At this late and magical hour, I decided to go out for a walk - something I used to do quite often when the moon was full and shining bright.  I would go out without a lantern, my eyes easily adjusting to see the way ahead and much more besides.

There was a rustling in the bushes as I walked past the house, a creature scuttling to a safer place.  Then a flutter of wings sounded from the tree branches.

Turning back to look at the house, I can see the indoor warmth through the windows.  The twinkling of the small lights that frame the window, echo the silent stars above, and the faint sound of music drifts through the still frosty air.

I continue my walk and as the music fades a flock of geese replace the choral tones with their honking sounds above and then flap away into the darkness.

As I follow the winding road I wonder why I haven’t done this midnight walk more often in recent years.

The burn is flowing steadily, cutting through the ancient land and rocks, carving its peaty path to the sea.

The incandescent moon shines full in the dark sky casting a bright light across the moorland. I can pick out objects, buildings and grasses in the night silence and tree branches and hills against the horizon.  The outline of the castle stands tall against the wide open sea and landscape, its shape defined by the blue glow;  and the waves reflect a momentary sparkle of silver white as they gently rolled into the shore.  And if I look out toward the sea, even in the darkness I can make out the moving lights of ships passing on the horizon.  The inkiness of the ocean merges with the headland, which merges with the large expanse of sky, hardly any distinction can be made between one and the other,  and therein sits a smattering of house lights - or are they stars?

These days are at their shortest, the nights long.

As the moon gradually waxes, the stars are still strongly visible in the dark sky.

The earth continues its usual rhythms and the world waits with anticipation. With hope. In stillness. Something is different. I stop in the sand on the beach and stand motionless for a time, awed by the silence and beauty and lulled by the incoming tide, the waves gently lapping the shore.

I look up to see the stars, outshone by the moonlight, but there nonetheless. There is Orion … and the Big Dipper, or the 'Plough’ as the call it here in the UK.

'Twas in the moon of wintertime… '

The lines from a song I learned in school back in Canada called ‘The Huron Carol’ comes to my mind.  I know we are all emerging from this past festive season, but looking back, it remains one of my favourite Christmas hymns…

'Twas in the moon of winter-time

When all the birds had fled,

That mighty Gitchi Manitou

Sent angel choirs instead;

Before their light the stars grew dim,

And wandering hunters heard the hymn:

"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,

In excelsis gloria."

It goes on, but I cannot remember all the words now.

It is the oldest Canadian Christmas hymn, written in around 1642 by Jean de Brébeuf, a Jesuit missionary at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons in Canada.

Brébeuf wrote the lyrics in the native language of the Huron/Wendat people; the song's original Huron title is "Jesous Ahatonhia". The song's melody is based on a traditional French folk song, "Une Jeune Pucelle". The well-known English lyrics were written in 1926 by Jesse Edgar Middleton .

As the song continues...

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