Imbolc Down Under

It occurs to me that Imbolc is an anticipation of spring. When I grew up in England it was the first crocus poking out of the frost; a promise of warmer, longer days. After the grim winters it was wonderful. My brothers and I would compete to find the first one to delight Mum. Then there were the daffodils, the bluebells, Mum accepted them all with charm, except when I nicked a wreath from Hornchurch cemetery.

After 30 years in Queensland the ache of England ’s winter has faded, but at this time of year we have dissimilar things to celebrate and even fear. The heat of summer has dried the bush. This is bushfire season, particularly south of here. Perversely this is when we get the rain: destructive with the cyclones in our state’s north, invigorating rains in the outback that cut them off for months. In the SE Queensland that I love it’s hot and humid, trees and rocks fall over tracks confusing us, the bush is full of life, grasses grow to impossible heights, the snakes bugger off, the storms come in after lunch and frighten us, we sweat and drink a lot.

At the end of this uncomfortably warm day I reckon I’m happier doing Imbolc in Brisbane than Bristol or Brussels . But hey, I ain’t seen a crocus for awhile.

Nick