Winter Solstice, and we run to the river with whispered greetings, a cluster, making greater effort always for the riverbank’s high days and holidays. Home for a bath, midwinter candles, apple porridge, and Britten’s Ceremony of Carols, of which I was reminded by a transporting episode of Soul Music which captures well the weirdness and magic of the pieces. Thin indeed the veil between this world and others right now, knitted with tradition and ritual; I find myself seeing my father often, in the old, stooped men in our neighbourhood, and while I don’t grieve his absence — unhappy, unhappy presence that he became — I feel sad that he doesn’t get to be alive any more. For all the horrors this world may contain, he has also escaped every one of its pleasures.

It soon became clear that I had chosen the worst book we’ve read this year for our December bookclub, but it has been cancelled out by the memory of the excellent Lolly Willowes from the month prior; I think Sylvia Townsend Warner’s brief, odd, beautiful little work may be my own book of the year. Lolly’s flavour of ageing pragmatism and insistent solitude has made me think of it every day since, and recently a friend and I discovered in hushed but warmed tones how tired we each were of hearing the voices of twenty-somethings, like Lolly. Idealistic and fresh-eyed at best, mostly they seem crazy-paved with cynicism, marketed to since birth, with no concept of ‘selling out’ and only of being a strong personal brand, sure of everything, experienced of nothing; or maybe it’s the social media paradox: if one’s opinion seems worth broadcasting, statistically it probably isn’t. Memes, quips, irony: none of it is a diet to live on. (God, what a tiresome old hypocrite I’ve become.) And of course that’s a sweeping generalisation, of course there will be barrels of humble, hungry-to-learn, helpful and open-minded twenty year olds just like we weren’t, but when one starts to feel old — not old old, but lingering now in the doorway of old and peeping in with hope and dread — perhaps one pleasure at this brief transitory moment is recognising that these young voices haven’t yet become refreshing and rejuvenating, but are currently simply not what the doctor has ordered. Would my younger counterpart despair now at my growing love of long country walks, old churches and high church C of E pomp, drying fruit, raw broccoli, slippers, bird-spotting, gardening, naps? I suppose the greater point is whether I would care about her reaction. (I would not.)

After finishing the terrible book, I started The Dark is Rising again, and was beyond delighted as I sat beneath a dog in the twilight of Midwinter’s Eve, to discover that this classic children’s novel opens at that very moment, decades before. Is the Rider Welsh? I’m sure later his accent is more Danish, but for some reason he has Michael Sheen’s face in my mind this time around.

Right. The Yule log (black cherry for the Solstice, to distinguish it from the Christmas Day Yule log) needs to be finished, and the Solstice wreath lies in green pieces on the kitchen table, holly and fir, bramble and dried oak, waiting to be wired together by helpful housemates. There’s plenty on the radio at this time of year, but for humans being inspiring in various ways, might I recommend this episode of Criminal, this episode of Seth Rogen’s podcast, this episode of Hidden Brain, this episode of 60 Songs that Explain the 90s (or maybe festively this excellent one?), this episode of This is Love, this episode of The Untold, and/or any of these excellent Adam Buxton episodes. Listen to the wonderful Orla Gartland, watch this great and devastating bit by Cecily Strong, give any spare cash that might have gone on a Christmas night out to other clowns here or here. The days are getting longer now! Light returns. I hope you have some hope to light your way in these bananas times.