Sunday afternoon, early February, and we have gathered between the churchyard of St Andrew’s in Bredwardine and the River Wye to mark time. We are here to celebrate St Brigid’s Day and Imbolc (the first day of Gaelic spring; the term means “ewe’s milk”), healing and fertility, with meditation and a hedgerow communion. In the sun and the warming air we walk in silence to the old fish ponds and the ancient settlement.
I have walked this way many times, often in winter, past the chestnuts, naked and stark against the grey sky, and out into the opening backed by oak trees leaning down to the river. Out of the silence, I hear the “tseep-tseep” of a solitary redwing amid the “chack-chack” of fieldfares. I catch a glimpse of its quizzical eye and cream eyebrow; the mottled, lynx-like feathers and the red flash. A split second of connection lifts the soul out of self-consciousness.
The redwing reminds me of last year, when, on this same day, in a ritual act of deep memory, we took red ribbons – called “brat bríde” – that mirror the redwing’s flank, to catch the morning dew from the blades of grass. St Brigid is supposed to visit on the eve of 1 February and imbue the dew with protection and healing. We took the ribbons away and placed them in our homes to keep us from harm in the year ahead. Soon, as the swallows start arriving, the redwings will return to the forests of Siberia. Like St Brigid, they fly by night for protection against predators.
This year, we would have repeated the ribbon ritual, only the number of attenders – about 60 – was too large to make it possible. Our other hedgerow communions, at Lammas and winter solstice, are similarly popular. But there are other things we can do to mark the day: we welcome the four cardinal points, from the Latin cardo, meaning “axis”, and we share the bread and wine as we move in expectation towards the April resurrection, the light and the lengthening of days. Beneath our feet, a mantle of snowdrops leans towards the pale sun in the west, and someone reads the poem Face to Face by Tomas Tranströmer, which ends with the words: “The earth and I sprang toward each other.”
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