Usually, when I have a week’s autumn holiday on the west coast, I expect rain at some point. Or wind. Probably both. If I get two usable dryish days, then I consider myself lucky.
And so, on the first day of November, with high pressure already established over the UK, I was delighted to see a dry forecast for the following week, as we were off to Argyll.
The only snag was the forecast did look rather grey, with few sunny breaks. And true enough, on that first day it was gloomy. Dry, yes. But very gloomy.
I told my friends it was:
‘VERY grey. But at least it’s not raining!!’
My glass appeared to be half full. But evaporation was already underway because grey is just so……grey.
Grey sea, grey sky. No brightness, no shadow. Everything seemingly rendered in two dimensions.
But it wasn’t just the greyness, it was the stillness too. There was no wind whatsoever. All the weather cogs had simply ground to a halt, as though someone had forgot to put another £1 in the meter.
It was the same the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Every day in fact.
I’m an optimistic person where the outdoors is concerned – I’ll head outside in any weather. And we did, making a point of getting out and about every day – to Taynish, Kerrera, Ormaig, Knapdale, Gleann Domhain. There was so much to see!
We visited prehistoric monuments, castles, ancient woodlands, watched an otter, saw white tailed eagles, and even distant whales breaching. Yep, we were having a good week. So I was surprised at how my energy drained as the week, and the greyness, wore on.
The anticyclonic gloom felt weirdly oppressive, and many folk across the country were feeling it. I read a comment online where someone said it was ‘claustrophobic’. Another said it felt like the world was ‘holding its breath’.
One day, on a hill above Arduaine, we spied actual shafts of sunlight, piercing through the low cloud above distant Jura, like headlights cutting through the gloom. I fixated on those narrow beams and found myself craving the brightness, but I was also longing for variety. For change. For movement. For being able to FEEL the weather on my face. I didn’t care if it was sunshine or a gale. Just…..something!
I felt flatter as the week went on, feeling the pull of the sofa rather than the outdoors, and had to consciously fight-off the insidious drop in motivation. It probably sounds silly, as grey isn’t imprisoning in the way that wet or stormy weather might be. But it was an involuntary reaction that I struggled to stifle.
Is greyness intrinsically demotivating? Not in and of itself, perhaps. But when it’s day after day after day?
And when had I last seen the sun? Six days ago? Seven? Eight? I would have told you it was 30th October, in the Cairngorms, on a sun-kissed Creag an Dail Bheag. You certainly know something’s amiss when you find yourself counting the days since you last cast a shadow, and that sunless spell was making me realise just how badly I needed a bit of brightness.
But why? What exactly does an overdose of greyness do to us?
Vitamin D
This is usually the point where folk will say sunshine is especially important this time of year, in order to get our required dose of Vitamin D.
Vitamin D is essential for bone and muscle health. It can help stave off osteoporosis and fatigue, and sunlight is indeed a major source of it. However, the ‘Vitamin D from sunlight’ thing is, to a certain extent, a red herring once we get into this time of year.
When UVB (Ultraviolet B) rays shine on our skin, our bodies synthesise Vitamin D, which then either enters the bloodstream or is stored in fat for later use. The larger the surface area of skin exposed to the sun, the more readily Vitamin D is produced. In the Scottish summer the sun is warm, the days are long, and we are….weather permitting…. in t-shirts and shorts. Well, I’m not. But most people are, and they therefore have a greater surface area of bare skin exposed to sunshine, and for longer periods.
But the angle of the sun above the horizon is key. If 90 degrees is directly overhead, and 0 degrees is on the horizon, the sun apparently needs to be at least 50 degrees above the horizon for significant Vitamin D production to occur, otherwise the UVB rays have too great a distance to travel through the atmosphere and are too significantly weakened by the time they reach you.
As a very general guide therefore, if your shadow is shorter than you are tall, then Vitamin D synthesis will occur. If your shadow is longer than you are tall, it won’t, but note that’s not to say your skin isn’t still being damaged by other UV wavelengths.
Your location on the globe determines how many days of the year have strong enough sunshine to produce Vitamin D, because obviously the day length, and sun elevation, varies depending on how far north or south you are.
I had a play with a website that calculates sun position on any given day, for any location in the world. In Braemar, the sun only reaches 50 degrees above the horizon between 7th May and 4th August. That’s just 12 weeks out of 52 when sunshine can stimulate bodily production of Vitamin D.
In Lerwick it’s even less, just eight short weeks between 21st May and 21st July. But if you’re down in Penzance, at the opposite corner of the UK, then you have a whopping 19 weeks between 16th April and 26th August. That’s a huge difference across a relatively short distance.
