Winter

Almost everyone I know has a favourite season and they sigh with contentment and happiness when that time of year rolls around again, appreciating the sights, sounds and smells that ring that particular bell for them. The heat of summer, the colours of autumn, growth and renewal of spring.

Winter, however, with its dull, wet and short days, not to mention the threat of inconveniences such as snow and ice, gets a very bad press indeed. And that’s fair enough. British winters are generally dark and depressing, when the world is stagnant and we huddle up in our comfy jumpers, shut out the world behind thick curtains and resort to comfort food to keep us going until the daffodils poke their yellow heads above the parapets.

Me, I like winter. Well, not the bog-standard British winter as described above, but proper winters, with ground frosts and ice and cold blue skies. It’s the colours, you see. I find spring a disappointment, each and every year. You’re teased with snowdrops and bluebells, but then you realise that the trees are still bare, the grass is dull and the colours only seem vibrant because you’re so used to the tedium of a wet and miserable winter. By the time you get to May, the grass has perked up, the sky is so blue it’s alive and the trees are awake and their leaves have regrown – and that’s that until late autumn, even when it rains. But early spring? No thanks.

A snowy day in Somerset (18 December 2010)

Like I said, give me a proper cold winter instead, when the colours stand out because of their simplicity. Dull grass sparkles with frost and surfaces gleam under the sun. It’s cold, yes, but it’s a cold that can be conquered with warm clothing. You can venture out, cheeks glowing and eyes shining, your head and shoulders held high instead of hunched up against the dreary rain that seeps into your bones.

Only four months to go until the world cheers up again!