The children went to bed disappointed. The weather forecast had promised snow, but the sky, leaden though it was, did not deliver. As they slept even my hopes were fading, but flakes began to swirl around the streetlight outside the window. We fell asleep with a dusting and woke up to a blanket, its arrival heralded by the ecstatic squeals of excited boys. School was cancelled. Work was postponed. It wasn’t a Friday anymore, it had become a Snow Day: joyful, transient, unexpected and strangely outside of time.
Layer after layer of warm clothing was pulled on. Arms were wrestled into sleeves, toes swaddled in many socks and encased in snowboots. The kitchen table was piled high with woolens- hats, scarves and gloves. The sledge was lifted down from its hook in the shed and we were off to climb the highest hill, leaving behind a trail of footprints in swathes of crisp white.
At the top of the hill, our friends had gathered, towing
Snow brings a peaceful timelessness to the landscape, making the world feel fresh and new, a dreamscape where anything is possible. It was the hushed, snow-muffled woods that stole my heart, where the well-worn paths now appeared untrodden, part of a delicate unfamiliar realm. A
Fingers and noses growing cold, toes numb, and hair braided with white, we set off for the local pub to defrost – a Snow Day ritual that never grows tired. As I sat in the
Perhaps on the next snow day, I shall.
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