Burmese monks know that it is time to get up when it is light enough to see the veins in their hands. Muslims base their getting up on the passage in the Quran that defines daybreak as the time when it is possible to distinguish between a dark and a light thread. In parts of Madagascar, questions about how long something takes might receive the answer ‘the time of rice-cooking’ (about half an hour) or ‘the frying of a locust’ (a quick moment).

In a world without clocks, it is natural cues or events that give some sense of time. Each day sees the sun and moon rise and set. The tides rise and fall. Seasons come and go, and return again. Planets move across the sky and come back to their starting point. It is a world of endless cycles but essentially changeless.

This organic relationship to time goes hand in hand with a far more relaxed approach to punctuality and appointments. It is more important to see a family friend than to keep an appointment or to make it to work. The prioritisation of affiliation or relationships is an important characteristic of event-time societies. Time walks in these societies, while in the United States and Britain it either runs or it flies.

But increasingly, in most of the world, from the moment we wake, we live our day by the clock. In Technics and Civilization (1934), the US sociologist Lewis Mumford described the mechanical clock rather than the steam engine as ‘the key machine’ of the modern world. The changes it brought were revolutionary. In The Wealth and Poverty of Nations (1998), David Landes, the great historian of clocks, wrote about how clock-time brought order and control:

[T]he very notion of productivity is the by-product of the clock: once one can relate performance to uniform time units, work is never the same. One moves from the task-oriented time consciousness of the peasant (one job after another, as time and light permit) and the time-filling busyness of the domestic servant (always something to do) to an effort to maximise product per unit of time (time is money).

Until the Industrial Revolution, ‘jobs’ as we know them barely existed. People did whatever needed to be done, and then got on with something else. In the transition from the biblical task-orientation of event time to contemporary clock time, workers were turned into disciplined industrial labourers through an Industrial Revolution that used the clock to organise factory work. Instead of being paid for the task, workers began to be paid for their time. The clock became a measure not only of time but also of money, which put a premium on accuracy.

Many people now feel they are short of time, and that they have less time available than previous generations. We are torn between the attractions of event time and the efficiency of clock time. And in many societies we have difficulties in finding enough of either. For full-time employed mothers, the second shift starts as soon as they come home, and can involve up to eight different tasks a day: cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing and so on. Men who do housework usually manage two tasks at most. Time-sickness, the feeling of being harried and hurried continually, is the disease of the age. Lack of time has become a common complaint. For many of us, there are not enough hours in the day to do all the things we want.

There are two easy ways to solve the problem, and one harder way. First, we could stop watching television. This would free up three to four hours a day for most of us. Second, we could stop buying so many goods, and more especially services. This would save some time. We would not need shops opening round the clock. Third, if we purchased less, we would not need to earn as much and so could work fewer hours. We could do all these things, but there is about the same chance of that happening as there is of pigs flying.

So how do we find the time we feel we need? Time is not a commodity that can be created. What we are doing with the 24-hour society is what we always do when we come up against a scarce resource – we find a new supply. In Night as a Frontier (1987), the US sociologist Murray Melbin made an analogy between the shortage of land in the Old West and the shortage of time now. When time is the scarce resource, then the night is the source of supply. So in a 24-hour society we try to colonise the night – just as the Egyptian pharaoh did, and the Greek historian Herodotus described it. When told by a soothsayer that he would have only six years to live, the pharaoh promptly ordered that fires be lit in his palace every evening so that night would be turned into day, and his six years became 12.

When time is scarce, then the night is our resource. By colonising the night, we don’t create time but we do start to use the available time more effectively, freeing ourselves from the coiled grip of the time squeeze.

The 24-hour society is more than simply extending shop-opening hours and all-night mass transit. It is about restructuring the temporal order. Eventually, it will lead to a different construction of daily activities, freeing people from the restraints and deadlines imposed today by rigid adherence to clock time. We will move into a more flexible and free-wheeling approach, coordinating activities on the fly.

There are some who would go much further than the 24-hour society, and completely rethink the use of time. One half-serious suggestion is that we should switch to 28-hour days. Monday would be eliminated, on the basis that everyone hates Mondays. The working week would then be four 10-hour shifts with a 56-hour weekend. Thursday might be a problem, being dark most of the day, but, as the originator of the idea has suggested, Thursdays could be used for roadworks.

