How to not be cold in the Highlands

Winter is a'coming. Snow has settled on the hilltops and on branches in pine forests. The wind rolls in with dense snow clouds; it sounds like thunder rolling during a summer storm. Then hail beats down for a few minutes while the sun breaks through the thick canopy overhead.

Image belongs to Kelsey Morse

Inside smells like coal and wood smoke, thinly masked by cinnamon scented candles. It's either cold -- like, freezing -- or warm enough to make me feel gooey inside. Houses have central heating, but ungodly oil prices keep me as far from the thermostat as possible. Fires are the better option: localized heat means smaller consumption; coal, peat and wood prices are marginally less than oil. Plus they bring warm Christmas fuzzies. The catch? Fires take making.

To preface, I grew up with central heating and gas logs. Heating the house never took more than changing a filter and clicking buttons. Stepping inside cut off the cold immediately; we kept winter outside without much effort. Now I live in a house built in 1833 with its fair share of drafts. If I am the first one home -- or stay during the day -- it can be straight icy inside. There's nothing to do but suck it up and build a fire.

Picture by engerr via deviantart.com

My first slapdash attempts at fire-making ended with flaky newspaper ash spread three feet from the fireplace. The paper went up so quickly once it'd been lit, I thought I had it sorted. But five sheets doesn't burn long enough to catch the kindling; within two minutes I was staring at black ashes and untouched strips of wood. Without knowing what I'd done wrong, I would pile on the blankets and try not to move.

This phase lasted until the weather turned colder and I realized if I wanted to be warm, I had to keep trying until the fire took off. So I learned to chop kindling. It was a daunting task: holding an axe reduced me to some child-like state of fear, where I couldn't decide if chopping off my finger was scarier than getting caught playing with grown-up tools. But then a bitter wind blasted me from the side and my courage returned. I would chop, chop, chop until a handful of strips awaited me on the garage floor.

Back inside, the fireplace sat with mounds of crumpled newsprint on its grates. I put the kindling on top, struck the match... and stared. Unblinkingly. For minutes. Like looking would make it behave. At times it worked and I felt some primeval sense of achievement. Or it didn't and I started over.

This whole process -- including cleaning the fireplace, which is too tedious to describe -- still takes me about an hour. Along the way I encounter the entire spectrum of human emotion. Building a fire is time-consuming, frustrating, and unpredictable. My stomach sinks when I see cold ashes awaiting me from the night before. Then I make one, and I feel (undeservedly, I think) like I could survive if the world returned to some pre-industrial, self-sustaining society.

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As winter approaches, fuel poverty becomes a big issue for many families. Learn about fuel poverty, its effects and how you can help in both the UK and the USA through the following links:


What is fuel poverty?
Warm Homes Campaign UK
"Falling into 'fuel poverty'" USA (published 2008)

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