Winter starts to bite

3 – 7 December 2014

Over the last week the weather has got markedly colder. Hats, gloves and scarves are the order of the day when I set off for work in the morning and, even then, the icy air nips at my fingers and nose as I walk. Down on the river the swans and cygnets huddle by the bank in the mornings seeking what little warmth they can get from the low sun.  For the cygnets it’s their first winter and, after such a mild start to the season, they must be wondering what is going on.

On Wednesday, as I walked along the Boardwalk a mass of squealing gulls seemed to be following me. They must have mistaken me for someone who had bread. The chilly morning air didn’t warm up all day and, when I took my break at lunchtime, a few tiny flakes of snow fell, melting quickly on the sleeve of my jacket. Quite shortly the snow decided it was going to be rain after all, cutting short any plans I had had for a walk down to the river. Even so, I realised it was probably time to search for the Yak Trax I’d put away in a sensible place in the spring.

Why is it that the place that seems so sensible when you put things away is always so hard to find when you need them again? I distinctly remember thinking, “that’s a good place, I’m sure I’ll remember where they are next winter.” Anyway, eventually I did stumble upon them after a lot of searching. Next spring I swear I’m going to put them somewhere easier to find. Then again… Now the Yak Trax are in my bag I think we are almost guaranteed to be free of ice and snow for the foreseeable future.

With my Yak Trax in my ruck sack I set off for work on Thursday. It may have been my imagination but it seemed warmer. The Yak Trax were doing their job even if they didn’t see the light of day once. On Horseshoe Bridge some confused blackberries were convinced it was spring. One bush was a mass of berries that may or may not ripen before they freeze.

A very old very deaf lady rang in the afternoon.
“I am very angry,” she shouted, “I want to make a complaint.”
It took a while for me to get just the right level of shouting very slowly and clearly before she could hear what I was saying. Mostly I let her do the talking.
“You’ve changed the number of my bus,” she yelled, “it used to be the 458 and you’ve changed it to the 58. It’s not good enough!”
She was working herself up into quite a frenzy which can’t have been good for her health so I tried to calm her.
“The timetable and the route are the same,” I assured her, “we changed the number because all our other buses have two digit numbers.”
“The 44A doesn’t,” she said.
Suppressing a sigh I reminded her again that the times and the route were still the same.
“I don’t care about that,” she said, “when the bus comes now I can’t tell if it’s the 58 or the 56 and they both go to different places. I keep getting on the wrong bus. I want you to change it back at once!”
With that she put the phone down. Maybe she needs to get some new glasses.

Friday was colder agiain, the sort of morning where your breath comes in white clouds, but not cold enough for ice or frost. It was one of those crisp, clear mornings that make you glad to be alive. The days are still getting shorter so, on days like this, I still get the pleasure of the rising sun on my way to work even if I do have to come home in the dark. On Friday morning the still river picked up the colour of the peachy pink sky and reflected the gulls flying towards Riverside Park, doubling their number. Along the far bank skeleton trees stood out in stark contrast.

Frost had turned the grass to glittering white on Saturday morning but the pavements were clear. The ungritted road, on the other hand, was covered by a thin sheet of ice which made me feel a little uneasy in case a car skidded. Luckily, at that time on a Saturday morning, there isn’t much in the way of traffic so I made it safely to the river. The frost sparkling on the Boardwalk was crunchy rather than slippery so my Yak Trax were not required.

My plans for a walk to the Windmill at Burseldon were scuppered by torrential rain first thing on Sunday morning. It did clear up later in the day so I walked up the Big Hill to the village for milk. At the top of the hill the ivy growing along the school wall is marbled with red. Last winter when I noticed this striking change of colour I wondered why the ivy in my own garden didn’t put on such a spectacular show. Turns out this is a special variety of ivy, Hedera helix Atropurpurea, which looks just like normal ivy for most of the year but changes to stunning reds and purples in the winter. Maybe I should steal a little cutting?

As it turned out I got two chances to look at the ivy because, when I got home I discovered we were almost out of coffee so I had to turn around and walk back up the hill. My head will never save my legs but I guess it’s all good exercise.