The Joyful Almanac - February
Hope with muddy boots on
The year is stirring, but not yet awake. The ground is softening underfoot; the hedgerows still hold their breath. Snowdrops gather in quiet drifts, crocuses dare a little colour, and the birds begin rehearsing for spring - not singing yet, just clearing their throats.
And still, February often feels like the longest walk. January was for resting, cocooning, making lists we might never keep. February carries the same cold, the same dark mornings, the same heavy coat - but without the permission to fully hibernate. It can feel like a personal slog, a stretch of road to be endured until spring finally shows its face.
And yet.
February is when the brave things begin.
Snowdrops push through frozen ground, impossibly slight. Daffodil bulbs swell so suddenly you find yourself crouching down in disbelief, whispering, how on earth did that happen? The birds grow louder now - more confident - as if they’ve read ahead and know how the story ends.
This is the month of quiet proof.
February doesn’t ask us to hurry forward. It asks us to learn how to stand still without losing heart.
Valentine’s Day sits right in the middle of it all - not as a grand gesture, but as a nudge. A reminder to say I love you out loud. To your partner, your friends, your children. To yourself, ideally before coffee.
At our house, the greatest joy is a Valentine’s breakfast for the children. Nothing fancy. Heart-shaped toast, berries if we have them, notes scribbled in a hurry. Love, served early, before the day gets complicated.
Galentine’s has found its way in too - proof that love doesn’t need roses or restaurants. A walk with a friend. A cup of tea that turns into a very honest conversation. A shared laugh in a kitchen that’s still cold because the heating hasn’t quite caught up.
Outdoors, the month keeps its counsel. The light lingers a fraction longer. The soil loosens. Buds swell. Lambing season begins to hum quietly in the background of Somerset life, farm gates creaking open a little more often. Hope smells faintly of damp earth and possibility.
February joy isn’t flashy. It’s observant. It’s stubborn. It’s choosing to notice what’s quietly going right. And that, I think, is more than enough to get us through.
February Snapshot (dates worth a circle)
You don’t need to mark every date — think of these as gentle pins, not instructions. One or two is plenty.
1 Feb — St Brigid’s Day / Imbolc: The old hinge of the year. Light a candle at breakfast and notice what’s stirring — in the soil, the house, yourself. Milk, bread, warmth; toast and tea will do.
1 Feb — LGBT+ History Month begins (UK): A month to listen, learn, and widen the table. Read something thoughtful, share something kind, remind the children that love has always belonged.
2 Feb — Candlemas: Halfway between solstice and spring equinox. Add extra candles at supper and step outside at dusk for a “look - the light’s changing” moment.
Early Feb — Snowdrops & Crocuses: No fixed date, but worth checking daily anyway. Churchyards, lane edges, that bit by the gate you always pretend not to watch.
Mon 16 Feb — Shrove Monday: The rehearsal. Check the lemon situation. Locate the good pan. Adjust expectations kindly.
Tue 17 Feb — Shrove Tuesday (Pancake Day): Pancakes for supper, joy almost guaranteed. Syrup on pyjamas counts as tradition. Eat standing up if necessary.
Tue 17 Feb — New Moon: A fresh-slate sky. If you’re in the mood, step outside with a hot mug, take three breaths, and make one quiet wish - like a conspirator with the dark.
Tue 17 Feb — Lunar New Year (Year of the Horse): New energy, if you want it. Noodles for luck, something red if you fancy, and one brave yes to momentum - even if it’s only emotional.
Wed 18 Feb — Ash Wednesday: A pause. A breath. Choose one small thing to lay down for Lent — not out of guilt, but gentleness.
Fri 13 Feb — Galentine’s Day: Friendship, celebrated softly. A walk-and-talk, a cup of tea that turns into honesty, a laugh that warms your hands better than gloves.
Sat 14 Feb — St Valentine’s Day: Love, out loud. Notes in lunchboxes, heart-shaped toast if the mood strikes, and tell the people you love that you do — before the kettle boils.
Sun 15 Feb — Parinirvana Day (Lord Buddha): A day for stillness, compassion, and remembering that everything changes — so be kind while it does.
Tue 24 Feb — St Matthias’ Day: Patron saint of perseverance and quiet faith. A good day for steady steps, unfinished jobs, and trusting the long game.
Late Feb — First Daffodils: They arrive when they’re ready. This is not a race. Pause anyway.
These Almanac touches are gentle pins in the calendar - small markers of light, love, and life returning, one muddy step at a time.
Flora & Feelings
February belongs to the brave ones.
