Winter

I have always loved Spring and here we are in February.  There are tiny signs of spring.  In the bottom of the hedges along the lanes snowdrops are showing.  Last week we visited a churchyard at Llantysilio, about half an hour from here, which is famous for its snowdrops.

 We went on a Sunday afternoon, thinking the church would not be in use then, but as we wandered among the gravestones we could hear the sounds of singing and an organ playing.  Under the lych gate at the entrance to the churchyard was a notice indicating the there was a service that day to bless the snowdrops.  It was a strange idea, almost pagan.  I am not aware of any Christian significance in snowdrops other than perhaps that they could be said to be an indication of new life to come.

Because I love spring so much and have never been keen on February I am making a particular effort right now not to wish the days away.  I used to do this a lot, longing for sunshine and longer days, daffodils and warmth on my back.  What remains of life is too short to waste February mumping around the house resentfully, waiting for the month to be gone.  It is very cold outside here today with a vicious, knifing wind from the East cutting through you if you venture out.  I decided it was a good day for a proper winter lunch: leek and potato soup and cheese scones.  It amuses me that my favourite recipe for cheese scones comes from a book called the Farmhouse Kitchen, bought for pennies from a charity booksale more than thirty years ago.  I have tried other recipes: Mary Berry, Delia Smith, random ones from the internet and the BBC good food website.  Nothing is as good as these.  I think it is the inclusion of dry mustard powder and cayenne which gives them the edge.

This afternoon there is rugby to watch, Scotland v Ireland in the Six Nations.  There is knitting to do and a new book to read.  I shall light the woodburning stove and put the kettle on.

Winter pleasures.