Warmth for the Soul

Last night might not have been the coldest of the season but this morning felt like the hardest ground frost of the winter, so far. The divots thrown up by the horses' hooves were frozen solid and I was making slow progress on the bridle path I was walking along. The sun was shining so I benefited from some apricity but whenever the path fell into the shade of hill or wood I felt chilled to the marrow.

Just below Comphurst, the path bordered open fields and there was a clear view across Horse Eye Level, Down Level and Glynleigh Level all the way to Shepham Wind Farm at Stone Cross. The three 115-metre turbines began generating energy at the start of the year after a five-year planning battle had been finally resolved when Wealden District Council's refusal of permission was overturned by the government's Planning Inspectorate. The inspector ruled that the farm's capacity to generate 7.5 MW of energy, sufficient to power 4,000 homes, and save 8,475 tonnes of carbon would make a material contribution to renewable energy objectives.

There is still some local animosity toward the wind farm on aesthetic grounds; but the sight of the turbines this morning, standing majestically in the shadow of the Downs, was undeniably beautiful. The contrast between the renewable engineering of the modern age and the timeless sward of the Sussex hills was warmth for the soul.

Apricity

A November Saturday morning, soon after sunrise: the ground underfoot still in shade, the first heavy frost of the season means that, as I walk through the long grass at the far end of the fruit farm, each of my footsteps emits a satisfying crunch. Higher up, the golden rays have turned the remaining leaves on the pear trees a burnished amber, and the alder windbreaks in the distance a deep vivid orange. More importantly, the early beams provide insulation against the morning chill; but at this time of year, the sun will not get much higher in the sky than this.

Heading south to the coast in the late morning, the sun's low dazzle reflected on the wet road ahead means that we are driving blindly along a snaking river of silver flanked by a riot of deciduous colour. Here, the usual yellows and oranges of early autumn are complemented by the rarer saffrons and maroons of the onset of winter. The saturated colours mean that everything is Ektachrome: all is viewed through the prism of fading memories, of the world viewed through childhood eyes.

At the beach, despite some nimbostratus rain clouds lurking threateningly in the distance and a persistent south-westerly blowing in from the sea, the sun is still strong and I can feel its radiance on my face. This apricity - the warmth of the sun in winter - is a welcome fillip. My new favourite word, the noun 'apricity' was first recorded by lexicographer Henry Cockeram in his English Language Dictionary of 1623 but has been rarely used since. From the Latin apricus - warmed by the sun - it also has a verb form, apricate, that means to bask in the sun. I only heard of the word recently as the title of Canterbury band Syd Arthur's latest album. Just as with most useful things I have learned about in life - books, films, politics - the language to describe the warmth of the winter sun came to me from pop music.