But there is a price to pay in terms of our biology. Our bodies function in accord with a natural rhythm that comes from the Earth rotating on its axis once every 24 hours – give or take a few minutes. We aren’t made to live our lives in artificial light, waking to an alarm clock and sleeping to the blue light from a smartphone.

Nearly every living thing on the planet, including us, generates internal circadian rhythms that are synchronised to the solar cycle. These rhythms of life both enable us to optimise physiology and behaviour in advance of the varied demands of the day/night cycle, and stop everything within us happening at the same time, ensuring that biological processes occur in the appropriate sequence.

The great circadian disruption through which we have lived since the invention of the electric light is bad for our physical and mental health. The 24-hour society will present further risks. Exactly what, though, should be the subject of public debate – preferably after a good night’s sleep.

Circadian Rhythms: A Very Short Introduction (2017) by Leon Kreitzman and Russell Foster is out now through Oxford University Press.

Leon Kreitzman

This article was originally published at Aeon and has been republished under Creative Commons.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

My husband works for a brewery in Nottingham and making the 3 hour round trip from our home in the Lincolnshire Wolds can be exhausting at times. Sometimes he spends the night near work instead, and with evenings spent in a variety of their pubs he has met a diverse set of people, and made many good friends along the way. One such friend is a thespian in his seventies, who can drink you under the table and still be up at 7am to cook breakfast like it never happened. When he began to isolate all those months ago he decided to start writing letters to all the friends and family he could not see and speak to, and we have received such a missive every few weeks since.

Always, the letter is attached to a card or postcard featuring a beautiful image or illustration he thinks we will like, and it is filled with talk of his garden or how he spends his days, all written in his delightfully conversational tone. This connection to the outside world that does not involve technology has been a wonderful contribution to our (and his, I’m sure) sanity as the weeks turn into months and we forget what the freedom we once took for granted felt like.

Letters were once the only way to contact those you were separated from, and even though we can now do so at the click of a button, there is something different to be found in a letter than in a call or a text. The words are more considered, and a story unfolds rather than a back and forth. The writer reveals more of themselves, and despite it only being ink on a page, we feel MORE connected, not less.

Lockdown is easing, and our friend tells us in his latest note that he is looking forward to seeing friends at the pub again soon. Normality may even return to some extent, but the comfort these letters have brought us all will not be forgotten so soon.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

Photo by Basil Smith on Unsplash

136,505 people have signed up for the Wildlife Trusts 30 Days Wild so far, which encourages us to do one wild thing a day during the month of June for the sake of “health, wellbeing and the planet”. The task of carrying out one “random act of wildness” a day invites us to spend more time in the outdoors and in nature. June may be nearing its end but I think many of us have put this notion into practice long before the month even began. The advent of lockdown combined with a burst of warmer weather has left many of us desperate for a few moments outside each day to breathe some fresh air, and see something other than the four walls of our homes.

As lockdown begins to relax I hope this is something more people take into their routines beyond June. Spending time in nature can be so nourishing and the whole world could do with a little more nourishment right now.

This period of isolation has been fortuitous in one way, as it has coincided with some lovely weather and allowed us to fully appreciate those small pockets of time we can spend outside. But we must remember that periods of summer sun are not the only times we can enjoy the outdoors. After a few rainy days I have been reminded of my favourite way to relieve the stress of the day: standing beneath the raindrops with my face pointed skywards and feeling the rain hit my skin. This simple act somehow relieves any tensions I’ve been holding onto and refreshes even the most tired of eyes (which is certainly how mine have been feeling lately!).

It’s easy to see rain and immediately retreat indoors, but next time a shower strikes, why not take a moment to stand beneath it and see how you feel. Seek out that small moment of calm that can make the world of difference.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

Is there not something magical about a plant growing up a wall or fence?

I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with ivy, despite the negative aspects of it covering your home. It grew all over the house I lived in until the age of twelve and when I see it crawling over our current house I swell with a little nostalgic happiness. I think this may partly stem from The Secret Garden too. Both book and film conjured this magical place with doorways hidden in ivy, to be brushed away like curtains if you knew the right spot.

A few years ago we fed my climbing plant addiction with a passion flower. If you haven’t seen this plant before then look it up now as it has an other-worldly bloom and climbs fast (and everywhere) in tight twists and curls. We had to leave it in our old garden as it had become completely entwined with the house. The new occupiers are probably less than happy about it but my current garden will not feel complete until one of these plants entangles itself in somewhere.

