The Key to Surviving Winter in Scotland
Winter in Scotland can be bleak and unforgiving. The nights are long, dark and sombre; the days cold and harsh.
But winters in Scotland can also be magical. As with most things, it’s all about perspective. Though, being honest, if you don’t like freezing temperatures, Scotland in winter might not be for you. But if you’re curious about what it looks like, feels like, and the many ways to make the most of it, come coorie down: get comfortable.
Let me tell you how I coorie and how it helps me survive - and fall in love with - winter in Scotland.
But first - what does coorie really mean?
The Scandinavians have their hygge - and in Scotland, we have coorie. There’s some crossover, for sure. Snuggling up in blankets, gathering round the fire with a mug of hot chocolate - taking unpretentious joy in the simple things in life. Hygge is about comfort, cosiness and contentment. There’s a focus on retreating indoors over winter, and making your indoor space very, very, koselig.
Coorie is a bit different. It’s all about the outdoors.
Far from a lifestyle ‘trend’ - it’s more of a way to understand and connect to your environment. The word itself means “crouch” or “stoop” - think hunkering down to escape from the elements. Think of a bothy, a shelter in the hills, a place of safety when the weather turns. It’s about finding the joy outdoors, in nature, rather than tucked up cosy inside. (For the record - both are amazing.)
There's something other-worldly about a landscape covered in fresh snow: a completely white panorama, glittering, sparkling and then glowing in the low light of a setting sun.
I love to see entire conifer plantations, platoons of trees lined up neatly in rows, all dusted in snow. I love the soft pink skies at dawn and dusk. I love the crisp evenings, ink-black nights, and crisp frosty paths dotted with frozen puddles. I love wrapping up warm, knitted hats, scarves and mittens, and feeling the cold air bite my face, freeze my breath, and warm my cheeks. I love cold water swimming, slipping into a loch and feeling the initial shock of the cold water ebb away, with steaming cups of hot, homemade elderflower cordial to warm up with afterwards.
It’s invigorating. It’s bracing. It’s revitalising.
When I was little, we looked forward to White Christmases, but this is a fantasy now. We might get ‘lucky’, but our shifting climate means snow is more likely in January or February. Last year we were snowed in after New Year, unable to get our camper van up the track. The snow started in mid January and lasted through to my birthday in February. One day I cross-country skied from our front door down to the loch, just before the snow melted away.
It was so cold, below freezing, that the snow was dry - soft, powdery and breathtakingly beautiful. We don’t really have a word for it in English, other than powder snow. But because of the low temperatures it lasted a long time after it first fell. I think the better word for it might come from Finnish: nuoska, meaning “snowballable” snow.
It was a magical time, but it was also harsh. There were widespread and long lasting power cuts due to the weight of snow taking down branches and entire trees. We got cut off, and it was cold, isolating, and lonely.
And winter in Scotland does get very, very dark.
On the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, the day is a mere 6hrs and 50 mins long where we live. The sun officially rose at 8:46 and set at 15:37. But even from my south-facing sitting room, due to local land cover (trees) and topography (hills), we see the sun even less so the day feels even shorter.
The lack of light can be oppressive. SAD is real: Seasonal Affective Disorder. Low mood, feeling sad, withdrawing, sleeping more, and feeling generally disengaged and disconnected happens to a great many people, and it is much more profound in wintertime on account of the lack of sunlight.
We pop our Vitamin D and we try to “get out more”, but it’s not always easy. The weather is often drab and very occasionally dire, and, like I say, there is only a narrow window of opportunity in which to access daylight in Scottish winter. If you work indoors, or in a regular office, it can feel like a great deal of time has passed since you last felt a sunbeam fall on your face.
But if you can, coorie it up. Stretch, bound and lean into the wilderness and all of the great outdoorsiness that Scotland has to offer. Coorie is by its nature practical, acerbic and almost abrasive to the soul. It is not comfortable - but it is invigorating.
For every dook in the loch, there’s a hot toddy, a dram, or a warm fire in a bothy.
On every walk, you’ll find something - if you look.
On a recent walk with my sister, she was delighted to find Velvet Shank (Flammulina velutipes) on a felled elm trunk. We foraged a few, carried them home and cooked them up in a stir fry that same night - a priceless experience, for no other reason that cultivated velvet shanks, Enokitake, curiously bear no resemblance to their wild counterparts.
It is about finding the beauty in the bleakness. Seeking solace in solitude. It’s about discovering hidden gems in the starkness of winter.
My technical skills aren’t up to navigating the mountains in winter, and I don’t do ice climbing or accurate avalanche assessments, so I won’t be heading far into the hills when the temperatures drop. Walks, yes. Foraging, if I can. Birdwatching, most likely. Winter is when the most splendid of birds, the waxwing, arrive in the UK. And you might even find me in the back garden, as I was last winter, knee deep in snow, stoking the flames of the pizza oven and baking pizzas by the light of our head torches.
But the other way I like to observe coorie is actually indoors. And you don’t even need to be in Scotland for this.
But it necessarily requires you to embrace the dark. This can be uncomfortable as in these modern times, we're not used to the dark. We have so many ways to overcome it and push it out: curtains, blinds, lights, candles, screens, TVs. We light ourselves up just to avoid the dark.
But what if we embraced it? What if we entered it willingly?
The Bards of times gone by would frequently choose to spend time immersed in darkness as a way to nurture their creativity. This was how they composed their poetry and earned their keep. Darkness was the way.
There's a huge joy to be found in embracing darkness. The withdrawal of the senses unlocks a certain magic in the mind. It's great for accessing new ideas, perspectives and plots.
Earlier this winter I began a ritual which turned into a habit of retreating to my room as the sun began to set. I would draw the blinds, absorbing the darkness, before lighting a candle and picking up my pen to write.
It has been so nourishing.
In Sanskrit, such practices are a form of Pratyahara, meaning "withdrawal of the senses.” Pratyahara comes from two root Sanskrit words: prati, meaning “to withdraw,” and ahara, meaning food. The food is not literal food, but anything that you feed to your mind, that nourishes your soul. Ideas, memories, imagination. It’s so much easier to access it in the dark.
Ultimately, whether you are inside or outside, coorie is about connecting with your environment. In winter especially, it’s about finding peace with the harsh conditions, and finding ways to enjoy them - rather than fight or avoid them.
Yes, winter can be dreary and dark. But leaning into winter, finding ways to find stillness, joy, connection and inspiration in the bleakness can be very rewarding. It’s very Scottish. It’s very character building. It’s coorie.
