Easy is the way down to the Underworld, says Virgil.
By night and by day, dark Hades’ door stands open.
But to retrace one’s steps, and to make a way out to the upper air: that is the task. That is the labour.
When Felix was a baby, still howling at shadows, we went to stay in a cottage on a farm in a small range of hills called the Mendips. It was near the seaside; but our most memorable excursion was into the Somerset underworld where the sun never rises and the sun never sets.
Felix objected strenuously to the echoing rocky chambers of the natural caves which lie beneath the Somerset hills. So Phil reversed quickly and left Maddie and I to marvel.
Neither she nor I have ever forgotten that journey: down into the chilly depths. We learnt that as far down as we were able to go, there was always deeper. We teetered on walkways over seemingly cavernous depths, peering with a gaggle of tourists into the earth, where nameless jewels tantalise in the torchlight and Hades’ door stands always open.
We walked, I behind my daughter, protecting her from whatever was clearly not behind me. Forever and a day, when I am underground, the last one bringing up the tail of a gaggle of tourists, I cannot shake the feeling there is someone behind me.
Orpheus had the same problem. His wife Euridice was kidnapped on the day they married, it seems, and carried off to the underworld. And because his was a love which knew no limits, he followed her into the land of death: and played such music that Hades and Persephone agreed to return her to him.
Walk in front of her, they said, and don’t look back. And you shall have her.
But Orpheus had the same impulse as I: he felt compelled to look back. And he lost her, forever.
Every year on this island, we endure a temporal underworld. The door stands open in October, and we all walk in because here, in this place in the Northern Hemisphere, we simply have no choice.
But in February, to retrace one’s steps, and to make a way out to the upper air: that is the task. That is the labour.
And I can see the light at the end of this temporal tunnel. The thing now, clearly, is not to look back.
Because I arrived home this evening at half past four: and it was still light. And Farming Today, that bastion of the agricultural world, has just completed a week-long special on the beginning of that peculiarly Springlike entity: lambing.
The crocuses are here, gracing municipal verges, unassuming dashes of colour which gladden the rainiest day.
The family strode through the waterlogged forest on Sunday, a dog in thrall. We were divided. I could smell the Spring, I was insisting: there is light at the end of the tunnel. There is a change in the air. The rain is softer.
Phil, however, begged to differ. There was, he said, no smell of Spring: I was imagining it, willing a non-existent essence of a new year into being. I pulled olfactory rank. My nose is bigger, I said, I’m a professional. Back off. It’s almost Spring.
The dog clearly agreed with me. He has a new bounce in his doggy step of late: and his shaggy nose quivers with anticipation of all that a new growing season could bring. Soon evening walks will be light and leadless. The freeze has relented, the rains have rotted the forest, and a smorgasbord of malodorous decomposure awaits his inspection. Life is preparing to rise again.
I have a feeling that husband of mine does smell that Spring: but he’s not letting on.
Each night, at ten o’clock, he wakes Felix up. Felix sleep-walks to the toilet: and then Felix sleep-walks back to his bed once more.
Sometimes we catch him mid-sleep cycle, and he talks companionable nonsense all the way; sometimes he is silent and focused. Tonight, he was woken and trotted obediently into his little en suite. And Phil tucked him back into bed, willing him back to a restful dreamless sleep. Except that ,on this clear pre-Spring night, Heathrow has elected to send its planes overhead: a sure sign that the weather is improving and a new season is on its way.
Phil threw open the skylight: the temperatures, it seemed, permitted it: and in a priceless, joyful moment of pure mock outrage and self parody, he shook his fist, Steptoe-like, at the lights of the passing airbus. “What do you mean by this?” he railed happily (but quietly). “Waking my son with those lights and this racket at this time of night?”
Mad as a March hair on February 14th.
We are retracing our steps. We are making our way out to the upper air.
That is the task: that is the labour.
Kate Shrewsday 
One of my favorite family stories – it happened before I was born, and concerns my eldest brother when he was about 2 or 3 years old. My parents took a car trip with John across Texas (where they lived) through New Mexico and Arizona to California. They stopped at all of the tourist sites, among which was Carlsbd Caverns. They were part of a group being led by the park ranger, and they were ushered into a huge deep inner chamber that was completely devoid of any source of natural light. The ranger explained to them about total darkness and wanted to give them the full effect of the experience. He asked everyone to remove their watches that might have radium dials, and put them in their pockets or purses. He then said that for full effect, it is important to maintain absolute silence. The silence magnifies the experience of being in complete and total blackness. My Dad was holding my brother John very tightly in his arms. When everyone had removed their watches, and after being cautioned again about keeping quiet, the artificial lights in the room were extinguished.
