Old Man Winter clearly heard me yesterday, grumbling that it wasn’t fair that the South of the country was getting the snowfall. When I woke up this morning after having had a dream that left me feeling like I hadn’t slept at all (I’m having far too many of those sorts these days) he’d left a light layer of snow across the North. I felt better for seeing it. Snow makes everything better.
I went outside in my dressing gown, the snow creaking under my feet. (Someone said walking on snow sounds like walking on polystyrene.) In the garden, I followed a trail left by a bird with rather large feet.
As I was starting this post, a blizzard was stirring up outside. It’s mostly stopped now though. It lasted for all of about three minutes, but it was beautiful for those three minutes. I think blizzards are one of nature’s most beautiful offerings.
I can remember my mum driving me and my siblings home one day after school. It was dark out and she was going at a snail’s pace across the moor road (our school was based in the heart of the North Yorkshire Moors) because there was a terrible (wonderful!) blizzard raging. I can remember watching, hypnotized by the sight and sound of the windscreen wipers sweeping back and forth as the snow buffeted the glass. I can remember not wanting the blizzard to end, and feeling quite disappointed when we eventually came down off the high moor and reached the main road where the conditions weren’t quite as bad.
What I Was Listening To While Writing This