It’s been cold. Overcast. January.
I can feel the turn of the seasons already, and that is A Good Thing. The sun is up earlier in the morning. The kids come home in a ever-lightening twilight gloom, rather than pitch blackness.
But still, I’ve been doing a lot of shivering. Huddling by the fire. Shoulder hunching against the seeming permanence of winter.
In the past few days my corner of Camelot has been glittered and frozen with a transcendent frosted fog. The temperatures are below freezing and the cold is sharp right to the bone, but if you happen to be out walking and come across a river full of ducks and trout, a small wetland sculpted by frost, and the famous Arlington Row in the Cotswold village of Bibury …
For the first time I feel the beauty and poignance of winter here in Camelot. Not just a season to survive but something of value on its own.