We had a mandate, that much was clear, a mission handed down from the Queen of Christmas herself, “GO GET PICTURES AT SPRINGER’S” she yelled as we scurried out of the house.

The day was bright, clear and warm, as if the sun was taking a breath before the long climb back to summer, and here we were in a kind of shadow version of the summer-to-come. As we entered the woods it seemed to me that we entered the liminal zone of all human experience, the long winter which, once survived, changes us at our core. All drama and literature could be distilled down to this single point. The paradigm was absolutely fraught.

Through the tunnels of lichen-crusted trees we swam like the bug-eyed cave-dwellers of our distant past, until, at last, we arrived gasping on the sands. On the riverbank of time we stood, watching the ebb and flow of millennia.

The vibrations overwhelm our compatriot.

One of our number was completely overcome by the vibrational underpinnings of it all, and lay on the cold sand with a scarf over her head, musing at the infinite possibilities and impossibilities of spacetime.

The dog became infected by the holiday spirit as well and turned seven backwards somersaults, three barrel-turns, and a double pirouette.

The Loyal Beast mid-back-handspring

It was then our resident scientist, a hulking bear of a man with a heart of gold, noticed a sampling of feathers from all the different birds of the world scattered amongst the seaweed and shells at our feet. “Surely,” he growled in his manful bear-itone, “this means that a council of birds has been held to return the sun to its rightful place in the sky.”

Feathers from both the European and African swallow (Evidence collected by Andy The Bear)

Perhaps they had been present, but they certainly weren't going to give up any information for free...

I resisted the urge to tell him to pull it together, to use his scientific brain, for god’s sake, but then again… who could be sure? Out here at the edge of the world, the disappearance of the sun for once and for all seemed not quite comfortably out of the realm of the possible.

Lens flares? Or the palimpsest of solstices past and future?

As the sun reached its zenith on this day of days, we decided that inscribing our bodies with sacred symbols might help keep the darkness at bay.

The gnarliness of this tat knows no bounds...

We also decided that perhaps what was needed was sustenance, yes sustenance, and where could we find those vital calories? Where indeed? Our little expeditionary force was scattered to the winds by this question.It became clearer as the day progressed that I may not be writing the story, but rather, it might be writing me, but no matter, no matter. As day turned into evening turned into night, three of our number were reunited in the noble cause of singing carols, door to door. We brave and selfless few ventured into the night to bring the spirit of the season to all the people of the island, whether they wanted it or not.

And as our voices raised in a joyful chorus, I wondered if perhaps this was what kept the sun coming back year after year, after all.