Long Dark Nights

What I wish I knew before I moved to the forest

It’s 4 pm, and twilight has already begun. I’ll soon be driving out to the countryside from my local town, leaving the soft glow of lights behind as I make my way through the pines to my small village. A road that once felt haunting is now home.

I live in a Dark Sky Reserve, one of only seven in the British Isles. There are no street lights, only amber windows warming the landscape, and once the sun sets, we’re plunged into midnight. As you may imagine, the night sky here is majestic. Constellations swirl overhead, stars shoot from the depths, and we’ve even had the Northern Lights visit.

My first winter in the cottage was hard. I’d not lived this rurally before. The biting cold, howling forest nights and shy sunlight were all new to me. I felt unprepared and naive in my romantic dreaming of winter.

It was my first time living alone, I had just passed my driving test and was fresh out of a five-year relationship. Despite feeling like Bambi on ice (sometimes quite literally when driving my old Volvo through the twisting lanes), this quieter life was what my heart had been longing for.

Since that tender time, I’ve stumbled through a couple more dark seasons. Each year, finding practical and softer ways not to dread the long night.

With the first snow falling this week, and the frost kissing the ground, now feels like a time to share the small and simple things I’ve learnt to ease winter’s bite…

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Softening home: Small changes make the home feel more comforting and warm; a seasonal flower arrangement, thicker linen sheets, and a hot water bottle on the sofa. These simple changes make coming home in the dark all the sweeter.

Base layers: For years, I ignored my grandmother’s advice about layering. I now have a whole drawer of cotton vests and long sleeves, high-rise undies that cover half my belly (sexy, I know), thick, long socks and woollen tights for when the mornings are below freezing. In that first cold winter, I bought some sheepskin insoles for my wellies. Not to be dramatic, but they changed my life.

Festivities: I fully indulge in the festivies and seem to start earlier every year. My first decorations have already gone up, and I keep them there until the 1st February. This was once a common practice here in England; I believe it needs a resurgence. January is too cold, dark and hard without carrying through a little magic. Leave the lights and the tree up, keep the oranges and cloves going until the snowdrops bloom.

Soft sounds: Despite the wild and haunting calls of the forest, a rural winter is very quiet. I have Fire Sounds, ambient playlists or Jessica Pratt on rotation to soften the silence and fill the long hours with warmth.

Deep Rest: Our wild animal bodies know it’s time to rest. The coming weeks, for most of us, are likely to become busier and busier as Christmas looms. Finding pockets of time to burrow into means we’re not pushing against the tide of our own nature. Deep rest can look like curling up with poetry, body oiling in candlelight light or doing a yin class. I also love a very slow walk through the forest, soaking in daylight and noticing the changing beauty of this transition.

Analogue Time: I am the first to admit that I nestle into my sofa and rewatch my favourite films on repeat. To not become one with screens, about now, I start knitting scarves and making gifts. I visit friends, chatting around an old table, doing a puzzle or playing board games.

Inner Fire: With the decrease in daylight, we may move our bodies less. My daily walks are shorter, and since my hip injury, I’ve not been running. I recently subscribed to the Range by Kara Duval. I highly recommend her classes as a most-days practice to tend inner fires. I loved this Warm Waters lymph and fascia rinse.

A basket of warmth: From now until March, I take a flask of herbal tea, mittens, a scarf and a hat, and sometimes a hot water bottle, everywhere. I keep this basket in the car even when it’s mild; it’s soothing to know I have all I need.

Permission: This is a work in progress for me, but as it gets colder and darker, I gift myself the permission to not need to do it all. I let myself scroll in bed, have a second dessert, pick up dinner from the village shop, cancel plans when my body says no, and go for a walk instead of hoovering. We’re entering a long night of rest — the chores can wait.

Ancestral eating: This is the season to eat roots and bones. I sometimes joke about my witch diet with friends, but it’s true, as winter arrives, our bodies crave nourishment differently. My early winter favourites are lamb broths, cottage pies, roasted root vegetables, sweet black tea and homemade puddings. I often eat more and notice that skipping meals makes me anxious; my body needs rich, spiced rice porridge before stepping into the frost.

Light: Last, perhaps most obvious, but oh-so-important. Cleo wakes me at first light, and we stand out in the garden under the rising sun, even in the snow. We may not all live with a dog, but getting out in the early morning is vital for our inner rhythm and a practice not to miss, no matter the weather. I also bring the sun inside with beeswax candles, soft lighting and low lamps that create a cocoon, especially now that even the mornings are fading.

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A loving note that Substack is filled with plenty of guides at the moment. My intention is not to give a list of practices you should or need to do, especially all at once, but rather to intentionally share how I, as a seasoned Londoner, befriended a rural winter over many years.

These are all simple things that together, over time, build resilience and joy, so that when the long nights arrive and the sun barely rises over the trees, we can root down, snuggle in and receive all the beauty winter has to offer, rather than burying ourselves, tired and longing, until spring arrives 🤍

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