It is snowing!     What was a grey, rainy day has morphed into a heavy fall of snow out of a yellow tinged sky.      It has been raining and so I wonder if  this first flurry of snow will be able to rest here.    

There is something captivating about snow which I think is a hangover from my childhood.   I loved it when I awoke to deep drifts of snow which  happened regularly in my early years.   I particularly remember the winter of 1961 and finding Jack Frost patterns, his fine tracery, on the inside of my bedroom window.   

We did not have central heating in those days and so, unhindered, in the deepest depths of night that elvish creature, Jack Frost had crept into my bedroom and decorated the windows with his intricate artwork.      Delicate filigree patterns, perfect and symmetrical  filled the glass.        They thrilled me and I was always sorry to see them melt away.                                                                                             

Snow is something I have lived removed from, to a degree, for the last three years.   If anything, it has been a guilty, second hand pleasure which has happened mostly to other people if that doesnt sound too bizarre.     Living by the sea, snow does not really settle, the salt air keeps it at bay, except in the worst years of snowy excess, of course, when nothing can hold back a determined fall of snow.     

Strangely, and despite its proximity to the sea, in Plymouth, where I worked, snow would fill up the roads very quickly and prevent people with cars setting off for work and children from going to school.   Bus services would quickly be suspended and I, having trugged into work from Kingsand, where no snow had fallen at all, only a few miles away as the crow flies, by boat and then on foot, would find myself making the hour long journey home again, as those with such arduous journeys were inevitably sent home in case matters became worse.     Needing absolutely no second bidding I would depart with unseemly haste.   

If I am honest, since we moved here, I have secretly longed for this day when, sitting at home, I would watch the world turn to white outside my window, or wake to find the world encased in a deep white blanket and cocooned in that hushed and muffled silence a snow covered countryside wears.    It is a romanticised view of snow I know.   I am guilty.   It is, in reality, inconvenient and wet, pretty when white and new fallen, but quickly turning to a seedy brown slush.

As I write, the snow has stopped, it has settled a little on my neighbour’s lawn but the sky is now light and patchily blue.    What rests will fade as quickly as it came beneath watery winter sunshine.   I hope it comes again.  I must wait, it seems, for that thick blanket of snow.    Yule is just around the corner.   A white festival would be lovely.