A strange day. Sunny and warm one minute – then blowing a blizzard the next. The Dog and I delayed our departure this morning because, just as we were about to open the front door, we took a glance out of the window and noticed that the snow was streaming past, driven virtually horizontally by the howling gale. We paused, thinking it might be best if we were to postpone our perambulation permanently, but we were premature. By the time we had decided that we needed to make a decision, the heavy purple clouds had blown past, on their way to the Isle of Man, the sun had reappeared and the hurricane had dwindled to moderately irritating gusts that chilled the fingers and numbed the ears.
So off we went. The crocus flowers, I noticed had rolled themselves back up and, poking out of the leaf litter in the wood along the drive, were reminiscent of those coloured plastic straws that come stuck to the side of cardboard drinks boxes. If I had any sense, I told The Dog, I’d do the same. She was busy at the time, in the grass by the gate, where every one (I mean every Dog) leaves their calling card as they pass.
We didn’t meet a soul on our walk this morning, all too busy making breakfast in bed for their mothers, I guess.