I am certain that there has been snow on the ground at some point nearly every day since we arrived and, right now, it is lying thick and white and pristine over everything in the street.
I love it. I have so missed snow — snow that is not remarkable, snow that does not stop the whole world with a mere quarter-of-an-inch, snow that is just part of the season, expected and accepted. I stand at the front window and watch it come down, big wet flakes that fall at their own unhurried pace. Or I step out onto the porch and listen to the snow — that amazing still silence which is always accompanied by a slight breeze against your cheek, cold but yet so refreshing. I love going to bed at night knowing that the whole town is covered in an unbroken, unblemished white blanket. And I love waking up to see who has been in the garden in the night: big tracks and little, revealing everyone’s secret comings and goings.
Spring is round the corner and will be spectacular when it arrives, I know. But for now, I am thoroughly enjoying the splendor of my first proper winter in so very many years. I had completely forgotten how much I’d missed it.