I was delighted to wake up Saturday morning to snow. I realise that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for it. There are some who find that slipping off pavements and breaking ankles, not being able to get to work, suffering hypothermia stuck in an overturned car in a snow drift because the emergency services can’t get to you, are all over-rated. Saturday’s snow was rather wet and claggy, not like the dry powdery substance that you can lie in, spread your arms, make angels and stand up without a drop of snow clinging to you. But it had one major attraction: it was white.
After all the grey of our recent nondescript winters, a carpet of white reflecting back the sunshine was very welcome, to me at least. Since global warming has reduced the amount of snow in Finland, I’ve heard, the suicide rate has increased, simply because the effulgence of snow creates more light and brightens the day long darkness. Countries which celebrate snow, who exploit it, play in it and live daily lives in it, always seem to have lots of sparkling lights in the trees, in arches across the roads, in the parks and on the balconies. The wind blows shadows on the hard packed snow of the road surfaces and wind-chimes rattle tunefully in the trees. They have lots of snowy activities that aren’t in the Winter Olympics like ice fishing, skidooing, ice sculpture and drag racing on ice.
The one I most enjoy is the sauna. Saunas have the virtue of making you feel exhausted with your not having to do anything except lie on a plank and occasionally throw a little water on the heater. I have a classic memory of a sauna in Sweden when the locals ran naked out into the snow, rolled in it and put it on their heads to let it melt and run down their bodies. Eventually I followed suit, somewhat coyly in a restrained, apologetic British way. On a bench where there were two or three inches of snow were the unmistakeable buttock prints of two broad Nordics, where their owners had been sitting in relaxed conversation. I was told with a relish how the Laplanders make a hole in the ice, beat themselves with birch twigs and then jump in. Anything apparently for that extra tingle. They were obviously doing this whilst we British were creating an Empire. Tempting as it was this morning after my shower to have a quick roll between the cars outside, I resisted because I knew the postman was due.
I’ve often been drawn to these cold places because dog sledding in the Arctic, skiing, collecting Christmas greenery in the Adirondack woods and riding the Yukon railway, have always been more invigorating than sleeping on a lounger beside a pool. I’ve enjoyed that as well but it always seems easier to get warm if you’re cold, than to get cool if you’re hot. Mind you we’re not immune to the dangers and miseries of snow either. We’ve watched avalanches and glaciers calving and been in blizzards and white-outs. A memorable and deeply anxious afternoon was spent waiting for Deirdre’s cable car to be winched in by hand in strong winds at -25 Centigrade. It felt a very long time – I can’t remember how many gluweins beside a huge log fire it took me before she was finally rescued.
Another reason for my delight at the snow was that it made a change – during lockdown any novelty is welcome – snow, meteorites, a pheasant in the garden, Quatermass emerging from the pit, a rat in the compost bin, a loose hub-cap on a passing car. All are worthy of notice and provide a fresh topic of conversation. We’re even having a haggis for Burns Night this year as Deirdre, with her chameleon ethnicity remembers her Ulster Scots heritage. (She’s Irish in the Six Nations and British when Americans once accused her of queue jumping in a New York theatre ticket line)
But what I particularly enjoyed was the sound of children sledging up on the hill. After their locked down, socially isolated on-screen home schooling, it was wonderful to see them red in the cheeks, towed and pushed by Dads, rolling in the snow, wet, cold, happy and laughing, which is what children should be doing on a winter Saturday. A few wet flakes in the hair, a bracing wind and people’s eyes sparkle into life. Any dog, as excited as the children, leaping and snuffling in the snow looks as bright and alert as a Crufts champion.
On Sunday afternoon, safely stationed at the bottom of a hill, we watched our granddaughter sledging down from the top of the hill. I remember Deirdre’s father in his eighties watching some children on a slip wire. After they’d gone he briefly contemplated the notice that said, Under 14s only, looked furtively around, glanced over his shoulder, then climbed up and with that dignified ex-policeman gait of his, sailed down the wire. Yesterday I wondered should I, or shouldn’t I? Deirdre knowing what I was thinking reminded me of my bad shoulder, bad back and the crisis at A&E. But so much was at stake. If I didn’t toboggan now I never would again; I would have surrendered to the stranglehold of age. I would become one of those who sits under a blanket on the promenade and watches the children playing in the sand. I would become a victim of Countdown and Pointless. I would become Pointless. It was the existential dilemma. I chose to do just one run, got up a respectable but skilfully controlled speed, rolled off at the appointed time and arose triumphant, reinvigorated and restored to the prime of youth. So of course, Deirdre did it too, hitting 5 miles an hour and screaming hysterically but perfectly poised, cruising to an elegant and becoming halt as Boo the dog jumped on he. Now we must revert to our seventies and pretend to be old before the vaccinators summon us and pretend to be old before the vaccinators summon us.
And finally for those who are still worrying about fronted adverbs, this from the Guardian. Thank you Corinne.