December

Of course, we’re in Manchester, and the weather has been nice, though chilly, in the past few days, with quite a few rays of sunshine caressing our forlorn November faces. In this weather I narrowly missed the fact that it’s the first day of winter today. So, congratulations. At Piccadilly Gardens you can do your bit of ice skating. My history of ice skating was short and painful, so it’s unlikely that you see me there. I do like skiing, though, and I heard in Sheffield there’s a sport centre where I could once again experience the joy of gliding on the white snowy surface. As I probably won’t go to Moscow until February or even March, I think I’ll go to Sheffield in January. If you’ve been there and have any pleasant/unpleasant memories or tips, please tell me.

And to take you through the start of winter season and many long dark nights, here is a lovely poem by a Tudor author A.W. (fl. 1585), Upon Visiting His Lady by Moonlight.

The night, say all, was made for rest;
And so say I, but not for all:
To them the darkest nights are best,
Which give them leave asleep to fall;
But I that seek my rest by light
Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night.

Bright was the Moon, as bright as day,
And Venus glistered in the west,
Whose light did lead the ready way,
That brought me to my wishèd rest:
Then each of them increased their light
While I enjoyed her heavenly sight.

Say, gentle Dames, what moved your mind
To shine so bright above your wont?
Would Phœbe fair Endymion find?
Would Venus see Adonis hunt?
No, no, you fearèd by her sight
To lose the praise of beauty bright.

At last, for shame you shrunk away,
And thought to ‘reave the world of light;
Then shone my Dame with brighter ray,
Than that which comes from Phœbus’ sight:
None other light but hers I praise
Whose nights are clearer than the days.