I woke up on the 31st December slightly muzzy-headed from a 2:30am finish the night before and used the brightness of the day as a reason to get out for a walk. I'm not a walker; it is too slow for me and my hands swell up, but my achilles tendon was tender which prevented me from running and I was keen to get outside.
The great hinge of New Year's Eve was approaching, accompanied by predictions of the direction the new year may bring. Time to look back and look forward. However, I felt annoyed by any self-imposed pressure to set something up for the new year - it will be what it will be; I didn't want to put anything in place right on the 1st January.
In the last few weeks the rain had veered between deluge and storm; many parts of the country were either under water or washed away, and the climb up the field out of Long Ashton gave some evidence of that, with grass pushing up and away from waterlogged soil. I slipped and slid to the top, the sun offering a temporary and welcome respite from the rain that was forecast yet again. I picked my way down to the stream crossing known to me as the gate with the rams, after a summer when two enormous sheep blocked the gate for weeks on end, like a reversed Billy Goats Gruff. I stopped and watched the stream for a few moments. It was flowing strongly and the water bounced and curved on and through, disappearing into the trees. It was like the opposite of white noise - a sort of dark noise; each splash, gurgle and twist was unique, no rhythm, no repetition and no order but instead of irritation the water gave an opening of peace. This brought on a sort of melancholy; I stared and thought, my heart sagging; pulling backwards. The old year, the year gone, had brought loss and confusion, and the new year to come also offered no structure, each day unique and formless. No plans, no resolutions, just a following of gravity; the pull of nature.
I was stroked by the cool curves of the rivulets as they wove and twisted around each other, the water calming the murmurations of thoughts as they swirled and buzzed inside my head.
I walked on and up to the Jubilee stone; here too the puddles lay wide and obstructive. Any bare soil was coated with a slick of mud that threatened my stability as I zigzagged toward the road, trying hard not to muddy my boots too much - I inherited them from my dad and they are getting old now and letting in little seeps of moisture. The wind was stronger up on the hill, and the resulting drop in temperature and appearance of clouds caused me to speed up. The trees harboured a good number of birds and each branch seemed to hold a worried blackbird or an angrily chirping blue tit. One field contained a buzzard standing on the ground and looking rather puzzled to my fanciful eyes. I have seen a lot of buzzards do this - I don't know if they have just caught something or actually land on the ground for a rest. I often startle them when they are in trees and they take off in their muscular way, crashing through the branches and over to another perch away from this intruder.
My phone rang - my planned evening was cancelled. New Years Eve was now to be a solo affair - an unexpected change. How to make this positive? Why not make a point of being on my own; write all evening, think about the passing year, wonder about the coming year. Which direction? I warily walked through a field with a bull in it; luckily he seemed more interested in grass than in me which was good because my pondering slowed me down to the point of catchability.
Another stream, this one a ditch really; it flows through a field and under the main road out of Bristol, through a culvert that also houses the footpath. Out in the open, I stood and looked at the stream; someone had chopped and cleared all the trees around the water and exposed its course. Branches lay around in piles, and planks had been wedged just above the surface of the water as if to catch any material kidnapped by the stream. I wondered if this was a way of managing the speed of drainage; there has been a lot of talk recently of flooding being caused by water being channeled off the land too quickly.
Back home, just in time. The rain suddenly appeared; lashed sideways and then turned into hail. The relentless drive of the weather forced people to change what they were doing; cars even stopped briefly until they could see where they were going. Everything got shaken up in the vortex; plastic bottles flew out of the recycling boxes, people ran into places to shelter. The sun of just an hour earlier was forgotten about as something that happened in the distant past, barely memorable.
What would I have done on New Years Eve in the past? Karin and I usually ended up with friends; it seems to be the way many of us acknowledge the changeover of the year. It usually felt like a normal evening with friends until the very climax of the evening; deep embrace, eyes touching. A connection that said 'look at us being together, look at us, we came from that direction and we are heading in this direction'. The flow of time which is formless and unstoppable has now left this behind and is instead dragging me along the course on my own - there is no point in looking where I am going because I can't affect the direction and it is obscured by twists and turns, branches, banks.
I decided to stay at home on my own - see what happens. A way to break out of the rituals that threaten any individual interpretation of the evening. Out of the groove, and then when out, find what I really need at this time. After all, when have I ever spent New Year's Eve on my own? Never. It is a new experience. Ride the flow.
At Anne and Gary's house New Year's Eve 2014
