We stand now on the eve of midwinter, when the sun reaches the end of its long retreat. The change is not yet visible, but it is sensed. Light sits low and thin among the beech trunks, and shadow length changes not. The forest does not brighten, but it steadies, waiting.
Across northern Europe, this day was not marked by celebration, but by acknowledgement. The year had travelled as far into darkness as it could. People recognised that tomorrow the balance would tilt, almost imperceptibly at first, toward daylight. This expressed itself quietly. A lamp left burning later than usual. A hearth tended with care. A hope that the worst of the dark was nearly passed.
Our Forest reflects that mood. It does not flourish, but it endures. Ivy keeps its grip. Holly holds its leaves. Deer still move cautiously yet seemingly with less unrest. Paths that felt uncertain begin to seem familiar again. No one is expecting warmth but they are buoyed by the promise of lengthening days, minute by minute, added like beads to a string.
Winter isn’t vanquished, there are bitter, biting days to come but this turning point ensures that they will be met by longer light.
One day to solstice.