Snowdrops - the fair maids of the month - gather in quiet drifts, nodding like they know a secret. Crocuses follow on brighter mornings, opening jewel-coloured mouths of purple and yellow whenever the sun dares to linger. Primroses appear shyly along hedgerows and banks, soft yellow hellos after a long silence.
Willow catkins fluff themselves into silver-grey lambs’ tails, catching the light when you least expect it. And if the ground warms just enough, you might spot the first bumblebee queen rousing from hibernation - blinking into the air, slightly indignant, as if she’s been summoned early.
In the kitchen, winter still holds, but loosens its grip. Leeks earn their keep. Kale, cavolo, and cabbage stay steady. Rosemary and thyme remain loyal; bay deepens everything it touches. Towards the end of the month, a handful of fresh herbs feels quietly thrilling - parsley again, tasting faintly of spring and optimism.
The weather has a softness now. The light stretches, almost imperceptibly at first. Mornings can still bite, but the air carries a damp-earth promise. Mud remains opinionated. Scarves loosen. Coats stay on — but hope edges back in without making a fuss.
Tiny notices, if you fancy a prompt:
• The first crocus you didn’t expect to see
• A bumblebee queen, newly awake and unimpressed
• Catkins catching the light like something knitted by nature
• That moment when the light lasts long enough for a second cup of tea
Folklore Focus: Candlemas - Measuring the Light
Candlemas falls on the 2nd of February, and in the old calendar it mattered deeply. Not because winter was over (it isn’t), but because something had shifted. Candlemas marks the halfway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox — a hinge day, quietly creaking open.
There’s an old rhyme tied to Candlemas, a piece of weather-watching wisdom passed down more by ear than by book:
“If Candlemas Day be fair and bright,
Winter will have another flight.
If Candlemas Day be clouds and rain,
Winter is gone and will not come again.”
Like most good folklore, it’s less about accuracy and more about attention. We look up. We notice the sky. We clock the light. And we remember that seasons change whether we hurry them or not.
Traditionally, candles were blessed on this day - practical things, really. Light to carry you through the dark evenings still to come. A way of measuring hope without tempting fate. For all the rhymes and sayings, the real practice was simple: pay attention. Look at the light. Notice whether it lingers.
And it does.
By early February, dusk softens. The light comes low and kind, catching on hedges and window glass. You might find yourself thinking, just for a second, oh - it’s not as dark as it was. That’s Candlemas working its quiet magic.
This isn’t a day for declarations or plans. It’s a day for noticing. For lighting an extra candle at supper. For stepping outside at dusk, wrapped in wool, and letting your eyes adjust. For measuring the year not by speed, but by brightness.
If January was about blessing the orchard, Candlemas blesses the waiting. It reminds us that progress doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives as ten extra minutes of light and asks us to trust that this is enough for now.
A simple Candlemas ritual (optional, gentle):
Light a candle as evening falls. Stand at the door or the window. Take three slow breaths. Say, quietly if you like: the light is returning. Then carry on — supper needs finishing, after all.
Hope, after all, doesn’t need trumpets. It just needs a flame that knows how to last.
Folklore Focus: Valentine’s — Love Spoken Aloud
Long before restaurants, roses, or any pressure to be impressive, Valentine’s was a nature festival. In old English folklore, mid-February marked the moment birds began to pair. Robins, wrens, blackbirds - suddenly louder, busier, a little flirtier. The natural world turning, almost imperceptibly, towards connection.
Humans followed suit, as we tend to do.
Valentine’s wasn’t about grand romance so much as recognition. Choosing. Naming affection. Writing notes. Leaving small tokens. Saying, plainly: you matter to me. Love as something lived in, not shown off.
There’s something very February about that kind of love. It’s not showy. It doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. It turns up anyway — in packed lunches, in early mornings, in the ordinary bravery of keeping going together.
These days, we’re free to interpret Valentine’s more generously. Love for partners, yes — but also for children, friends, neighbours, and ourselves. Love that’s spoken early. Love that fits into real days. Love that doesn’t need polishing before it counts.
If Candlemas measures the light, Valentine’s measures belonging.
And the birds? They’re still at it. Singing earlier. Choosing company. Trusting, instinctively, that spring will follow.
A gentle Valentine’s ritual (entirely optional):
Say “I love you” to someone before coffee. Write it down if that’s easier. Heart-shaped toast welcome, but not required. Notice the birdsong later and consider it confirmation.
Love, after all, doesn’t need a booking.
It just needs noticing - and the courage to speak.
Your February permission slip: hope doesn’t have to hurry.
