Warm Heart

I know Spring is arriving and all, what with the daffodils and birdsong and general lightness in the air, but I’m still absolutely freezing. I’m sitting at my desk in full thermal base layers and two pairs of socks, but it’s not really helping. I just can’t get warmth into my bones.

A quick (ill-advised) internet search suggests all sorts of serious reasons for this: old age (thanks); low metabolism; blood sugar issues; anaemia; poor circulation; peripheral artery disease. Gosh. I’d really rather just blame my genes. Granny was always cold and would screech at us kids to “shut the door!” if we were popping in and out of the living room. Mum is the same and is never, ever, without a long-sleeve vest, even in the height of summer. A 1980s heatwave was possibly the last time Mum wore a T-shirt. And she didn’t like it.

The young ‘uns today are wearing shorts in all seasons, and I keep spotting them strutting around outside with not a care in the world. It could be fashion and influencer-based (I know), or they may genuinely not feel the cold. But even a flash of a bare ankle on a cold day makes me shiver and draw my scarf tighter round my neck.

Surely we should be stoic Celts who can withstand all sorts of inclement weather and strong winds? There are colder places to live. But my friend, Swedish Sara, has always said that it feels colder here in Ireland than at her home, where temperatures can reach minus 13. The damp air and general greyness seems to seep into our bodies. The Scandis have somehow mastered this. My forays into Swedish saunas during our year out in the van were a revelation: hot, hot, hot room; deep, deep, deep breaths; and finally, warm bones. Stepping out from those pine huts into a cold outdoors, with bare feet and arms and legs, I felt at one with the world. Who’d have thought that I could feel the breeze on my skin and simply smile and close my eyes? No shivering here. A cool outdoor shower woke me up in places I’d never even known I was asleep.

Why do nice plants hate me?

I’m in here!

I’ve always loved the idea of living in a jungle, nothing but birds and wild creatures for company. I was inspired (scarred?) by ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ as a child and imagined a future life as a kind of Mrs Dolittle who could live in a cave and go a bit wild. My friendly gorillas would protect me from harm and we’d all have a great old time.

Ah, the innocence of childhood dreams. Instead of becoming an explorer I stayed put, finding jobs here and there (none of which involved animals of any kind never mind Rwandan silverbacks). And anyway, Dame Jane Goodall – official legend – has primate expertise covered.

So what’s left? The jungle. I grew up in a house filled with books and plants, walking along the hallway would invariably involve getting poked in the eye with a spiky leaf, so I assumed there would be something in the genes that would make me green-fingered. Mum is great with plants so shouldn’t that pass down the generations?

Turns out: no. Over the years I’ve brought countless plants home and lovingly tended to them (on one memorable occasion even talking to one) but to no avail. All too soon the leaves wilt, drooping down in despair that they were the unlucky ones to end up in my house. On especially melancholy days I picture the scene in the garden centre as plants nudge one another and close their eyes in the hope that I won’t choose them. I’ve tried using less water, using more water, pretending I don’t care (as if the offending plant is a cat and I can tempt it to love me by feigning indifference), and pleading with them to stay alive.

Nothing works. But somehow one grew tall and strong and healthy and I would tip toe past, genuinely impressed, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke a leaf in case it recoiled at my touch. This outlier now resides with Auntie Anne (who selflessly stored all our stuff during the year out) and it is the happiest plant in all the land – it even sported tiny lights during the winter. 

So I have no greenery to speak of in the house, no seedlings waiting to hatch, and no gorillas either. But the garden is another story, it’s bursting into life right now with daffodils and primroses and tulips all showing their faces after a long winter. 

The view from the shed is endlessly delightful. Birds taking a bath in an old tin container, bees bumbling in the wind, seagulls dive-bombing crows on neighbours’ rooftops. And look at those yellow flowers – maybe I’m an outdoor explorer after all?