Honeysuckle is the classic climber, and I have such fond memories of my grandparents garden arch festooned with this sweet and heady bloom. Some believe that honeysuckle grown around a home’s entrance can bring good luck. We’ve just planted some by my new workroom so here’s hoping a little luck will run that way…

So many plants that I am fond of are connected to memories of my childhood. I suppose this is no surprise as my family loved to be in the garden, but it does bring a nostalgic edge to my own forays outdoors. The magical aura of climbing plants enhances this feeling but I find I do not mind. If all I must do to find a little escapism is sit beneath a climber then I consider myself quite lucky. We could all use a little escapism every now and then.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

All images by Jessica and Lewis Townsend

The birds are singing, the trees whisper in the breeze, and the clouds move slowly across the sky. A peaceful vision that calms my mind more than anything else right now. Why is that?

There has been a surge of “prescribed” nature the last few years- the idea that being outdoors can cure your ailments, both mental and physical. Standing in this moment of calm after a day filled with anxiety, I can see why.

I suppose the physical benefits are relatively clear - exercise has long been used to improve various aches and pains - but how does it apply mentally?

It is strange to feel the benefits of something without understanding how or why. My husband suffers from depression and finds a long walk does more to help his state of mind than most other things he has tried.

“Walking is generally good for my mind and anxiety as it helps me rationalise things and go over worries in my mind whilst being half-focused on the walk. I never become too focused or panicked about single thoughts.”

I suppose in this sense it is the mild and pleasant distraction of the outdoors that helps. Though it is true we can be mildly and pleasantly distracted by other things, it never has quite the same affect. Books, television and even socialising to some extent are more complete forms of escapism from our own thoughts and concerns. This perhaps only provides respite rather than helping to a cure.

Of course, anxiety and depression are far more complex conditions than that which could be cured with a brisk walk, but the first step - metaphorically and physically - can be the start of a change that, if we can commit to it, has a much bigger and far reaching impact on our mental well-being.

So, in these worrying times when we have all become more anxious versions of ourselves: feel the wind in your hair, the sun on your skin, take a deep breath, and take that first step.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

Elvis the sheep.

Given the name of this site, it will come as no surprise that we like to create in the countryside, but does that simply refer to a location, or something more?

Creativity requires inspiration, and though the countryside can provide that by the bucket load, it can sometimes be hard to see how. When you’re stuck in a bit of a rut creatively, constantly searching for a muse can seem to do more harm than good. You end up chasing something that can only have real value if found organically.

This is where the countryside, or any part of nature, can help. Immersing yourself in the outdoors not only has a calming effect, it can clear your mind enough to let it wander at will. You may spy a shape or pattern that unconsciously resonates, and sparks a tendril of thought that leads you back to those creative projects.

Years ago, there was a day when I found myself sat on a train, not particularly thinking about work and staring out the window idly. My eyes focused in on a cobweb stuck to the window itself and I thought how beautiful it was. The next morning as I walked the dog I saw another cobweb covered in morning dew and suddenly these two cobwebs became a fabric in my mind, and sparked the beginning of a new project.

I remembered this experience recently when searching for inspiration, and instead of focusing on the work I had to produce, I sketched what surrounded me instead: the bees, the branches and the horns of our sheep, Elvis. The latter took me back to the work I had put to one side, and still inspires aspects of what I do today.

If you want to find your creative muse, think about why you create and what excites you. Find a situation that combines the two and lose yourself in these moments - the inspiration will come.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

Photo by Anastasia Lysiak on Unsplash

It is virtually impossible for the time when spring becomes summer to go unnoticed. Admittedly in England the weather doesn’t always oblige, but nature will carry on regardless.

Currently the lush greens of spring are bursting out of every corner of the countryside, and the delicate pink and white blossoms are soon to be replaced with flowers of every colour emerging from the ever vibrant expanse of green.

In our corner of the UK the clouds of cow parsley, hawthorn blossom and lilacs are heralding a triumphant end to spring, and telling us something big and exciting is just around the corner - summer! The birds provide a noisy chorus from dawn till dusk to accompany natures celebration, and butterflies dance before our eyes at every turn. It feels magical.