〰️
Your February permission slip: hope doesn’t have to hurry. 〰️
Moon Moment: Snow Moon & New Moon
Full Moon in Virgo — The Snow Moon
(Sunday 1 February at ~10:09 pm, UK time)
February opens under one of the year’s great lunar signposts: the Snow Moon. The name comes from old rural traditions - winters can be snowy and lean - yet here is this moon, glowing full and resilient, thick with light and ancient promise.
This is not a spectacle moon so much as a steady companion. It rises late above hedgerows and rooftops, asking us to notice what’s already here - the things that have been quietly tended through winter, often unseen. The Snow Moon reminds us that even in the coldest months, the gardens, the hearths, and our own lives are fuller than we sometimes remember.
This is a moon for honouring what has grown slowly.
Snow Moon Ritual:
Light a candle before the moon rises. Stand at your door or by a window. Hold a warm mug.
Say:
I honour what has grown unseen.
I trust the rhythms that brought me here.
I choose the small, steady light.
Breathe out with the moon, and carry that quiet glow back inside.
New Moon in Aquarius — A Quiet Reset
(Tuesday 17 February at ~12:01 pm, UK time)
Mid-month brings the dark moon - the moon that isn’t seen at all - in free-thinking Aquarius. In 2026, it even aligns with a solar eclipse, a rare punctuation mark in the sky.
This New Moon doesn’t ask you to begin everything. It asks you to begin one thing worth doing. A habit. A conversation. A truth you’ve been circling but not naming. There’s something distinctly Aquarian about this kind of reset: change that comes not from force or grand plans, but from choosing what feels honest and alive.
This is a moon for direction, not demand.
New Moon Ritual:
Sit outside or by a window around noon. Close your eyes.
Say:
What would feel brave and true this month?
Name one intention - small, specific, and kind - and whisper it into the sky, like you’re telling a secret to the returning light.
Why both matter this month
February can feel like a long stretch between rest and arrival. The Snow Moon reminds us that much is already here - shelter, roots, steady effort paying off quietly. The New Moon invites us to choose what comes next, gently and with care.
Together, they teach February’s deeper rhythm:
first, honour what has endured.
then, take one small step forward.
Winter has its own cycles of completion and renewal - measured, unshowy, and rich if you lean into them.
The Joy Edit
Ritual - Valentine breakfasts & low-stakes love: Once this month, make something ordinary feel noticed. Heart-shaped toast if you’re feeling playful; porridge with berries if you’re not. Eat together when you can. Say one kind thing out loud before the day runs away.
Gather - The February invite: Keep it small. A walk with a friend, a cup of tea that turns into soup, pancakes flipped side by side. No hosting perfection, no centrepieces - just shared time. Joy lives in the middle of things, not at the end of a to-do list.
Make-do - Warmth, upgraded: Add one extra layer where it matters: a hot-water bottle wrapped in a scarf, an extra blanket on the sofa, wool socks pulled on with intention. Call it winter care, not indulgence.
Nature task - Feed & notice: Top up bird feeders and fresh water. Clean one feeder properly. Learn the name of one regular visitor and greet them like a neighbour. (They are.)
Letter of the month - Love, written down: Write a note — not necessarily romantic. Thank a friend, encourage a child, reassure someone who’s wobbling. One envelope, one stamp, joy dispatched.
Make space for togetherness: Choose one surface and clear it. The kitchen table ready for tea, the sofa arranged for sitting close, the step made welcoming for two mugs and a shared sky. Nothing fancy - just room.
Joy reminder — pin this somewhere visible: Joy isn’t a destination you arrive at when everything’s perfect. It’s what happens while you’re walking there - muddy boots, full heart, someone beside you. Discover more
PS: If you’d like to go deeper, I’ve written a longer piece called “Joy is not a destination” — a gentle reframe for anyone who feels like they’re always “not there yet.”
Picnic, But Make It February:
Galentine’s Picnic (Because Love Is Not Just Roses)
February is for the friendships that carry us through the long middle stretch. The ones who know the real stories. The ones who’ll walk in the cold for a flask and a chat, no reservations required.
A Galentine’s picnic doesn’t need planning or performance. It’s not a brunch with balloons. It’s time, shared - outdoors if possible, layered up, laughing at how dark it still gets at four.
The Galentine’s Formula (no admin required)
One friend (or two).
One flask.
One place you can stand or perch without commitment.
One honest conversation, ideally followed by laughter.
