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.

Hunting the Buck Moon

Ah, Buck Moon, the very name puts me in mind of a guy dressed in a baseball cap and checked shirt in the US tradition, a guy as adept at lounging in a bar as he is handy at the rifle range. Actually, buck moon is the traditional name for the July lunar body, since this is the time of year when male antlers are in full velvet and their owners are ready for mating. The twinning of the moon and deer is not as unlikely as it seems. In many Native American traditions, the buck is seen as a symbol of strength, virility, and the connection between the spirit world and the earthly realm. In Greek mythology, deer were sacred to Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and wilderness, representing grace, swiftness, and independence. In Celtic religions,  the stag was a symbol for the god Cernunnos, “The Horned One”. He was often portrayed with antlers himself, and was a god of the forest and wild animals. In Norse mythology, deer were among the most divine animals. Many people believe that deer are good omens. A peaceful, happy dream of a deer could indicate that your troubles are ending soon, and good fortune is a-coming. Actual deer crossing your path is a positive omen, a sign that you should be open to new ideas and opportunities in life. Ultimately, deer represent gentleness and emotional intelligence, something for the real Buck Moon’s of this world to remember when they go out hunting.

Strawberry moon...bite it to the pips!

The moon in June is known as the strawberry moon, most obviously because it is the time of year those delicious, nutritious scarlet berries come tumbling onto market stalls and into stores. The moon doesn’t actually turn into a giant strawberry though – rather a pity, in my book. However, it may take on a reddish tint as it ascends the horizon around the summer solstice – 20, 21, 22 – June. Actual strawberries attract all kinds of romantic associations, the only dark narrative being their part in Shakespeare’s Othello, when the titular character gives the ill-fated Desdemona a handkerchief embroidered with the berries, which leads her to incrimination and death. A bad moon rising, indeed. But I suspect the true emotion behind all of those luscious, lunar song lyrics (Blue Moon, Light of the Silvery Moon, Moonlight and Roses, et al) is the anticipation of the summer to come. You know, the longer, warmer days, the scent of flowers and cut grass, the taste of ripe summer berries, the days free of school, vacations at home and abroad, the long, lazy afternoons and star-studded nights...ah! Whatever ever the berry, I’ll bite the June moon to the pips.

Art, Sweet Art

Liquorice allsorts, super-sweet, vibrant and precision-cut, have always been a favourite candy of mine, those tongue-tingling cubes, discs and cylinders the result of 20th-century advances in food colouring and flavouring, the liquorice spirals inspired by the Watson and Crick discovery of DNA in the 1950’s, perhaps? On any day of the week, I can dive into a plastic pocket of the lovely things and ENJOY. It all begs the question: how came the liquorice allsort about? Liquorice is a gummy by-product of Glycyrrhiza Glabra, a type of flowering bean plant, native to Africa, Asia and southern Europe. The flavour is the result of the addition of anise or aniseed, to the sweet gum. Legend has it that in 1899, a Bassett's sales representative tripped over and dropped a tray of sweet samples he was showing a client. In his haste to re-sort them, the client was intrigued by the idea of a mixture of sweets and the Bassett company began to produce a variety of allsorts, liquorice among them. Possibly a food historian somewhere has charted the exact route from these ignominious beginnings to the varieties of LA we know today? Redolent of the colour-palettes and brushwork of Kandinsky and Mondrian, the functional forms of Bauhaus furniture and Lloyd-Wright architecture, these were truly the candies for the new century, as far from twee, lavender-scented Victoriana as Westminster is from the moon. By the 1930’s, advertising copywriter Frank Regan had created Bertie Bassett, a smiling, child-friendly version of writer Karel Capek’s machine man, ready to woo the kids of the 1900’s with. Whatever, all these thoughts of sweets has set my mouth a-watering, so I am off the purchase today’s plastic pocket and ENJOY.

April, the true honey moon

To me, the expression “flower moon” is laden with dubious notions of youths with long hair and fringed waistcoats, a la 1960’s, whiling the night away in narcotic-induced trances. But April has longed been known as the flower moon, most likely because it is the time of year when, following the Stygian winter months, the flowers appear. Again, it is all notional; because of our ever-erratic climate, those lovely pale pink and white blossoms that define early spring have already appeared and vanished from the trees near where I dwell, ditto the daffodils in the park. A pity, but at least it is a sign of the roses and gladioli and lavender flowers to come. No wonder that in ancient Rome, the Sabine people dedicated the month of April to Flora, goddess of flowers. In her honour, “courtesans” were encouraged to participate in the Floralia, games held in her honour. As a gesture, Flora gave mankind the gift of honey. And us lunar-ticks have another reason to be jubiliant: on this very day, April 8, lucky denizens of certain areas of North America, are about to witness a total solar eclipse, brought about by a hiatus in the position of the moon....cool! To those of you who can, enjoy.

