Like last year, we awoke early this morning to find snow in March. Not that our ridiculous island isn't capable of wintry precipitation far later in the year than this, of course; it's just that it seems incongruous when minds are very definitely set on spring. Longing for it, in fact.
The strangest thing about this snowfall was how localised it was. We had two inches on the northern edge of Bristol, where I live, but none, for example, in the affluent suburb of Clifton, a few miles to the south. (Not often we get something they don't have!) And further afield, a dusting in Frome, nothing at all in Glastonbury and Bridgwater. As for Son the Elder, confronted by his appalled mother, having driven with a friend 'through all that snow' to Leicester, he was quick to point out in his defence that as soon as they'd left Bristol, the motorway was clear.
Anyway, we got up and headed for the field before breakfast on the pretext that our dog, Cwtch, would want to play in the snow, though truth be told, it was us who wanted to get out in it; she doesn't care for it much, unlike our old collie, Ted, who revelled in snowy days and could never resist trying out his celebrated White Fang impression.
There's always an intake of breath before squidging through the muddy gap between the golf course and the field on days when the weather's doing something interesting.
first footers
And to be honest, it wasn't the most beautiful of snowy days, but after all the rain we've had, it was a miracle any of it had pitched at all ...
... and we were going to take what we could get ...
... like the opportunity to do our best Bruegel impressions.
down by the ditch
Rooky Wood
Children heading for the golf course with their sledges and a mum missing her Saturday lie-in
His'n'hers Northern Soul hoodies
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