It therefore doesn’t seem to matter how much exposure you get to autumnal or wintry sunshine, it just doesn’t have enough power to produce Vitamin D in useful amounts. Some synthesis of Vitamin D does occur in the skin outwith these optimum dates, but studies from Edmonton and Boston found that Vitamin D synthesis in people there was ‘virtually undetectable’ outwith their key summer months.
Summer sun exposure only needs to be very brief, though. One UK study found that short, regular exposure of around nine minutes per day, between June to August, keeps Vitamin D levels good as we move into winter.
However, the study assumes no protection from sunscreen, and 33% skin exposure. So just because it’s sunny, it doesn’t mean you get enough Vitamin D, even in summer. Sun exposure is damaging to our skin, regardless of who we are or whether we tan, so many of us will rightly cover up with clothing or sunblock. As a result, not everyone carries a good supply of Vitamin D into the winter.
I probably don’t. As a redhead, my skin is better than other complexions at producing Vitamin D in low light conditions. But then, as a redhead who doesn’t want to burn, I rarely have more than my hands and face exposed to the sun anyway, even in summer. I’m wearing suncream all year round too, so am likely to be more at risk from Vitamin D deficiency.
Set against that backdrop, the colder months come with a triple whammy:
- The sun is lower in the sky, well below 50 degrees.
- Days are shorter, which means there’s even less of the already-weakened sunshine.
- It’s cold, which means we’re generally not in t-shirts and shorts, save for those strange men who wear shorts all year round.
So no, we can’t rely upon the sun for Vitamin D at this time of year. Thankfully though, Vitamin D is found naturally in foods such as egg yolks and oily fish, and these days it is also added to some cereals, spreads etc. And that’s before you consider taking medicinal supplements.
So yes, Vitamin D does play a part in this story, but it doesn’t tell the whole story about why we might feel blue, waking up to see yet another gloomy grey day.
Let there be light
Perhaps it’s simply the case that gloomy weather makes us feel gloomy because….well…it’s gloomy? There’s a school of thought that describes ‘weather reactivity’ – the idea that a person’s subjective attitude towards the weather may have more of an effect on them mentally than the weather itself.
I guess, in this case, it would mean that because I knew there was high pressure stuck to the UK like a limpet, which would almost certainly bring 10 days of gloom, I likely made myself miserable even before I started to suffer any physiological effects of reduced light levels. Did I unwittingly give gloom a head start?
A BBC Bitesize article on this topic therefore suggests:
‘To help you feel better whatever the weather, try reframing your outlook. If you’re not a fan of the rain, consider the fact that plants are being watered and see if that helps boost your mood when grey skies approach’
I was already doing that consciously in Argyll, telling myself that autumn colours often look better under overcast skies.
It’s true. In flat light, the contrast between a bright sky and a dark canopy is reduced, almost to parity, which can make for easier photos of the woodland details. And indeed it did, on a lovely, photogenic walk through the Taynish oak woodlands.
So yes, I’d be the first to admit that grey has its place. But with the best will in the world, the reduction in light levels can and does impact upon us physically. We need brightness, directly onto our retinas. We need natural light.
Natural light suppresses the production of melatonin (a hormone) in our bodies, which is otherwise responsible for making us sleepy. A daily dose of light is therefore good for our body-clocks, but is especially important first thing in the morning, as this apparently has a significant effect on helping to reset our 24hr circadian rhythms, and regulating our sleep patterns.
But natural light also stimulates the release of serotonin (one of our ‘happy hormones’), which in turn benefits memory and our sense of well-being. I couldn’t locate any information on the extent to which bright sunny winter days are physiologically more beneficial than overcast ones, but I undoubtedly find luminous environments, where light is reflected back up at me, especially uplifting in winter. Think riversides, seasides, snowfields, sandy beaches. I always feel like I’m glowing after spending time on those.
All of which highlights how important it is to get out in winter. A daily dose of natural light, however weak it might be, is good for us.
Furthermore, when you’re indoors the air can get stale. But once outdoors, especially if you’re exercising, we naturally take deeper breaths of fresh air, which gets oxygen circulating and into our cells. That’s good for our concentration, and even our digestion. Exercise also releases endorphins, whether or not the sky is grey.
But you start to see how weather or light-related depression is, therefore, a very real thing. There is, however, a difference between feeling a bit despondent in short-lived episodes of seasonal winter blues, and the far more serious diagnosis of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).
SAD is a form of depression, where it’s thought that the brain’s hypothalamus (which regulates mood, sleep and appetite) is negatively impacted by reduced light levels. Long-lasting and potentially incapacitating, it’s estimated that around 1 in 10 Scots suffer from SAD.
