Observations on Walking in Snow

Even if the territory upon which you walk is familiar in the green grass light of a normal day, the snowed-upon land feels different under the feet. For one thing, new snow squeaks. The snowdrops are all covered, and there are odd, unrecognisable hillocks and hummocks disguising the terrain I thought I knew so well. The wimpy weasel is snuffling and snortling at this strange powdery stuff, and the dastardly dinmont has hurried inside in a huff, because he doesn't care for his manly parts acting as a snowplough. No walk for him today, then. The wretched rams are doing their smoke impressions again, and pawing and gnawing at the hidden grass. They would rather be reindeer, who are better equipped for this sort of thing. Crossing the lawn is an adventure--there are the blackbird tracks, there the robin's small marks, like unreadable hieroglyphics on a crisp white sheet. And here, oh, here, are the long, lollopy tracks of the rabid rabbits. I see they have tried to get into the vegetable garden again, but my hard heart rejoices to see that the chicken wire behind the beech hedge has foiled them yet again. My kale and leeks are safe.

The field by the stream is silent until I reach the bridge, and then the sluggish water turns to a millrace roaring, full of snowmelt, and frothing like angry lace. There is an earthbrown eruption on the bank, all out of place in this white desert--a mole has been digging his hill despite the weather. The trees are heavy with a burden of slipping snow, but the willows are starting to turn red with sap. They know that spring is coming, even if the weather says otherwise.

Writing Views

Sometimes there are mornings when it is hard to write. The mind wanders. The fingers are slow and unsure on the keyboard. The Muse slopes off and has coffee or slugs back the ambrosia with her friends, with no regard to scheduled word count or looming deadlines. It is at these times when I look for inspiration out of the window. Yes, I am lucky enough to have a view whilst I write. It wasn't always so. For years I had a peeling yellow wall with inspiring posters on it. Not quite the same, but I managed. Now, at this season, I gaze out over wintergreen fields, starkly bare trees, a full brown stream winding its way over to a hidden distant river. Sometimes there is movement in the landscape. No sign of the rabid rabbits assaulting the vegetable garden so far today, but Sir Prancelot the vicious cock pheasant is once again engaged in chasing some surprised-looking ewes off his territory. He ought to know better, because they are heavily in lamb, and the shock of a small but belligerent bird-with-ears telling them what to do is not at all what they are used to. They are milling about, baaing clouds of panicked breath over the dead clumps of nettle by which they huddle, hoping for rescue from their farmer-in-armour. In early morning, the colours were all muted shades of greyish green, dusted with the crunching whiteness of frost, but now the sun is out, and the ice has melted to round rainbow drops on the weeping twigs of the silver birch. The grass in the field has turned that parched but sodden yellowy green which goes with too little daylight, and there are rusty brown patches where the floodwaters have overflowed and receded, making walking the wimpy weasel and the dastardly dinmont a squelchy business in the afternoons. You see how it goes? The fingers are flying now, and the words are coming again. The Muse has returned from her ambrosia break, and is raring to start firing ideas into my brain. All it takes for me is a little gazing out at the English landscape.