Cracking Easter Open

To all of you scratching your heads over what to do during the Easter break, London-bound readers need look no further than the northern edge of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to the delectable, newly furbished Sir John Soane’s Museum. During the eighteenth century, Soane (1753-1837) was the most successful of neo-classical architects. Having made his fortune, he became one of those delightful collectors of objets: paintings and drawings (check out Canaletto, Hogarth, Watteau, Turner and more), Roman sculptures and medieval carvings, furniture and, in the midst of all, an Egyptian sarcophagus. Visiting the JS Museum is like stepping into the mind of an eccentric, all grace and elegance above stairs, with the wonderful, strange and downright weird in the basement: check out a madly-grinning monk among the medieval carvings, the stuff as nightmares are made on. The Museum is open Wednesday to Sunday, 10 am to 5 pm. It is normally closed Monday and Tuesday, but does open on Bank holidays. Bookings are obligatory for groups of eight or more. Individuals do not need to book; just walk in and entry is FREE. However, queues do build up in the afternoon - you will soon find out why – so early arrival is recommended. Their shop is stocked with quality goods, and toilets are in the basement. No cafe is available but the Museum is just a walk away from High Holborn, a site of pubs and eateries too numerous to mention. And if the day turns out fine, you can always enjoy an after-stroll in the glorious, grass and floral-walk Square – what’s not to love? Whoever you are, whatever you do, a cracking great Easter to you.

Wonderful, Wriggly Worm Moon

At one level, I rail and groan against having been born in the month that is defined by worms. The moon in March is called the worm moon because it is the time of year when earthworms, grubs and beetle larvae (eeeuch!) all wake up from their winter sleep. Worms rise to the occasion and bring nutrients and new life to the soil, thus awakening the land after the long and cold season. When I looked more deeply into the lore surrounding the wriggly little things, I discovered quite a romance. The word “Worm” is actually the Old English for dragon and the Anglo-Saxon god, Wotan, slew the worm or dragon and cut it into nine pieces. From these pieces the fabled nine herbs grew, for which the Lacnunga or The Lay of the Nine Herbs, was written. In other lores, the worm stands for cosmic energy, because it emerges when the sap, together with creative awareness, intuition and other cosmic energies, are rising. After all, the worm is related to the serpent – so the ancients believed – which has ever been a symbol of wisdom and eternity. So there, a wealth of comfort for us all. But if you other March bunnies really can’t stand it, this month’s moon is also known as the Crow Moon, Chaste Moon, Crust Moon, Sap Moon, Sugar Moon, or Lenten Moon. Take your pick.

No moon like a snow moon

Many years ago, I read a rather silly newspaper article, the writer arguing that “today’s children” are going to grow up without ever knowing snow (except in faraway ski resorts, picture postcards and Hollywood movies?) The savage winter of 2010-11 was yet in the future – what a baptism of ice for these youths! – and we have not exactly been strangers to the white stuff, since. But it does seem that snowfalls grow ever and ever scarcer. Of course, geography plays a part: right now, I bask in the mild and palmy clime of the south, while somewhere up north, schools and businesses are shut or compromised in other ways because of the hazards that a heavy fall brings. February is deemed “snow month” for obvious reasons, the colder part of winter occurring following the return of the sun. And has it inspired poets?
Oh, my: what a wealth of wintry words our language affords. Take “Thy silvery form so soft and fair/ Shining through darkness” (To a Wreath of Snow by Emily Bronte, 1818-1848) and “the sudden flurries of snow-birds, / Like brown leaves whirling by” (The First Snowfall by James Russell Lowell, 1819-1891) and the darker tones of “a snow-blown traveller sank from sight beneath the smothering bank” (Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl by John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892). Short of travelling abroad (and thus further exacerbating global warming) I believe it is just a question of awaiting a global temperature dip for the “white bees” (The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen, 1805-1875) to return and wreath us all in the cool stuff. Then once again, February will truly be snow month.

Happy 2024 to all.

At last, an interval in the sheet of wet that they call weather. And this allows us to see the moon and stars and night. And what a wonderful moon it is!! In Anglo-Saxon culture, January’s full moon was called the “Moon after Yule”, the ancient winter solstice festival. Also, intriguingly, it was called “wolf moon”. In days of old, when wolves were active in Northern Europe, February was the time for breeding and wolves become very vocal just before this. In addition, wolves are nocturnal animals and are more active at night. In North America and the few areas of Europe where they survive, wolves howl to communicate over long distances. It is their way of letting the pack know where they are and warning intruders to stay away. They actually howl in the direction of the moon, pointing their faces towards the sky, because this upward projection carries the sound further. Whatever you call it, it is the first of several moons of 2024. Watch this space.