Ski-mitts are warm but unwieldy. Hat and hood keep me warm until I turn toward home, into the east wind, into a blizzard! Snowscapes have a transient beauty and the challenge is to capture the essence of the day in word and image.
My outward-bound footsteps were obliterated by the blizzard. I saw no one until I came to the Race Course where I met Roger who told me tales of his days with the Mountain Rescue in the 1960s as we headed home.
It felt venturesome out there today, and fun. For some, not for the emergency services who were at full stretch. Wednesday 28 February was a blast.
Thursday 1 March, St David's Day. If there are daffodils they're hidden under a blanket of snow. The wind is even stronger, the wind-chill effect commensurate. The coldest March day ever recorded in the UK. The front yard has been swept more effectively by eddies and gusts of wind than any hereabouts. Pavements are wind-scoured, down to ice. And treacherous. The road has attracted a boy racer on something like a quad bike. The sun does not appear until lunch time.
The east wind wrecks my best efforts with a bird feeder, setting it swinging so violently that it spills seed over the yard and is soon empty. Two male blackbirds fight for territorial rights and see off smaller birds that flit through shrubs but the wind is too rough for them to land on a feeder. How will wildlife fare in all this? Including the fox whose secret visits to the garden are revealed by the snow. And where are the bull finch who used to visit? The siskin, green finch, coal tits and long-tails, where are they?