Where It Works Best
A snowdrop-strewn churchyard loop
The school gate, ten minutes after pick-up
A familiar footpath you’ve walked a hundred times
The car boot, facing a hedge, doors open, engine off
What Makes It Special
This isn’t about romance or ritual - it’s about belonging.
Friendship love is practical. It shows up. It listens. It says, same, and means it.
In a month that can feel like a slog, Galentine’s picnics are a reminder that joy often arrives sideways — via a shared mug and someone who gets it.
February Micro-Itinerary (Somerset-flavoured)
Candlemas: a candle in a jar on the step, one hot mug, measure the light
Snowdrop loop: churchyard wander + flask reward (muddy boots encouraged)
Galentine’s picnic: friend + thermos + ten minutes of truth, followed by biscuits
Birdsong watch: choose a morning when the garden feels louder; stand still, listen, sip
Etiquette (kindly enforced)
Leave no trace. Crumbs in pockets, tea bags home, orange peels composted, friendly nods for dog-walkers, and remember: February picnics are small, brave, and best done before anyone gets cold and grumpy.
Try this this week:
Go on a snowdrop picnic. A short walk to a churchyard, lane edge, or that quiet corner you always mean to visit. Bring a flask, one biscuit, and no agenda. Stand still. Bend down. Let the small bravery of them do the heavy lifting.
Ten minutes counts.
Text someone you like: “Snowdrop wander, mugs after?”
If they come, lovely. If not, the flowers still show up.
Gear tip (buy once, use forever):
A sheepskin rug turns any cold step, wall, or log into an invitation. Warm, practical, and wildly forgiving of damp stone and February indecision. We keep one by the door and grab it instinctively - proof that the right kit gets used.
(Mine are from Drapers of Glastonbury — beautifully made, properly British, and built for real life.)
Cooking with the Seasons
Still winter, but loosening. We’re cooking food that warms without weighing us down — brighter flavours, quicker wins, and dishes that invite people to linger in the kitchen while you stir. This is the month of shared pans, lemon squeezed at the last minute, and food that says I thought of you.
What to cook this month:
Pancakes for supper (Shrove Tuesday energy): Plain, reliable, joyful. Serve with lemon and sugar, or go savoury with mushrooms and cheese. Syrup on pyjamas is not a failure.
Leek, lemon & thyme pasta: Leeks softened slowly, a flash of lemon zest, thyme, and a knob of butter. Weeknight food that feels like a small kindness.
Eggs on toast, upgraded: Soft eggs, proper bread, good butter - maybe a spoon of chutney if you’ve got it. Breakfast-for-supper has February written all over it.
Tiny Somerset swap: Local eggs, properly fresh. Golden yolks turn even the simplest meal into something celebratory.
Waste-not note: Leftover pancakes become tomorrow’s wraps. Leek tops turn into stock. Wilted herbs get blitzed with oil and frozen in spoonfuls. Future-you will feel gently smug.
This month you’ll find me …
February makes me restless in a very specific way. Not bored - just ready. Ready for light, for green, for things to get going. Every year I practise the same lesson: notice what’s here instead of leaning too hard into what’s coming. It’s harder than it sounds. It’s also where the joy lives.
Quiet groundwork: February is for setting things up without much to show for it yet. Picnic baskets aired and mended. Taking stock of what we already have. Roses and fruit trees tidied, sweet peas kept company indoors. Unseen work, done steadily - trusting that effort now pays off later.
Walk & notice: Slow February walks are my favourite. Eyes down for snowdrops, then suddenly up for daffodils that weren’t there yesterday. Stourhead paths, quiet country lanes, gentle loops where conversation flows as easily as the noticing.
Gather - the held-and-seen edition: A small Galentine’s gathering with the women who make me laugh, steady me, and tell the truth kindly. Soup, cake, mugs that stay warm. Gratitude said out loud. No one rushing off.
Love, family-style: Valentine breakfasts for the children: heart-shaped toast, notes slipped into pockets, love served early before the day gets complicated. Simple, grounding, and always worth the crumbs.
Sea air: A winter weekend by the coast. Cold-bright walks, people watching, long stretches of sea gazing. I can’t explain why winter beaches restore me more than summer ones - they just do.
Snowdrop hunting: Small pilgrimages to churchyards and lane edges - bending down, looking closely, letting those brave little flowers recalibrate my expectations. A reminder that progress doesn’t shout. It nudges.
February keeps teaching me - again - that patience isn’t passive. It’s active noticing. Choosing presence. Walking beside the season instead of dragging it forward.
And honestly? I’m learning to like myself better for it.
With love, Gemma x
Stay a little longer . . . .
