Every year around this time, some pessimistic soul in drab voice will announce, “Winter’s here now,” and someone else, often armed with a weather app and misplaced confidence, replies, “Well technically…” And off we go again — the annual argument no one ever wins. Like whether you put the milk in before the tea (Sacrilege), or if the clocks go forward or back (and why it feels wrong either way).
Because the truth is, when winter actually begins depends on your perspective.
The Four Horsemen of Winter
Meteorological winter — the one used by weather forecasters and tidy record-keepers — starts neatly on December 1st and ends on February 28th. Three months, coldest temperatures, done and dusted.
Then there’s Astronomical winter, which refuses to be rushed. It begins around December 21st, the Winter Solstice, when the sun barely peeks over the hedge before retreating again. It ends with the Spring Equinox in late March, when light and dark finally call a truce.
The Irish traditional calendar says winter runs from November 1st to February 1st, starting at Samhain and ending at Imbolc, when St. Brigid is said to hang out the first laundry of spring. That means, by the time the rest of the world is just getting into mince pies, we’ve been in winter a month already and are already looking forward to it ending.
And then there’s the one the farmers go by: the Persephone Period — roughly October 23rd to February 16th — when daylight dips below ten hours and nature basically shuts down, hibernates. It is the period when most sensible plants stop growing, grass sulks, and only the meanest and most stubborn of weeds show any greenness.
Named after Persephone, the Greek goddess who split her year between the world above and the underworld below, it’s a time when growth slows to a whisper. Whether you believe in Greek mythology or just good sense, the message is the same: when daylight drops below ten hours, not much happens — above or below ground.
On the farm, you see it everywhere. The tunnels drip. The fields glisten in that permanently half-wet way that means wellies are non-negotiable. Tools rust faster than you can hang them up. And you develop an entirely new relationship with the kettle.
The Maths of Misery
Here in North County Dublin, the shortest day of the year gives us a miserable 7 hours and 30 minutes of daylight — that’s if the sun even bothers to show its face. It’s the time of year when you check your watch at 4:10 p.m. and realise it’s basically midnight.
Sunrise at 8:20, sunset at 4:05. That’s your lot. Enough time for one job, maybe two, before you can’t see your own breath, never mind your tools. Even the pigs start giving you dirty looks if you show up too early with their breakfast.
When the Body Knows Before the Calendar
Of course, you don’t really need a chart to tell you it’s winter. Plenty of people have their own internal weather systems — a knee that clicks when the cold sets in, a shoulder that senses rain before the sky darkens. For me, its Scheuermann’s disease, which means my spine prefers to bend in the general shape of a question mark, stiffens up like an old barn door the moment the damp creeps in.
Slow Season, Slow People
Winter farming has its own rhythm. Everything slows down — including us. You start the day with good intentions, a to-do list, and a hot cup of tea, and end it with damp socks and the vague satisfaction that you achieved something, though you’re not sure what and your to-do list doesn’t look a whole lot shorter. We race to get our harvests done for the shop and our veg boxes and by the times that’s done, so is the day.
But there’s a sort of cold comfort in winter too, moments of beauty and joy. You learn to value the small things — a patch of sunlight that sneaks through the tunnels, the smell of cooking jam in the kitchen when you finally call it a day, the sofa, and a chance to binge watch all those things you missed during the nine months of near relentless activity. For me this year, its Peaky Blinders, yes, that is how far behind the rest of the world I am. 🙂
Even when it feels like the farm has stopped, underground there’s quiet business happening. Roots are slowly expanding, gathering energy, waiting for that invisible switch to flick back on in mid-February when daylight stretches past ten hours again — and everything, including the farmer, starts to stir. And the farming too, slows down in those darker days, and there is a benefit in that. Persephone and the Greeks had it right — winter isn’t punishment, it’s permission. A time to slow down, rest, and prepare for the next busy growing season.
The Light Returns (Eventually)
Winter might seem relentless, but like all seasons it ends. One morning, usually in mid February, you step outside and something feels different. The light’s brighter, the birds louder, the ground is less soggy. The daffodils put in an appearance, and you feel that small, ridiculous surge of optimism — the kind that comes from seeing sunlight before 8 a.m.
You realise winter is nearly over. The soil is waking. Seed trays are washed and filled with compost, seeds are sown. The spine still aches a little, but you can sense the season turning, and that’s enough to keep you moving.
In the End, Who Cares What It’s Called?
Whether you follow the meteorological, astronomical, Irish, or mythological definition, it doesn’t really matter. Winter arrives when the light fades, your back aches, and the urge to make more tea than is healthy becomes an imperative.
So forget the charts and the solstices — you’ll know winter’s here when your body says so. And when it does, just take it as nature’s polite reminder: slow down, keep the kettle close, and remember that even in the darkest months, the light is already on its way back.
