Six inches of white stuff

Our lane is now passable with a four-wheel drive, but apart from avalanches that roar like thunder from the thatch, thumping to the ground, there is little sign of a thaw.

Geese are such resilient birds. Within the fox-proof fence they are open to the elements, and have prospered for eight or nine years without so much as a shed, just a bath refilled weekly and a fresh bowl of water every day. The bath is frozen, but thawed water is essential for them to preen their insulating, waterproof feathers, and, with the consolation of an increased ration of corn, they’re not remotely upset by the weather. The chickens, by contrast, hate it. They take it in turns to emerge from the pop hole of their house, out onto the ladder, then cluck in disgust and go back inside.

Six inches of snow blankets the beehives. I’m glad for the extra insulation as it will freeze again tonight. The vegetable garden looks comfortably tucked up, apart from one tunnel that has collapsed onto the plants, the fleece having disappeared, indiscernible under a layer of white.

In the ornamental garden a few of the evergreens have suffered from the major dump. Azara serrata has a broken branch, but the box spheres, flattened into cushions, soon sprung back with a gentle kick and a shake.

Snow holiday

Snowed in six-inches deep, with our only close neighbours away, we’ve thoroughly enjoyed a holiday in blissful isolation. After feeding and carting water to the animals, we spent the morning tobogganing, slogging up the steep hills, unable to resist shooting back down. Whilst relishing the muffled quiet, we ruined it with raucous high spirits. Then later in the day another family and dogs’ noise echoed across the valley. Other life was out there, after all. Did they know about the prickly gorse patches that dot that hillside under the snow?

Snow at Imbolc

Last week ended with gales tearing through the valley, seizing anything loose to fling across the terraces. The wind bit the skin of our cheeks, icy sharp. Taking refuge in the kitchen, the girls and I spent an afternoon flicking seeds into fir cones, weaving dogwood cages for apples and confecting seed and pig fat into gateaux for the wild birds. Very cheerful, satisfying and simple work, by the time Jim returned home, the sumach (Rhus glabra ‘Laciniata;), still sporting crimson seedheads on antler-flocked branches, was decorated for Imbolc (Candlemas), and a-flutter with little birds. (Spot the robin and the goldfinch in the picture).

Ideal timing! On Monday the wind stilled, the sky turned azure blue and to our amazement, minute snowflakes condensed as if from the sun, glinting as they fell like fine dust towards the ground. But over the horizon a great, grey front was building, carrying in its wake millions of fat flakes. Soft, powder-dry, they flurried down till a pristine blanket united all.
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Winter-flowering shrubs

For a sheltered, warm wall, Winter-sweet (Chimo-nanthus praecox) takes some beating. There aren’t too many shrubs that pip snowdrops into flower, let alone ones that scent a room with a single sprig. Once established, it requires little attention save an annual light pruning and training. We had to wait five years for the first flowers to appear (quite often it’s six), but now I regularly pause on trips down to the yard to sniff at the bunches of cream petals on bare blanches - the clove scent on clean, cold air is guaranteed to make me smile.


Better suited to a shady spot, ideal by a gateway or a path, Sarcocca (Winter box) come in two sizes, three or six foot (1m or 2m). Glossy, evergreen shrubs, you have to search for their tiny flowers, but you won’t miss the cloud of perfume that takes you by surprise a short way down the path.

But Daphne x bholua ‘Jacqueline Postill’ (image above), takes the mid-winter crown, purplish-pink buds open into clusters of bells that exude a sweet, heady fragrance, as easily discernable as a rose. Not a speedy grower, nor cheap to buy, this daphne is well worth the investment however, as flowers are produced even whilst the shrub is small, and the mature eight foot (2.5m) cone is structural and elegant. Plus, surprisingly resilient for such an exotic-seeming species, I’ve seen it unblemished and flowering copiously from the depths of a chilly frost pocket. Daphnes have a reputation for being tricky, and as I’ve lost three D. odora ‘Aureo-marginata’ that I planted over the years, I’d hesitate to recommend that particular beauty, but the only thing I’ve known to kill ‘Jacqueline Postill’ was a savage prune to a six-inch (18cm) stump.