January has been mild and gentle towards us. Even though on New Year’s Day the Daily Mail was predicting, in that Daily Mail kind of way, one of the worst winters on record. I admit that gave me qualms.
It was raining, sure, and cold enough, but the 2nd greeted us with bright sunshine and patches of frost. We set out without coats and so long as we paused where the blue sky and sun reached us, it felt warm.
The third day was deeper in frost and a thick grey sky. Christine had to break the ice on the chickens’ bowl before breakfast and we set out into undifferentiated flat cold. The wind cut my ears on top of Farthing Down and by Merstham we had snow – a slick barely a flake thick on the footbridge, which brought a noticeable rise in temperature. A degree or two, at least.
On the fourth of January it was the turn of fog. We were at last onto the North Downs ridge, but you wouldn’t know it. The benches at the viewpoints gazed out into white. The twisted, muscular trunks of the trees in the Buckland Hills woods glistened with dark mystery, waiting for us to pass by before adding their whispered comments on our progress.
We’ve had crisp clear mornings, especially leaving Guildford on the 6th day when grass stalks were individually crystallised and wood smoke from cottage chimneys hung low and mingled with the slight mistiness in the valley bottoms. At the end of the day the north-facing slopes were still rimed with white; but we saw, too the first snowdrops of winter by the river leading into Farnham.
While the north of the UK was deep in snow and winds blew down power lines; and while Wales and the West Country succumbed wearily to another flood, we had a morning of heavy rain – but many more days when drizzle alternated with dry patches so we never quite needed our coats or waterproof trousers. With the wind and rain came the warm temperatures of the gulf stream, rising from 3º or 4 º to 10 º or 12 º almost overnight, so we relaxed and expanded.
Heavy rain fell mostly while we were admiring Winchester Cathedral, rediscovering the strong British 20th-Century art in Southampton City Gallery, or in the dark of the Bayeux Tapestry. And the long, long day from Winchester to Bittern was compensated by bright sun on the leaping, clear Itchen and its water meadows.
The heavy winds people had persuaded us to fear duly gathered for the ferry across the Channel, but Stugeron and a cabin meant we rode the waves as in a cradle more than in a barque.
The sun and clear skies of early January had felt like bright winter days; yet on the last morning before popping home for my mother’s 70th birthday, the sun belonged to the spring. We saw it rise over the hillside, casting its yellow to beautify the ugliness of Le Havre; and even the mud smelled of flowers and grassy sap. Even though temperatures dropped and the gales returned in the afternoon, it had been a promise of what March and April will bring us.
It was raining, sure, and cold enough, but the 2nd greeted us with bright sunshine and patches of frost. We set out without coats and so long as we paused where the blue sky and sun reached us, it felt warm.
The third day was deeper in frost and a thick grey sky. Christine had to break the ice on the chickens’ bowl before breakfast and we set out into undifferentiated flat cold. The wind cut my ears on top of Farthing Down and by Merstham we had snow – a slick barely a flake thick on the footbridge, which brought a noticeable rise in temperature. A degree or two, at least.
On the fourth of January it was the turn of fog. We were at last onto the North Downs ridge, but you wouldn’t know it. The benches at the viewpoints gazed out into white. The twisted, muscular trunks of the trees in the Buckland Hills woods glistened with dark mystery, waiting for us to pass by before adding their whispered comments on our progress.We’ve had crisp clear mornings, especially leaving Guildford on the 6th day when grass stalks were individually crystallised and wood smoke from cottage chimneys hung low and mingled with the slight mistiness in the valley bottoms. At the end of the day the north-facing slopes were still rimed with white; but we saw, too the first snowdrops of winter by the river leading into Farnham.
While the north of the UK was deep in snow and winds blew down power lines; and while Wales and the West Country succumbed wearily to another flood, we had a morning of heavy rain – but many more days when drizzle alternated with dry patches so we never quite needed our coats or waterproof trousers. With the wind and rain came the warm temperatures of the gulf stream, rising from 3º or 4 º to 10 º or 12 º almost overnight, so we relaxed and expanded.
Heavy rain fell mostly while we were admiring Winchester Cathedral, rediscovering the strong British 20th-Century art in Southampton City Gallery, or in the dark of the Bayeux Tapestry. And the long, long day from Winchester to Bittern was compensated by bright sun on the leaping, clear Itchen and its water meadows.
The heavy winds people had persuaded us to fear duly gathered for the ferry across the Channel, but Stugeron and a cabin meant we rode the waves as in a cradle more than in a barque.
The sun and clear skies of early January had felt like bright winter days; yet on the last morning before popping home for my mother’s 70th birthday, the sun belonged to the spring. We saw it rise over the hillside, casting its yellow to beautify the ugliness of Le Havre; and even the mud smelled of flowers and grassy sap. Even though temperatures dropped and the gales returned in the afternoon, it had been a promise of what March and April will bring us.
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