Mornings begin with a walk in the woods, a winding search for windfall boughs, brought to earth by gales and with portions already submitting to damp and rot. Their extremities are all dried leaves and tinder, first-class kindling. Larger limbs snapped off are still too close to life to easily light, so they’re left behind, the bough slowly sinking into the sodden soil.
There is a simple pleasure in the snapping of sticks to better fit the fireplace, the placement of one long strut across the grate to prop the others and the winding of twigs between the wetter wood in an effort to encourage the flame. The petrol-smell of the firelighters fills the room as thin fingers of black smoke are pulled across the cool air to the chimney.
It’s not a particularly difficult task; I manage to fail a few times a year, but the failures facilitate a feeling of minor victory at the sight of the flickering flame.
So I sit by the fireside, the light of early winter already waning, waiting for the blaze to justify a second load of coal. The room isn’t warm yet, but it soon will be.
