The Magic of Twilight

I’ve always loved the time when day loses itself into night. The ebbing of the light is magical for me at any time of the year, but in February I run contrary to popular opinion in my longing for a bit more dark wintering time. The dark days bring me a sense of comfort, meeting my need to withdraw and rest. When I first feel the pull of spring energy I am reluctant – much like I am every morning, wanting to pull the covers around me and doze, half-waking half-sleeping.

Twilight is a similar kind of half-waking dreaming world and I love to linger, while others are hurrying home before dark. It is the time when crepuscular animals like fox, deer and badgers are most likely to be sighted and every encounter feels magical, as they slip away into the shadows. 

Twilight can be measured in mathematical terms; civil twilight is when the sun has set to 6 degrees below the horizon. In the UK, this is when streetlights and car headlights are turned on and lasts 20-30minutes after sunset. It’s still possible to see without artificial light as the rays of the sun are scattered by the earth’s atmosphere.

Nautical twilight is defined as the period when the sun is 12 degrees below the horizon. Sailors can no longer navigate by the horizon because they can’t see it.

Finally, astronomical twilight happens when the sun is 18 degrees below the horizon and no sun’s rays are visible. 

But none of these definitions capture the feeling of adventure and secrecy I feel when I’m drifting about in the gloaming.

I often walk at 5pm, noticing the details of the incrementally longer days. The transition is apparent not only in the levels of light and dark, but the sounds of the woods. A few weeks ago the dark silence of the trees was broken only by an occasional tawny owl. More recently, the air was full of the ‘bed-time’ calls of the blackbirds, a racket of birds chukk-chukking all across the woodland floor. Now, on a dry still day, I hear birdsong from a wider range of birds, who will eventually be accompanied by migrants from afar. 

If I’ve timed my walk right, I’m turning up the end of my road by this point, thinking about getting the kettle on and snuggly clothes. I know well enough that by the time spring has fully arrived I’ll be more than ready for it, but for now I’m remembering to nourish my mind and body with the rest I need in the winter.