No wonder the height of this season is associated with so many tales of magic. Midsummer technically marks the beginning of summer, but as the days begin to darken from this day on, I always see it as the moment when natures madness, magic and momentum is at its peak. The weeks preceding this day are like the preparation for some great event, as excitement fills the air and the beauty of nature bursts forth to take part. Obviously it continues to bloom beyond this day, but somehow it feels much calmer.

In the situation we currently find ourselves in, it can be hard to muster excitement for anything when the future is still so unknown. But comfort can be taken in the fact that nature continues bloom and grow, taking no notice of what has taken over our lives so completely. The outdoors are beckoning to us, telling us summer is close, and I find myself getting lost in the excitement too, focusing on nothing but this one moment. The sweet smell of the lilacs. The happy buzz of the bees. The warm sun on my skin, and the swallows swooping high overhead.

Image by Jessica Townsend

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

All images by Lewis and Jessica Townsend

I’ve lived in this same spot in the Lincolnshire Wolds for over half my life, and I’ve KNOWN it is beautiful, sometimes I’ve even looked at it or walked amongst it. But somehow it has taken the enforcement of lockdown to reignite my curiosity and actually appreciate all that is on my doorstep.

With a dog for the last 5 years a daily walk is nothing new, but it had become a time where I would walk through fields upon fields and still my mind would be elsewhere - working or planning. With my husband in tow now he is home too, I find we are looking up, looking around, and seeking to find those little changes in nature happening every day.

Have the swallows arrived? Was that a swift? What blossom is that? What smell is that? Can you hear the sound of the bird that always calls to us from the third tree on the left?

We have become more inquisitive because, for the foreseeable at least, there is nothing beyond this stretch of fields, this little wood, and that tiny stream. Instead of feeling confined and disappointed we cannot explore further, we are instead compelled to explore deeper, and finding it all the richer for looking.

The joy of doing this together has become a silver lining of this time too. Whether it is our walk beneath ever-changing skies, a few hours tinkering in the garden, or moments spent in companionable silence as we eat our evening meal, the fact that we are actually together all day has made us take notice of each other more too.

There is so much sadness and anxiety surrounding us right now, but that does not mean we cannot look for and enjoy what unexpected happiness we can. The one constant in life is that everything must change, and soon our lives may begin to follow our old routines once more. But this time has taught me that I want to enjoy these quiet moments of curiosity every day. When life inevitably moves on, I am determined to take that with me too.

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Jessica Townsend creates slow and sustainable fashion at House of Flint. Follow her behind-the-scenes on Instagram here.

Rosie Anderson, along with her Mum, makes ‘felted sheepskins’ from her farm in rural Devon. We talk to Rosie about her creative business and all that being a creative independent entails. 

Firstly, could you tell us a bit about yourself and Felted Sheepskins?

My Mum and I make ‘Felted Sheepskins’. Felted sheepskins are 100% wool and have no skin. They are sheep-friendly because we only use the shorn fleece to make them. They are also self-renewing as a single sheep will provide us with a new fleece each year. 

I live on a smallholding just on the Devon and Cornwall border and started keeping sheep about five years ago. We needed sheep to graze the land so we bought our first flock – 17 Whiteface Dartmoor ewes. Felted Sheepskins was then created out of a need to add value to keeping the sheep whilst maintaining a creative existence. Since then my flock has expanded and I breed specifically for unique and interesting fleece.

What’s unique about the brand? 

Felted Sheepskins is great for people who love the look and feel of traditional sheepskins but don’t necessarily like the idea of where they come from. People can buy felted sheepskins in the knowledge they are made from animals that are well cared for and that they are made in a sustainable way. In fact, they couldn’t be more natural and I am proud to produce something that is not only really beautiful and practical but something that doesn’t leave an environmental footprint and is animal friendly.

Can you give us an insight into the process of making felted sheepskins? 

It’s really simple in terms of raw materials. All we use is wool, olive soap and water. We take the whole fleece just as it has come off the sheep. We then shape it and add an extra layer of wool on the back to create a felt backing. This is what holds the fleece together. It’s then a process of adding water, soap and agitation. It’s almost like magic the way it works. They are then washed, dried and perfected by tweaking and brushing.

How did you learn the process?  

