Open Writing

Unbelievably, it’s Christmas again.

In the Southern Hemisphere, it’s usually blazing hot; while in the north, as most people know, it can be cold, wet and frequently snowing.

But a few days before Xmas is December 22nd – the shortest day of the year, the longest for us here of course – and that reminds me of another longest day of the year – June 22nd 1974, on which I decided to see if all I had read about the sun never setting on the longest day was really true. After finishing work behind the quiet bar in the discrete country house hotel in the Scottish Borders, serving conservative measures of good malt whisky to the local farmers, landowners and their wives and daughters – none of whom ventured anything stronger than, ‘a Ginger Square for you, Mother, and a Baby Cham fur me bonny wee girrrls’, I finished my shift, and climbed the stairs to my attic bedroom to change.

Staff always get the worst rooms, the ones that nobody would pay good money to occupy when away on holiday, although they’d be more than satisfied with them if they were in their own homes, and although my room was Spartan, it was nevertheless perfectly adequate and had something none of the other luxury rooms did not. Wonderful 180 degree views of woods thick with bluebells and primroses in the spring; the curving driveway bordered with floods of 22 varieties of daffodils and narcissi; the beautiful rolling hills and the distant slate roofed town of Peebles, it’s sturdy granite buildings standing foursquare against the winter winds, provided a panorama of beauty and activity that frequently held me spellbound.

Standing with a bed-sheet or hairbrush held motionless in my hand, I would listen to the bleating of newly born lambs, the neighing of the ponies, the lilting of a cuckoo calling for its mate, and late at night, the lonely calls of curlews flying overhead, navigating by the light of the stars. I got it all free while guests paid for the privilege of vacationing in this wondrous place.

Slipping into slacks and a pair of sturdy boots, I tied a warm pullover across my shoulders and let myself out of the gracious old house, closing the door behind me. Passing the walled garden where the fruit on the espaliered apricot and peach trees was ripening slowly against the sun-warmed walls, the last thrush and robin had flown to its nest, bodies well-nourished by a day spent foraging for worms, ripe black and red currants, strawberries and new peas in the netted cages to the fury of Hudson, the highly skilled, dedicated Highland gardener, I followed the unmetalled road up the hill, picking my way across the increasingly rough ground. Soon it became nothing more than a stony path and panting slightly with the steepness of the climb, I walked on quietly. A group of roe deer, still chewing on young spruce shoots stepped out of the woods unaware of my approach. A doe, young fawn at foot suddenly glimpsed my approach and with a sudden flick of her white tail they all turned on their heels, and vanished into the undergrowth.

At last, I gained the top of the hill, and there, lying like a child’s puzzle was what I’d come to see. Purple heather slopes intersected by small burns rippled and gurgled as they made their way through the peaty uplands, gaining strength and speed as they dropped over the escarpment to became tumbling waterfalls. Monolithic slabs of slate and granite stood on an ancient tableland where rabbits frolicked. Two feuding hares, huge ears aggressively erect, delivered lightning kicks to their opponent’s stomachs - intent on the duel which would establish their supremacy over the only female in the area.

But best of all, was the sky.

Apricot coloured, banded with lilac and pink where the evening star and a silver sickle moon rose in the east, the sun was still lambent. In these latitudes, it does not set during these ‘White Nights’ only touching the horizon before appearing to rise again an hour or two later.

I glanced at my wristwatch. The hands stood at 2 am. So, it really was true. The longest day of the year: and what better setting could one have for a “Christmas in June” - peace on earth, goodwill to all men, and beauty all around.