Winter in Cork
Monday, December 1, 2008 at 10:07AM 
Today, I wake from a dream I thought was bad, but in going over the moments of the dream I found that in fact, it was sharing moments of comfort and emotional release in the context of a frustrating circumstance. I raise myself up a bit and grudgingly entertain the thought of going down stairs to turn on the heat.
Winter has begun in Cork; we sleep with the heating turned off, so I find it increasingly difficult to rouse myself from my bed in the morning. The thought of putting on "normal" clothes to run some errands barely enters my mind before an excuse is formed to prohibit this ("i can definitely find a way to make lunch and dinner with leftover rice, peanut butter, a can of tuna and an onion"). As I put the kettle on and dance in my bare feet on the cold lino of the kitchen, I glance out the window at the beautiful yet forbidding frost coating on the corrugated metal roof. Chilled by the sight, I run into the tiny bathroom, the first room to raise a few degrees, and scrunch into a ball and lean my back against the heater. My mood raises a few degrees as well, and I think to myself that now my husband (who has left hours before for a 40 minute walk in this cold) can call with the chance of my getting snippy significantly reduced.
Winter in Cork, is different than the winters I've experienced in places like Moscow and Minneapolis, and New York city; those winters, often enough white, are bitter windy dry cold. Here, the winter is milder in temperature, but seeping with its humidity: when you are cold, you feel it all the way to your bones. The grace of this climate is that your skin rarely cracks, and that is indeed a blessing. The grace of our apartment is that it does heat fairly quickly, in spite of the high ceilings.
My husband's favorite part of the winters here is the rich smoky singular smell of turf fires. I do believe he dreams nightly of having a fireplace; though something tells me that in the absence of one he can feel the warmth, the slight residue of smoke on skin, the wafting aromas all the more poignantly.
I think of last Friday, after dusk (earlier and earlier now) slipping out into the cold, my hand in his warm hand in his pocket. Cheeks flushed, stepping out of the cold and into the warmth and requesting "two hot whiskeys please". And oh when they arrive, all aromas of lemon and clove; they seep through me in the reverse of the cold damp. As this treat, more satisfying than dessert moves through us, we talk and laugh and love. I had forgotten my scarf and hat at home, but serendipity smiled, and the waitress handed me a scarf left by my friend on a previous visit to this place, our favorite cafe on the river Lee. I would make it home still retaining the warmth of this libation.
story telling
Reader Comments (3)
oh look at you with your positive things about winter in cork. bah! it's the heating. the heating does no good at warming the bones. Once they're cold, they're cold!
maybe that is why the pubs are always so full?
Oh I am so glad you are back to blogging. You write so beautifully. I feel like I'm there with you.
What a lovely entry. Looking forward to more!
thank you for that