My husband’s aunt who comes from the Isle of Arran taught us the basic process. She is a very experienced felt maker but she had only ever made a few of these rugs quite some time ago. She came to Devon and taught us what she knew. Since then it’s been a process of trial and error. No two fleeces are the same so it’s a constant learning process.

What's been your favourite commission so far?

We have done a few commissions. It is really nice working with other smallholders as they appreciate the qualities of fleece and have a real love for their sheep. My favourite thing is receiving positive feedback from clients, which makes all the effort seem worthwhile.

Describe your workspace:

I am so lucky to have a great workspace. I was able to roughly convert a bit of barn space into a workshop. It’s just across the yard from my house and is quite rustic. Making the felted sheepskins is a messy process but it has everything I need. It has an old butler sink in the corner, which I reclaimed from the garden, a radio, and a huge window overlooking the countryside. I’m able to work with the sheep fleece whilst looking at the same sheep still wandering around in the fields – that feels good. In the middle of the space sits a huge table where everything is made. I have a corner of the room where I can photograph my finished products. It’s generally pretty messy – I’m not a tidy person and there is always a dog asleep in the corner keeping me company.

Are there any challenges you face running a small independent business in Devon?

It can feel quite isolating and you have to work hard to get the product out there to reach the right audience - I think that’s the hardest part. Being a maker comes naturally but you also have to be a social media expert, salesperson, photographer, business-minded, accountant, writer, and in my case, a farmer. Making is the fun bit but it is really only a small part of the bigger picture.

 What impact would you like to create with your work?

I guess I’d like my work to have an environmental impact as an alternative to a real sheepskin, which are made with harmful chemicals. I’d like to spread the word about wool and what an amazingly natural product it is in a world full of micro plastics.

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Find out more by exploring the felted sheepskins website here.

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Joele Forrester is a digital journalist living in Bristol, although she always makes time to go back to her Dartmoor roots and enjoy the little things in life. When away from the office, you’ll find her walking in the woods, exploring new places close to home or flicking through independent magazines in coffee shops. Follow her on instagram and twitter.

You wake to darkness, the norm of late, as these wintry days fail to lengthen at the speed you would wish. Surfacing from the cosiness of the duvet seems like utter torture at this point, but you roll out nonetheless.

Hot breakfast is a must, never mind how many jumpers you’ve already draped about you, and as you curl yourself around your second steaming coffee, the day finally begins to dawn, and creep into the corners of the window.

The patch of light is colourless, dull, grey - with the promise that the day to come will be much the same. Will it rain? Perhaps. But it seems to be an entirely nothing sky at this point, no dramatic clouds or flights of birds in sight.

The dog is hinting at your knee so you head to the fields regardless, intending to keep your mind firmly in the warm kitchen while the dog has her fun.

When you step outside the day is as dull and cold as expected. You wrap your scarf tightly across your face to save it from the biting chill. A flash of purple reaches your eye, but you’re dragged along too quick to try a second glance.

The footpath ahead is hidden by a crowd of trees, but even their evergreen garb has lost its lustre today. And yet…

As you step beneath a low branch a riot of colour fills your vision: the crocuses have arrived!

A sea of purple and gold lays at your feet and your heart can’t help but warm at the sight. What is it about the sight of these first flowers that can bring such joy? Perhaps it is because, despite the cold, they have fought their way through the frosty earth to bring a touch of magic to a dull and otherwise grey day.

You stay with this vibrant scene far longer than you thought the cold would allow, and as you finally start the return to home, the rest of the world seems brighter too.

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I wrote this after stumbling across my first crocus this year. Despite only finding one lonely bloom, it really made my day!

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JESSICA TOWNSEND CREATES SLOW AND SUSTAINABLE FASHION AT HOUSE OF FLINT. FOLLOW HER BEHIND-THE-SCENES ON INSTAGRAM HERE.

There has always been an ebb and flow to my creativity. I either go completely bonkers with it and barely remember to eat and sleep, or I go the other way and struggle to muster one creative thought in my head. I never used to pay attention to when or why this was, I just assumed it would change or settle eventually, perhaps when my student days were done.

Despite my brief foray into education once more for my masters, I can safely say I have not been a true student for some time, and yet the ebb and flow continues as ever. What has changed is my perception of it. Day to day we all have moments of energy and clarity in what we are doing, just as we all have moments filled with an utter lack of motivation. But I have realised that, for me, there is a bigger picture to take into account: the seasons.

