Greek Winter
My Dearest Galosh, Let me tell you one thing about Mediterranean homes: they are NOT built for cold weather.
My Dearest Galosh,
October had come in the little pirate village in Greece where we spent a winter and the "Χαλιά και κουρτίνες" truck had started appearing. What is a Χαλιά και κουρτίνες truck? I didn't know either and was too concerned with sunbathing on my terrace to care. The truck came for a while once a week, shouting Greek through a megaphone, heard but unseen on the tiny streets of the pirate village. I felt movement and heard voices for a few minutes and then the truck was gone again.
I was in cold feet hell. I'll spare you the details.
Somewhere in late February, we figured out what Χαλιά και κουρτίνες meant. The traveling merchants had been selling carpets and heavy drapes to the villagers to barricade their homes against the wind and cold. There were carpets on all the floors and I think there were carpets on the walls as well. And then, when spring came, this winter shroud came off and life was good again.
I think I still would have been cold, even in these conditions. But it got me thinking about flexible bioclimatic adaptations (I did warn you I like terms).
There are two types of bioclimatic adaptations: fixed and flexible. The fixed ones are what we tend to call proper architectural elements. Stuff that doesn't move once we set it up (build it). Like... windows on the sunny side of the house.
The second type are the ones that change with the seasons and the days. Think blinds, shutters, shades. But not only. Possibilities are endless.
Modern architecture's goal seems to be to devise a structure that will take on any variation in weather in one single sweep. The home of today is completely oblivious of what is happening outside of it. The tiny humans inside this gigantic thermos can just Netflix away.
The house is a static shell, ready for anything and everything.
So we don't need to remember to close the shutters on a cold winter evening before the storm. We couldn't care less if the wind is blowing or the sun is shining. There is nothing that needs input from us directly anymore. Our dealing with nature has stopped.
Problem solved.
Tropical architecture can't really do that. It relies on natural ventilation too much.
I'm not talking about Singapore high-rises here, think rural Vietnam. The changes in weather need changes in the house. Windows need opening or closing, shutters need to be moved to make the most of the coming breeze. Air needs to flow.
In rural, say, France, there are winter rooms and summer rooms. Winter carpets and summer drapes. Shutters and pergolas and shades of all shapes. The timing of these is as clear as the timing of land care. Most of the people I speak to around here know when the last frost will be, where the wind blows when and where to best place a shed.
Their circadian/seasonal rhythm is primed as hell:)
We all have this rhythm in us and use it more than we think but less that we used to. If you've ever placed your laptop to take advantage of spring sunshine, you're there. If you're closing curtains to get the light off your face when writing in the afternoon, you're there as well. If you're huddled up in a blanket because there's a storm outside, you're definitely there.
Reacting to the changes in our surrounding is a sign of our engaging with nature, of our being with it, not separate from it.
Scan your room and your house for “flexible bioclimatic adaptations”. They are each a way you are engaging with the outside, getting out of the cocoon. Each a way of saying hello to nature instead of denying it. I see you, sunshine! I see you Spring!
With all my windows open to Nature,
Jo
PS Are wheat straw plates gluten-free?
Hygge - engaging with nature by huddling up!
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