It was apparently quite an experience, because it is a darkness to which your eyes do not adjust – as there is no light that your eyes can collect. You are totally blind. Well, shortly after the light went out, a little voice, from my brother piped up: “Daddy?!?” Even though Daddy was holding him, John couldn;t see him and didn’t know where he was. Unfortunately, the park ranger threw on the lights in disgust – thinking that John had “ruined it for everybody!” What he failed to realize is that John had really made the experience for everyone present. That little voice piping up after a few moments of quiet got everyone lughing, and pointed up how very dark it was, and the efffect that one voice can have in the darkness.
So great to be reading your wonderful blog! Glad I didn’t have to miss you for long! 😀
Thanks Paula 🙂 A voice in the underworld….surely there has to be a poem about that? What a beautiful comment, and a wonderful story.
It is a good story, Paula.
What a charming post!
Thanks Tilly 🙂
May Virgil’s depths in darkness be the underworld of the evil nature which is part of our internal psyche ? It would certainly be a labor to exit from the chains of self contamination from participation in evil. Or is it Dante’s Inferno from which there is no return?
I think you’re right: it can be read on many levels, can’t it, Carl? Hades, Dante’s Inferno: they’re all fairly inescapable…you ever heard the Briitsh radio comedy, Old Harry’s Game? based in hell. It would appeal to you, I think….
Phil, defending his castle and son against the mighty forces who disturbed him, and laughing at himself in the process. What fun on the 14th of February!
Never a dull moment here, and we’re all frisky with this Spring in the air, Penny. Hope your foxes and deer are beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel too…
Went out to dinner last night in 75F heat. Which leads me to observe that in my part of the world we go underground in February and come out in November. Or maybe it’s just me. Which leads me to quote General Philip Sheridan: “If I owned Texas and Hell, I would rent Texas and live in Hell.”
So glad you’re back.
Ha! I really must try Texas someday, Kathy. At least then Hell would seem like I was going up in the world.
Love the heralds of Spring: “The crocuses are here, gracing municipal verges, unassuming dashes of colour which gladden the rainiest day.”
Glad that Spring is in the air for you, Kate.
Me too, Nancy…and how….
Kate, I too have sniffed Spring in the air. No doubt about it. And the crocuses brighten my day … the prospect of spring brings with it such hope and optimism. Hard to describe but you do it so beautifully eloquently!
Sunshine xx
Hurrah! I shall alert Phil that I have another person in the pro-Spring camp! Thank you, as always, Sunshine. Lovely to have a little sunshine in a day.
What an enchanting piece! Your prose is enthralling. Thanks, Kate, for a beautifully written post.
Oh, Maura, how are you still here? Apparently trapeze artistry is not the first assignment you have carried out for that blog of yours, either. Thanks for your lovely words: but your post literally took my breath away today 😀
I believe we are in for a long slow Spring… today it was blurry cold: a mean wind gave a highly rated chill factor to the actual temperature which my car thermometer said was 8c.
We seem to be having alternate days of sunshine, interspersed with dreary days – though today was mixture, just to disprove a point.
We have a family ‘darkness story’ – when Cyclo took the boys around a jail and the jailer guide thought it would be fun to put out the lights, but without warning. I wasn’t there, but apparently the screams were piercing.
Ouch! One does need warning for these little stunts. Spring has my permission to be long and slow, it’s my favourite season 🙂
Great prose as always Kate. I love your descriptions and your ending with Phil shaking his fist at the sky really made me laugh.
We do the strangest things when Spring is on the way, Tammy 🙂
I am so glad you have decided to write again! I was worried you were gone for good.
The underworld is indeed a frightening place, but one I think we all must experience a little, even if only briefly. It keeps us human, after all.
Hello Kristine!! MIssed the writing rather too much…You are right. the underworld is part and parcel of being human.
I used to get annoyed at the passing jets, so they moved the airport to the other side of town. (Well, okay, maybe my annoyance wasn’t the sole motivation, but still …)
What is it with this looking-back thing? Lot’s wife, Orpheus …
Just looking back, of all the sins,
Commit one should not dream:
The penalties one wins for that
Do seem to be extreme!
So true, Colonialist, so extreme and so very Ancient Greek. And I wonder, isn’t that life? One chance slip and its course changes completely.
Charming post, Kate.
Had to laugh at your Phil 🙂
Life is never dull, Cindy 🙂 Have a lovely time at the foodie bloggers fayre!!
Lovely, Kate – here’s hoping you’ll all get to enjoy Spring soon!
I can relate to your underground story from long ago caving experiences…quite spooky. Quest, on the other hand, relates to Felix’s delighted anticipation. He had a most excited walk and swim today, before this soaking rain set in 🙂
Ah, lovely to hear how Quest is doing, Naomi! Glad he’s still enjoying life with his customary gusto! We’re all looking forward to Spring: but Phil is still insisting it’s Winter…