MAGAN'S WORLD: Manchán Magan's tales of a travel addict
THE SOFT MASS of deep-cleansing, weightless whiteness that covered Ireland last winter was like a foaming face cleanser; an absorbing, absolving, efflorescent force that embraced the dirt and decay of our lives, permeated deep into it and then washed it away.
Ireland was in need of a heavy snowfall for a long time, and in its wake the country appeared fresh-faced and revivified for the first time in a long time. There was a sense that we were ready to start anew – to leave behind the petty bravado, pathetic delinquency and puerile greed of adolescence and move forward. We emerged like shorn sheep, disorientated, chilly and unsure of ourselves, but free of our ticks, parasites and dried faeces.
Snow is a passive, but powerful force. It seems so benevolent, with its billowy, cushioning, cradling embrace that can mould itself to our exact body shape; hugging us with the firmness and total body contact of a perfect lover, or a boa constrictor. It has the power to make us young again, to make us play, but also the power to freeze or crush us to death. There’s something almost divine about it, an ability to purify, to slow down our progress through life and make us more alert, more aware of each step, conscious of what is ultimately important.
My first ever winter in an icy realm was high in the Rockies of British Columbia and I was amazed how suddenly in the weeks preceding the first flurries of snow the atmosphere in the community changed as families began a frantic period of preparation: chopping logs and stacking them by the
cabin wall; stocking sacks of beans and pulses; sorting tomatoes, courgettes and aubergines that we’d bottled in the summer.
Once the land had turned white the entire community turned inwards as one – the pot-lucks, drumming sessions, yoga workshops, gardening projects, all came to an abrupt end, and we turned towards hibernation, a period of sloth and introspection in which people rarely strayed far from the stove side, except to grab logs from the woodpile or clear a path to the mailbox at the end of the track.
Once a fortnight, we’d load up the old Chevy pickup with shovels, chains, blankets and emergency supplies to brave the treacherous forest road into Nelson, 40km away. The sudden barrage of bright lights and townsfolk would make us heady and our tongues would loosen as though intoxicated. I’d find myself wandering around the organic bakery, the Fair Trade cafe, the massive whole-food supermarket, jabbering uncontrollably to whomever I met.
Unlike in Ireland, winter in the snowlands is rarely dark, in fact, it’s blindingly bright. In the neighbouring communities of the Kootenay Rockies in eastern BC it was time for mental and spiritual development. Everyone had a chosen project – to learn a new language, to practise a musical instrument, to paint more, or do more meditation.
It was an intense period that risked becoming claustrophobic if one didn’t make occasional forays beyond the cabin walls. No matter how foul the weather I used to hike up to a neighbour further up the mountain once a week.
It was only a short trip, but it required careful planning. The threat of bears, so present in autumn, had lessened, but there was still the chance of happening upon a dozy bear awakened prematurely and ravenously hungry, or encountering snowdrifts, black ice or minor avalanches.
The risks added to the piquancy of the experience, and made the time it took to pack up my emergency supplies, stuff myself with casserole and strap on the tennis-racket snowshoes all the more intense.
Ireland’s largely unchangeable, grey weather makes life easy, but it encourages somnolence. I wonder whether our society would benefit from more snow; whether a period of enforced inactivity would make us more naturally vivacious and proactive during the growth season.
- manchan@ireland.com