November is dark space. We swim through layers of brown leaves, grey skies, falling rain, year after year of bad things happening at this time of year. But in the winter, we walk after dark, we walk in the wet, we walk in the murk and the twilight and the fog and the failing light. I was up at the allotment this week, pretending it was light for long enough to put in the winter peas, the winter beans, while allotment cat jingled through the tumbledown weeds in my wild borders, her white fur luminous in the dirty dusk.
But here and there comes a moment of unalloyed absolute joy: