Sleep away the winter blues - Fed up with February? You should try hibernating, says Judith Woods
Imagine, if tomorrow morning, instead of getting up to go to work, or shoehorning argumentative children into their school uniforms, you had a lovely lie-in. For as long as you wanted. Followed by an afternoon watching DVDs with the curtains closed against the February gloom.
The highlight might be putting the kettle on, or creeping back to bed to read your Christmas Kindle under the covers. No-one would demand to be fed because the kids would all be blamelessly dozing, like cats, on pieces of furniture, your normally troublesome spouse contentedly curled up in a state of benign catatonia.
If you aren’t melting into a pool of soporific bliss at the mere prospect, you are obviously in training for the Olympics and getting an indecently high fix of endorphins on a daily basis. But the rest of us are hardwired to hibernate - so why fight it?
I may as well have handed my shoes in at reception, for having cast them off on Friday evening, I didn't put them on again until Sunday afternoon.
For those sceptics who think the humans species is too evolved to hunker down with the hedgehogs, consider the evidence: have you recently built up large fat reserves that could see you all the way to late April? Do you feel an oddly beguiling sense of torpor gripping you every time you sit down? Is your metabolic rate slower than that of a somnulent dormouse?
“I think the human spirit is like a daffodil bulb, preparing for the spring by refreshing its roots, so it can bloom again when the time comes,” is the poetic opinion of Stafford Whiteaker, former monk, ex-hermit and currently editor of The Good Retreat Guide. He believes it’s no coincidence that people seek to escape from the madding crowds at this time of year, leading to a high increase in retreat bookings and a surge in demand for yoga.
“People instinctively strive for a sense of renewal that comes when you withdraw from the hectic pace of everyday life, slow down and meditate.”
When you think about it, is it any wonder so many of our New Year resolutions have already bitten the dust? Every billboard is trying to sell us life-changing fitness regimes and peppy probiotics - but actually we are programmed to tuck our noses under our tails and fluff up our fur against the chill, and studies have shown we sleep longer in cold weather.
My conclusion is; if you can’t beat the winter blues, you should join them. And so, I have learned the art of embracing the Stygian despondancy which the Scandinavians, beset as they are by interminably dark longeurs, have down to a fine art. Think Wallander, but without the high body count.
Just as brussel sprouts need a good frost to gain flavour, there’s much to be recommended in dropping off the social radar, doing the bare legal minimum at work and living off your seasonally-adjusted muffin top until spring arrives.
Last weekend my husband and I left the childen and dog with a babysitter and sloped off to one of London’s poshest Park Lane establishments. As we stepped over the threshold of the Grosvenor House Hotel, famously frequented by the likes of Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson, Ella Fitzgerald and Jackie Onassis, we had one shared objective; to Do Absolutely Nothing. Nada. Rien.
We had no plans to take in a show or an exhibition. Not for us bourbon cocktails in the bar. Spa treatments held no allure. Frankly, I may as well have handed my shoes in at reception, for having cast them off on Friday evening, I didn’t put them on again until Sunday afternoon.
A single principle dominated our precious two day hibernation; if we couldn’t do it wearing a white towelling bathrobe, we weren’t going to do it at all. Our aim was to subsist on a combination of deep sleep and inactivity. It was the sort of pinch-me-I’m-dreaming escape every parent in the land fantasises about, but it also felt like the most natural state imaginable.
In this No-Man’s land of February when the sap is not yet risen the only sensible course of action is to lie low. Nick Clegg’s decision to close his ministerial red box come 3pm in order to effect a better work-life balance has been met with universal derision. But if he admitted that he just wanted a lovely long afternoon nap, we could all, I think, sympathise.
Given George Bush famously went to bed at 9pm, the deputy prime minister’s siesta manifesto could well be a shrewd way of jockeying for promotion to a top job; Egypt appears to be up for grabs, and a 4pm curfew would be mightily convenient for a chap who likes to take it easy of an afternoon.
As for me, I emerged from our stolen weekend rested, serene and, I would venture, a better (or at least more cossetted) person. Neither of us spoke much, preferring to communicate in companionable squeaks, grunts and sighs of contentment.
In truth, the only thing missing from our cosy five-star nesting experience was the authenticity of a box of hay, feathers and those little tufts of sheep’s wool left on barbed wire. If the Grosvenor’s concierge could just sort those out, I’ll be back to hibernate next year. ( telegraph.co.uk )
Imagine, if tomorrow morning, instead of getting up to go to work, or shoehorning argumentative children into their school uniforms, you had a lovely lie-in. For as long as you wanted. Followed by an afternoon watching DVDs with the curtains closed against the February gloom.
The highlight might be putting the kettle on, or creeping back to bed to read your Christmas Kindle under the covers. No-one would demand to be fed because the kids would all be blamelessly dozing, like cats, on pieces of furniture, your normally troublesome spouse contentedly curled up in a state of benign catatonia.
If you aren’t melting into a pool of soporific bliss at the mere prospect, you are obviously in training for the Olympics and getting an indecently high fix of endorphins on a daily basis. But the rest of us are hardwired to hibernate - so why fight it?
I may as well have handed my shoes in at reception, for having cast them off on Friday evening, I didn't put them on again until Sunday afternoon.
For those sceptics who think the humans species is too evolved to hunker down with the hedgehogs, consider the evidence: have you recently built up large fat reserves that could see you all the way to late April? Do you feel an oddly beguiling sense of torpor gripping you every time you sit down? Is your metabolic rate slower than that of a somnulent dormouse?
“I think the human spirit is like a daffodil bulb, preparing for the spring by refreshing its roots, so it can bloom again when the time comes,” is the poetic opinion of Stafford Whiteaker, former monk, ex-hermit and currently editor of The Good Retreat Guide. He believes it’s no coincidence that people seek to escape from the madding crowds at this time of year, leading to a high increase in retreat bookings and a surge in demand for yoga.
“People instinctively strive for a sense of renewal that comes when you withdraw from the hectic pace of everyday life, slow down and meditate.”
When you think about it, is it any wonder so many of our New Year resolutions have already bitten the dust? Every billboard is trying to sell us life-changing fitness regimes and peppy probiotics - but actually we are programmed to tuck our noses under our tails and fluff up our fur against the chill, and studies have shown we sleep longer in cold weather.
My conclusion is; if you can’t beat the winter blues, you should join them. And so, I have learned the art of embracing the Stygian despondancy which the Scandinavians, beset as they are by interminably dark longeurs, have down to a fine art. Think Wallander, but without the high body count.
Just as brussel sprouts need a good frost to gain flavour, there’s much to be recommended in dropping off the social radar, doing the bare legal minimum at work and living off your seasonally-adjusted muffin top until spring arrives.
Last weekend my husband and I left the childen and dog with a babysitter and sloped off to one of London’s poshest Park Lane establishments. As we stepped over the threshold of the Grosvenor House Hotel, famously frequented by the likes of Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson, Ella Fitzgerald and Jackie Onassis, we had one shared objective; to Do Absolutely Nothing. Nada. Rien.
We had no plans to take in a show or an exhibition. Not for us bourbon cocktails in the bar. Spa treatments held no allure. Frankly, I may as well have handed my shoes in at reception, for having cast them off on Friday evening, I didn’t put them on again until Sunday afternoon.
A single principle dominated our precious two day hibernation; if we couldn’t do it wearing a white towelling bathrobe, we weren’t going to do it at all. Our aim was to subsist on a combination of deep sleep and inactivity. It was the sort of pinch-me-I’m-dreaming escape every parent in the land fantasises about, but it also felt like the most natural state imaginable.
In this No-Man’s land of February when the sap is not yet risen the only sensible course of action is to lie low. Nick Clegg’s decision to close his ministerial red box come 3pm in order to effect a better work-life balance has been met with universal derision. But if he admitted that he just wanted a lovely long afternoon nap, we could all, I think, sympathise.
Given George Bush famously went to bed at 9pm, the deputy prime minister’s siesta manifesto could well be a shrewd way of jockeying for promotion to a top job; Egypt appears to be up for grabs, and a 4pm curfew would be mightily convenient for a chap who likes to take it easy of an afternoon.
As for me, I emerged from our stolen weekend rested, serene and, I would venture, a better (or at least more cossetted) person. Neither of us spoke much, preferring to communicate in companionable squeaks, grunts and sighs of contentment.
In truth, the only thing missing from our cosy five-star nesting experience was the authenticity of a box of hay, feathers and those little tufts of sheep’s wool left on barbed wire. If the Grosvenor’s concierge could just sort those out, I’ll be back to hibernate next year. ( telegraph.co.uk )
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