Or what happens when the lights go out… by John McGovern:

I didn’t really consider there would be any problem – the buses were running even though the streets were covered in March snow, our kitchen light was flickering but the rest of the power in the house was steady – I wasn’t even that cold.

It was when we got to the city centre that I started to worry.

“Er…where are we mate?”

“Power’s out all across the city.  This is Chichester St.  Last stop.”

And there was no-one else on the bus either.  I had noticed the extravagant blue glow of the Ulster Bank sign opposite the City Hall close to the 9A bus route – but it only served to confuse me further.  Now standing on the pavement, the dark created a collage of Belfast in my mind, as I scoured the charcoal buildings for familiar sights.

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Last year on Under a Grey Sky Phil Scraton took us on a Saturday morning walk from his house in Belfast. After another such walk last weekend, he reflects on the current situation in the city:

It’s the 5^th January, midwinter in Belfast. At this time of year the sun appears briefly above roof-tops before slipping away. Yet it warms my face as I walk through the park. It’s only 9.30am and the joggers are out in shorts and vests, the golfers cheerful in short-sleeved shirts, the birds singing prematurely anticipating Spring.

At this time two years ago the big freeze and sudden thaw wrecked the back of our house yet today the temperature reaches 13 Celsius. The Southern light breeze encourages walkers to remove gloves and scarves and busy squirrels are clearly content as their food comes easy.

Down on the Lagan the rowers are in full flow, instructions barked by megaphone from their cycling coaches. The water is like glass until disturbed by the bows of the sleek boats. There has been little rainfall for over a week but the river is tidal and high. A heron, startled by the kerfuffle rises from the overgrown riverbank and heads upstream.

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The second part of our Bad Saarow diary, from one of our favourite places only an hour or so by car or train from Berlin:

Through an open bedroom window I hear the sound of a family walking along the street outside. There is talk of a Christmas tree (perhaps they are even dragging it along as they speak) and excited chatter of presents anticipated, if only Father Christmas or time itself would get a move on. Downstairs Katrin, Lotte and Sean are making little pastry parcels, the potato salad sitting in a bowl on the countertop, all part of our mingle-mangled Anglo-German Christmas traditions that have, over the last couple of years, all fallen into place.

Once the pastries are made we will go for another walk down to the lake, the main road through the village busy with drivers that had to work on Christmas Eve and are now rushing home to the fireside and the family. And it does feel overly festive out on the streets, with the twinkling lights on the trees by the station, the smell of wood-smoke in the air, and the family down the street from our house that have lit a fire in their driveway and are standing around it with steaming mugs of glühwein in their hand.

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People like to moan about the winter here in Berlin. From about the middle of September, or whenever the supermarkets break out the Christmas chocolate – whichever comes first – the grumbles of a city fully used to an expecting sixth months of grey skies, dark afternoons and cold, cold, cold temperatures begin to sound. When it finally comes, with the first cold snap of minus temperatures or the initial dumping of a load of snow that sends taxis sliding down the street and kids temporarily insane with the possibilities, people walk hunched and huddled against the biting winds that come, of course, from Russia, and look for sanctuary in the cozy cafes or the warmth of their own apartments. I think it is why Christmas is such a big deal, bringing light, cheer and mulled wine to the streets that lifts the mood for a month or two before it is all of a sudden January and – then – most brutally of all, February. Somehow the shortest month of the year always feels the longest.

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