I don’t have SAD. But like countless others, I can feel blue during any prolonged dreary weather, whatever the time of year. I find it unsettling just how susceptible I am to it, so when it surfaces, I know I need to actively do something before it really takes hold.
Easier said than done, of course. Often the mind is willing but the body isn’t, and it can require a herculean effort to simply step out the front door.
But regardless of how low I feel beforehand, I think I always feel better for having gone outside for a walk. Quite aside from whatever invisible, physiological benefits there might be, I feel better simply because it feels good to have overcome the apathy, and to have made an active, positive choice in spite of myself.
Beginning of the end
Back in Argyll, the whole week passed sunless under a thick sheet of low cloud. Yes, I was outside every day and feeling better for it, but no amount of grey light was going to satisfy my intrinsic craving for bright sunshine.
Driving back to Fife along a murky Loch Awe, we caught a fleeting glimpse of the sunlit upper slopes on Ben Cruachan, illustrating just how close the sun had been all week. Just 800m straight upwards, above the cloud.
We got back to Fife on 9th November, duly swapping west coast grey for east coast grey. The forecast for the next day was for a weather front (what a novelty!) to pass eastwards across Scotland, leaving clear skies in its wake. That seemed too good to be true, but I nonetheless resolved to walk down to the loch next morning and watch the pink footed geese depart on their morning commute. But looking out the window on the 10th, it was foggy. 50m visibility. Okay, so no point in heading out.
It was disheartening. But for all the reasons we’ve already discussed, I knew I needed to get out regardless, so in the afternoon I headed out into the murk, towards East Lomond.
To my surprise, upon stepping out the door, a round bright object hung in the sky. The sun! Faint enough through the fog to be able to look directly at it and see its outline, perhaps, but the sun nonetheless. I dared not hope.
Half an hour later as I approached the hill, feeling heavy-footed, I had the strangest experience. I was casting a shadow! An actual shadow for the first time since 30th October! Just 20 minutes after that, as I was nearing the summit, the final purge of grey muck came.
As a lifelong hillwalker I’m accustomed to abrupt changes of weather for the better, when foggy hills come good. But the suddenness of this one was surprising and hugely satisfying.
A steady breeze blew the thinning cloud over the summit – the perfect canvas for the sun to paint a brocken spectre in front of me. I stood. I gawped. I smiled. And suddenly I was squinting.
It was so bright! So sharp! Everything had definition again!
And the colours, oh my goodness, the colours! The sun accentuated the rich golden grass and the clear blue sky. It was as pronounced and abrupt a Technicolor transition as when Dorothy awoke in Oz.
In an instant, I felt restored. Aye, there’s no place like home!
Now noticeably light-footed, I practically pranced down that hill. Doubtless it all sounds silly and overdramatic, but I genuinely hadn’t felt so alive in ages. I think it’s only when you’re bathed in direct, unbroken sunshine that you realise just how empty you’ve been running during the preceding grey days.
That was three weeks ago, and my blue spell is now just a grey memory, anaesthetised by a subsequent run of bright, snowy and frosty days, with gales to mix things up and stimulate the senses. It’s amazing what you’ll forgive (and forget) once a stunning sunny day comes along.
Until the next grey spell, of course, which is all the more reason to try and get out where and when you can this time of year. On sunny days, yes, but on the overcast ones too.
IT COULD HAVE BEEN WORSE!
It felt like forever, but between 30th October and 10th November, it was just 11 days without sunshine. At the time, it felt exceptional, but skipping back through more than a decade of my blog I find regular expressions of apathy at the absence of sunshine.
January 2013 and Winter 2013/14 had dire grey spells. Similarly, looking back through previous Walkhighlands articles, I found myself moaning about a longer run of greyness in Winter 2015/16:
‘Today is 9th January, and I’ve not seen the sun since 27th December!’, I moaned.
Plus ca change!
My sunless spell wasn’t exclusive to any one location of course, rather it was my bad luck at moving around from one sunless location to another across that time. But while the 2024 run was a notably gloomy grey spell for sure, as it was across most of the UK, 11 is still some way short of our longest sunless spells.
Dan Harris from the Met Office, who kindly assisted with one of these articles back in 2022, has put together a nifty map where you can obtain data on dull spells for the UK’s longest-standing weather stations.
It shows how Stornoway had a 14-day sunless spell in December 2022. Leuchars had a 15-day grey spell in February 1940. And Eskdalemuir had a 16-day grey spell in December 1927. But spare a thought for the poor Shetlanders in Lerwick, who in Winter 1982/83, endured an energy-sapping 19-day absence of sunshine.
Doesn’t bear thinking about!