Blue Now

Blue, blue and more blue. . . . The north seems blue in December when the snows have arrived - the skies over my head on clear days (there are one or two), the wide fields in the Lanark Highlands, the granite outcroppings and hollows, the deep shadows along the hedgerow at the bottom of the garden and stretched out across the countryside at dusk. Where does all this blue come from, when the world has been grey and brown for several weeks?

I often think that the Old Wild Mother (Earth) must be using every scrap of energy she possesses to compensate for the greyness of our short northern days. Every single shade of blue in the colour palette was on display yesterday from the palest pastel to sparkling indigos of such depth and intensity that they were almost black. Great trees, small shrubs, weeds and old rail fences were covered with fine powdery snow, and in heart of every single snowflake was a deep rich blue crying out for notice.

I always enjoy poking about in snow crowned hedgerows, but of the myriad transformations wrought by winter in the countryside, the image in the second photo is a particular favourite. The old roll of barbed wire rests in my neighbour's field, and it has been there for years, abandoned, twisted, rusted, forlorn and in the general scheme of things scorned and ignored - the wire was designed to be of use, and I always think it looks rather sad on its slope.

Yesterday, winter and her paint box of vibrant blues turned the old roll of wire into an al fresco work of art of astonishing complexity, and almost everyone who drove by stopped to look at the creation.