The night’s frost has left a sugar glaze on the car windows. Scrapers out and heating on, skating around on frozen snow. The car slides down the freshly ploughed track, one wheel on the tractor tracks for traction. Then right turn, and foot on the accelerator to get up the hill. A thick line of snow and ice runs down the centre of the road, crunching underneath. The passing places have disappeared under mounds of white. Sharply upwards now on to the main road and I am safely on my way home.
29th January 2021
We walk across the field, snow up to the top of our boots. The setting sun paints the scenery pale gold red, glowing in the later afternoon. Mountains are silhouetted against winter blue sky. Between the beech trees, the snow has drifted into fantastical sculptures, curved by the wind.
28th January
Ahead lie only faint marks of passing traffic. All day long the snow has fallen. It whirls in my headlights, a dizzying spin of white. Slowly onwards I go, watching for the turning. The road is a narrow channel between white walls. A flash from the reflector on the fence warns me that I’m here. Slowly swing into the opening, then chug up the hill. I have arrived.
27th January 2021
First time in a while to walk alongside the river. The constant cold this month means that it has almost frozen over, only a narrow channel left where the water rushes through. The fresh snow lies on top of the ice, creating the illusion of solid ground. If you listen carefully, you can hear the water shushing beneath. Step gently here.
26th January 2021
The ice is back, thickly coating the streets with frozen snow. I venture out briefly to dust off the wall where the blackbird perches, scattering some birdseed for her. The sparrows are fluffed up like little balls of fleece. The robin watches me warily from his perch on the log pile. The chaffinch shrieks his objection from the rowan tree. This is my place, he seems to say. Retreating back inside, I stand at the kitchen window, hot tea in hand, and watch the birds descend.
25th January 2021
The loch is frozen, with only a few patches clear for the wildfowl clustered together. From here it looks as though you can walk out to the crannog, although to do would result in an icy bath. Last nights dusting of snow has created a frosted effect, like sprinkles on a cup-cake. I tap it gently with my pole and listen. The sound rings out through the stillness, echoing like fairy chimes, raising a raucous response from the ducks.
22nd January 2021
Up the hill today ‘the rock of the oak trees’. A steep winding path heads upwards. Patches of snow and ice lay in the open spaces. Elsewhere, the lea of the hill gives shelter from the worst of the ice wind. The winter sunlight shines down, filtered through the bare branches. Last year’s leaves bury the path, a slippery trap for the unwary. Slowly I pick my way along, until the view opens out. The snow dusted foothills loom across the rooftops in the valley. Up above, a bird of prey circles, searching for movement below.
21st January 2021
A miserable day. The sleet hammers down, lashing the windows. Grey light filters through dark clouds. The cold seems to get inside my bones, aching and weeping. I huddle under the blanket, hot water bottle at my feet, fingers frozen as I type. I must head out soon, but I put it off as long as I can. The sleet turns to snow. Hat, gloves, scarf and mask. Thermal trousers and walking boots. Outside the snow lands on sleet puddles, forming a thin layer of ice, a trap for the unaware. I scurry along as quickly as I can, anxious to return to the warmth of home.
20th January 2021
The snow came again last night. Waking, I sense the hush outside, sound absorbed by the white coating. The morning blue light reflects from the ground. I head out to clear the car. The grass is covered with bird prints, from pigeons who hang about under the feeders, to the blackbird that hops along. A rustle comes from the ivy-covered wall, and out pops the robin to say hello.
19th January 2021
Trying to avoid the frozen path, I head home across the golf course. The hoar frost is sticking out on the bushes, spikes in all directions. Autumn’s last leaves are outlined in white, and the blades of grass each have their own decoration. Each step has a soft crunch of accompaniment. A skating rink has overtaken the greens, melted snow now frizen solid. No way round. I slide my feet over the ice, one by one, carefully placing my stick ahead of me. Skating along until I reach the rough with a sigh of relief. Up now, through the birch trees, silver black in their winter dress. Then homewards bound for lunch.
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