I woke up to a goodly snow splurge this morning, everything was crisp and white like best country house hotel napery. Bob, in Kent for his best friend's birthday bash weekend, phoned to say that he was stranded there.
I've been reading Jean Sprackland's collection Tilt and in it there is a poem called 'Ice on the Beach': something I've never experienced. This seemed like the perfect opportunity, so I dug out my old duffel coat, filled my insulated mug with coffee and dragged Stevie off. Unfortunately the Solway coast was, apparently, the only part of the UK mainland not to have been affected. Still, it was lovely and as we were stomping around, the sky began to lower and an icy wind got up. Bloody freezing but afraid of just missing what we'd come for we went to the Teapot, a little hut-cafe, for hot chocolate and a bun, and sat ourselves at the window. But all we got was a light flutter.
The tide was going out so we walked over this ridge of sand to a little islet.