little beaver. Lacking the glamour of, say, the cat family, they shun publicity and devote their time to building dams and houses – you might add tree lopping to that. Truly, the talent of the beaver is jaw dropping. Aside from an unfortunate resemblance to Boris Johnson, you can’t praise this little creature too highly. Using nothing but their teeth, they gnaw the trunk of a tree until that critical moment that every lumberjack knows; the trunk breaks and crashes down onto the ground. Then, beaver sets to work on newly-fallen tree, gnawing it into logs and chewing off the branches.
Using his skill as an underwater swimmer and navigator, beaver drags his material and inserts it into just the right area of his own dam to prevent the breaches and floods that might follow. Beaver lives in his lodge, address ‘Penthouse upon Dam’, together with Mrs Beaver and the little beavers. Some years ago, doyens of a television creature-feature placed a movie camera inside a beaver lodge. But a clever inmate came along, peered into the lens and, knowing an intrusion had happened, covered the alien eye with a branch – no Big Beaver House on television that year. What I want to know is, at what stage of evolution did they, their brains hard wired for tree lopping, building design, repair and maintenance, underwater swimming, detecting movie cameras, decide not to evolve any further? Perhaps it was that resemblance to the former prime minister? In the light of the full beaver moon, let’s give these enterprising little architects their rightful recognition, now.

Wicked Uncles and Haunted Cellars

It is many years since I first read Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen and I still remember rolling about with laughter at the sketch of the gothic heroine’s adventures as painted by hero Henry Tilney. Curiously, I had not read any truly gothic narratives at that hour of my life. But as a creature of the film and television age, I recognised all of the motifs that storytellers and movie directors use to hook an audience, the uncertain young woman arriving at the unfamiliar house (or mansion or castle) – to work, to live, whatever – who happens upon an unspeakable secret and ends up fighting, possibly for her life and/or those of others. The genre had been initiated by Horace Walpole, who penned his seminal novel, The Castle of Otranto in 1764. This ignited an insatiable readership for tales of innocent maidens in peril, of mysterious documents begging to be deciphered, frantic journeys across unfamiliar terrain, coffins in the crypts and bats in the belfries of rambling, ruined castles. In the late 1700s, writers such as Ann Radcliffe and Clara Reeve seized upon the seed sown by Walpole and produced novels that were eagerly bought by a newly-literate female readership. Why did Walpole write his novel and what were the reasons for the proliferation of its successors? And why did Jane Austen pour such vitriol upon it? It is in an attempt to answer these and other questions that I wrote my book, Wicked Uncles and Haunted Cellars: What the Gothic Heroine Tells Us Today . It has just been published by Greenwich Exchange https://greenex.co.uk/home/p/wicked-uncles-and-haunted-cellars Over the coming months, I take an alternative look at gothic motifs, black cats, skeletons, etc. – or you can just read the book. In the meantime, check out this picture of the ghost of Horace as he works.

Shine on, Harvest Moon

What is it about the harvest moon? What is it about the cosmic body that rolls perpetually about the earth, reflecting the light of the sun and causing the tides to swell and recede? Whatever it is, it always seems more potent at this time of year. It is partly geological, of course. It seems that at or near the eqinoxes, the moon appears larger in the sky because day and night are supposedly of equal length. No, I don’t understand why either. But I recognise a glorious beacon of light when I see one. But why has the spring moon, the one of six months’ earlier, not risen to the occasion and inspired not one but two great songs titled Springtime Moon, as in Harvest Moon?
The delectable later Harvest Moon, released by Neil Young in 1998 is still routinely played at weddings. The lyrics of the earlier version, redolent of ragtime bands and crooning vocalists “snow time is no time to go outside and spoon” seem rather odd today. But the song is ever evocative of lazy, sleepy late summer and early autumn. Before the advent of artificial lighting, the harvest moon may indeed have seemed magical, enabling workers to toil late into the evening, taking home those final stooks of grain before the autumnal rains set in. What with granaries groaning and barns bursting with food for the forthcoming winter, it was time to feast and dance, to hang out and make love, to reflect the heat and warmth absorbed in the days of the now-dying summer. From that point of view, the spring moon, though it is the same beacon that shines, does not have the same potency. Whenever, I’ll be out to greet the harvest moon when she arrives. So, shine on, harvest moon, oh shine on...

Fishing for Sturgeon Moon

Soon, with the summer fading swiftly away, the sturgeon moon will rise in the sky. Already, the brilliant greens in evidence at the height of the season are giving way to tans and golds and yellows, while proto blackberries are on the bramble bushes – ah, why is it that even the promise of autumn brings out the poet in a body? No wonder the fame of poor, short-lived Keats has endured so long: “And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep/ Steady thy laden head across a brook;/ Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,/ Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.” Nor have I ever seen Autumn keeping his laden head steady as he crosses a brook, or looking patiently at a cider press ooozing with juice. In fact, I’ve never even seen a cider press in use. But it all makes for wonderful imaginings, which is why the thought of sturgeon fish convening in rivers and streams to mate and lay spawn is so endearing. Yes, this is the time of year they do it, and who said romance is dead? Just think, the moolight filtering the water while all those little fishy mouths meet and fall for each other and...what happens next is probably best left to the imagination (except for graduate naturalists and David Attenborough). But I do assure you, all over the land, underwater debutante balls are taking place, and love unions are forged to ensure the next generation of sturgeon - and where would we be without such fishy goings-on?
Enjoy the rest of summer.