The weather forecasts are full of snow, especially snow that matters in the South. It’s a time for watching the hungry birds snatch scraps from the bird table and appreciating the pleasures of working from home.
For a start, I can walk to the shops so, assuming deliveries continue, I am not going to go hungry. Besides, it’s a quiet season for author visits so nobody will feel disappointed if I don’t appear and I can just enjoy being here at my desk. What a blessedly easy life!
Snow is almost timeless. I recall mornings when ice coated the inside of window-panes and milk rose in frozen columns from milk bottles; days when the soft silence outside was broken by spades scraping harshly across paving stones as pathways were cut through the snow.
Indoors was a den devoted to drying-out: from the wet clothes on the clothes horse to the oozing shoes and boots by the scullery door. The boredom was interspersed by interesting domestic moments: the newspaper catching fire when held across the fireplace to blaze up the flames; the ominous drip from burst pipes, the flickering pattern on the ceiling painted by the light from the paraffin stove which was a sign that one was allowed to feel ill.
The warm, fusty smell of winter clothes led to “Go out and play!”, with the remembering of gloves and scarves and hats as well as grizzles over ear-aches, chilblains and dead fingers mostly ignored by grown-ups who had sat frozen in airplanes or endured bitter winters on battlefields or whose thoughts were of stretching the rations.
More widely, there were wondrous tales of snow higher than cottage roofs and snow-drifts lasting until Easter and stories about farmers and fishermen and such heroic people, braving the freezing weather to struggle on with their daily work, as they always have done.
At the back of the mind, snow brings images from history: great glacier sheets that ground across Britain; those year-long winters when crops failed and social order struggled or the rowdy cheerful frost fairs on the Thames.
There’s also the strange heroism of explorers who braved ice and snow not because they had to do so to make a living but because they chose to do so: people such as Captain Scott with his Terra Nova expedition, who reached the South Pole on this day in 1912.
Brrrr! I’m off now to fill up a hot water bottle - from a kettle, not warmed in a microwave. One of winter’s treats. Then , all cosy in bed, I’ll dream up a wintry scene or two for writing when I get back to work.
I do know that, whether I’m under the duvet, struggling along icy paths or hacking vegetables for a large pan of soup, certain lines always capture the feel of winter, no matter what the year.
Thank you, Mr Shakespeare.
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. Keep warm, History Girls!
Penny Dolan
www.pennydolan.com
