Once upon a winter's afternoon . . .

There's a part of my very northern soul that loves winter - however cold the wind and however bleak the trees and stone walls look with the snow blowing across them.  I still feel that lift of the heart - the excitement I felt as a child when the white flakes began to fall out of a steel-grey sky.   It was minus three degrees this afternoon, but I had to get out into it and walk up the river with the snow blowing on a wind that the Scots describe as lazy - because it goes straight through you rather than round!  There was snow cloud on the fells, so I couldn't see their summits from the river. The colours were all sepia, like old photographs.

There's been quite a lot of gale damage in the woods that line the river bank.  But my favourite oak tree is still standing - a very old tree with a trunk that would take several people to circle it with their arms.

 The next door neighbour hadn't been so fortunate, lying prostrate in the snow. One gale too many.

The wind chill was quite challenging and the temperature will go down to minus ten tonight if the forecast is right. I was very well wrapped up against the cold - more suitable for a Himalayan expedition than a walk up the river Eden. It felt very good to be outside after being cooped up inside with flu.  Now to curl up on the sofa with a good read.  Italo Calvino?  'If on a winter's night a traveller' . . .   One of my favourite books for comfort reading.  But I haven't read William Fiennes 'Snow Geese' yet though it's sitting on my Kindle.   And then there's a little voice inside nagging me about all the things I'm supposed to be writing myself. Choices!