Posts
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| African violets need the sun |
My daughter has just returned from a stint in Prague where the temperature slowly climbed its way from 2 to 18 degrees C...spring, apparently! She's been complaining about the weather here since she came back. When I asked what she, a born-and-bred Capetonian, was going on about, she had two words for me - central heating.
I must admit that I've been alternating between huddling over the heater in my study or melting my slippers beside the fire in the living room. Either winter has set in with quite a vengeance or that dirty little word, age, is responsible. But, there are few countries in the world where, in the middle of winter, you can experience the sunshine that we've had for the last few days.
“There’s
no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes,” the pragmatic Swedes say,
while wrapped up in several layers. Woolly hats and scarves, stout
sheepskin-lined boots and jackets zipped up to their chins, is standard gear
from October to April. We’ve experienced the country’s many moods, a reflection
of the changes in weather. The seasons are defined, decisive and distinct,
unlike the weather in Cape Town which, like a teenager with too much choice,
swings wildly from one season to the next, often in the same day.
I’ve
inhaled the crisp fresh air in spring, heralded by wild yellow daffodils
bravely pushing their way up out of half-frozen soil. The country, emerging
from months of enforced hibernation, seems to have a bounce in its step as it
re-discovers itself. There’s anticipation in the new green leaves and a
not-quite-warm-enough sun which nonetheless shines brightly in a clear blue
sky. I’ve been tricked into shedding my scarf and jacket only to quickly regret
having exposed myself to what masquerades as warmer weather.
Summer is a time to celebrate. As the school year comes to an end, Swedes prepare to enjoy a five-week, nationwide paid siesta to worship the sun’s rays. But more of that later, since Midsummer is coming up.
In the damp chill of autumn, when gentle rains fall from gloomy skies, the changing leaves float reluctantly down to the ground and quiet wisps of mist swirl through the trees. After an indulgent summer it’s time to get serious before the October snow falls. As the light starts to dwindle the locals scurry around like squirrels preparing to hibernate.
I haven’t been to Sweden in winter when darkness falls as early as 15h00 and friends say the drop in temperature causes a personality-change. Drinks on the wooden deck become a distant memory replaced by furtive dashes in and out of the garage. On St Lucia’s Day in December, processions of children led by a girl with a crown of candles, sing songs to bring light into the darkest month. I'm not sure that I would survive. I often joke that I'm like an African violet, I need the sun.
Mediaeval traditions, to keep witches and evil spirits away, mark the end of the season. On 30 April a bonfire bids the cold farewell and welcomes the beginning of spring. The accumulated debris and leaves which have been vigorously swept up are piled high and set alight. Neighbours, who’ve been insulated against each other and the elements for months, emerge to party into the night, illuminated by blazes and filled with the crackling sounds of leaves devoured by flames.
The rituals between the seasons create a distinct rhythm to life in the country and it seems that you always know exactly where you stand and what to expect. “The Swedish way is to gather information so that plans can be made,” a friend told me once.
“In South Africa we tend to wait and see what happens,” I countered, “and then plan accordingly.”
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| And if the sun comes streaming in through the window, take the opportunity to bask in it! |
This is an extract from my masters' thesis.
