A hard frost has settled in my garden. There are corners now where the long rays of winter sun cannot reach, where the green grass is tinged white and where small birds do not go.
I have learnt to park my car to face the rising dawn, and it takes several hours before the windscreen melts on most days and on some not at all. The thoughtful neighbours sprinkle salt on the footpath; the thoughtless do not. The physical act of walking has been turned into the art of the careful waddle, making sure each planted shoe avoids any ice underfoot.
On the seashore, the wading birds flit quickly in and out of the wet sands from where the cold briny tide retreats twice a day. There is no ice cream being sold from the shuttered stands on the promenade — there is just ice in the small steel basin of a drinking-water font. The hardy souls taking their pets are wrapped in heavy coats, mitts and muffs, scarves and hoodies. There is little time to chat and all are focused on the double primary tasks to hand — staying warm and walking their furry best friends.
Winds blowing in the north
If the Sun does share its heat, wooden fences slowly begin to breathe, with gently wisps of warming water vapour wafting upwards. Maybe too the sands will also slowly begin to stream steam — but that is rare when the prevailing wind blows from the north.
In the distance across the bay the high peaks of the Pennines have aged as the white of winter snow bestows its seasonal wisdom. This is the dead of winter, where there is a crispness in the air that turns suddenly to the bone-chilling damp as soon as the sun retires from its short working days to its evening and nightly furlough.
The seagulls that for three seasons of the year squawk and harangue those on the promenade are few now. The rawness of the wind has carried their appeals for food away too — most seek shelter in the flat fields outside town now that the cattle and sheep have vacated their seasonal lodgings for the barn and the byre.
There are some days now where the wind just slices through the skin and eyes water for the sudden loss of warmth; there is no cold comfort nor comfort from the cold.
This cold snap
These frosty mornings, the bright flash of a robin’s chest brings a welcome relief and a reminder that this cold snap will pass, that nature finds joy when and where we might not.
Those who walked these shores and studied the stars and phases of the Moon were wise enough to know that the Sun sank to its lowest at the same time each winter. From that nadir of winter would gradually but surely come the zenith of summer, and they built monuments and vast stone timepieces to mark and honour the passage and phases of the Moon and the relentless but satisfying progress of the seasons.
This winter, every winter, its rawness, desolation — yes, its death — is but a prelude to the surety of the spring that will come with the gradual lengthening of days.
The time will soon come when the hard white frost will no longer sneak up each dark night, where rain will replace hail, where the bonnet will be wet with dew not frozen with obstinate ice.
Soon there will be more time to linger on the promenade, and slowly the birds will return there too from their winter retreats to the south and beyond. The thickets will come to life as nests are built and the irreversible cycle of nature begins again. Yes, it is the depth of winter. But this too shall pass.