Currently we are in the midst of winter, and in all honesty it has been an almighty struggle for me to get through. In the build up to Christmas I was finishing orders, making presents and running on so much adrenaline I was practically flying. Then came a moment of rest and the inevitable exhaustion hit. Hard. I have been trying to pick myself up again ever since and just not quite managed it. The urge to stay cosy and comfortable has spread beyond my body and to my mind - I just can’t bring myself to think about anything that will require me finding that kind of energy again, the thought itself exhausts me.

Then hope arrived with the sight of a snowdrop.

That first indication that winter will end reminded me that this feeling too will not last. The tendrils of creativity begin to work their way through my mind as I walk among these tiny flowers, and I find myself able to think about projects that have only scared me the last few weeks.

The New Year has never been a good time for me to start new projects or make plans, but spring is so full of new beginnings I cannot help but be enlivened and inspired to start some of my own. Summer has, in the past, been a time of great productivity, running free with the ideas from previous months, and autumn becomes a time of reflection. But I have realised that this first month or so of the year will never be my friend creatively, so why force it? Instead I have focused on other areas in my life, using the time to make a different kind of plan, and knowing that all to soon I will be going bonkers in the studio once more.

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JESSICA TOWNSEND CREATES SLOW AND SUSTAINABLE FASHION AT HOUSE OF FLINT. FOLLOW HER BEHIND-THE-SCENES ON INSTAGRAM HERE.

[The levitating cooking pot!]

On December 21st 2018, I held my first event as Enamelware Events (now 'Wild Folk') in Bristol. I collaborated with storyteller Pridie (The Wild of the Words), Jenny (Cotton and Canvas Parties) for the decor and styling and Matt at Feed Bristol for the food and venue hire. The photos were taken by Lionel (Steal The Day Photography)

Personally, this was the first time I had celebrated Winter Solstice. As I prepared for the event, I decided that anyone could celebrate it and that it was a great opportunity to take a moment of calm before the Christmas holidays began.

A time to be outside, gather with others, partaking in the simple activity of watching the sun go down and sitting round a warm fire.

A time to enjoy the darkness and what it can offer us.

English Heritage have a nice explanation of what exactly Winter Solstice is:
The earth rotates on a tilted axis. When this axis leans towards the sun, it’s summer in the northern hemisphere and winter in the south. This is reversed as the earth continues on its orbit until the axis becomes tilted away from the sun. During the winter solstice, the earth’s axis is tilted at its furthest point from the sun. This means that, for us in the northern hemisphere, the sun is at its lowest point in the sky. It’s also the shortest day of the year — and the longest night.

The roundhouse at Feed Bristol

Studying the passage of time was important to many ancient cultures. For the people of Stonehenge sunlight must have been crucial — it allowed them to see, it kept them warm, it helped their crops to grow. Winter might have been a time of fear as days grew shorter and colder. People must have longed for the return of light and warmth. It is believed that this yearly cycle is what inspired Neolithic people to construct Stonehenge — a monument aligned to the movements of the sun.

So back to our event! In the early afternoon, Pridie led us in a wonderfully magical and immersive time of hearing — and participating in — the story of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale The Steadfast Tin Soldier. There was fancy dress, things to make and lots to imagine and act out.

We kept warm with hot chocolate, mulled apple juice and snacks (the crisps went in a flash!) while the campfire was building.

We gathered around the fire to watch the sun set at 4pm, and were amazed at how it was still quite light when it did eventually set. That’s city life for you!

(It did get a bit darker than this though!)

After the storytelling, we savoured the dinner that Matt (resident chef at Feed Bristol) had cooked up. On the menu was a vegetable stew and dahl with sourdough bread and yoghurt on the side.

The vegetables used in the food were all grown on site at Feed Bristol, a community food-growing project in Stapleton, Bristol and part of Avon Wildlife Trust.

Have a look at the next events we’ve got coming up. For now, I will leave you with an excerpt from Margaret Atwood’s poem ‘Shapechangers in Winter’:

This is the solstice, the still point

of the sun, its cusp and midnight,

the year’s threshold

and unlocking, where the past

lets go of and becomes the future;

the place of caught breath, the door

of a vanished house left ajar.

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All photography by Lionel of ‘Steal the Day Photography’, words by Hannah.

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