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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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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