A mild winter usually makes for a wet one in this corner of south west England. Saturated ground is topped up with more rain as warm fronts blow in from the Atlantic. It makes for yellowing grass, bleached under a low sun as the lane brightly reflects skies heavy with weather.
As I post this, the rain is pelting against window panes, a leaky gutter spurts across paving and bare trees rattle with the south west winds. Does it sound bleak? It is not. Here in the kitchen, the window looking out onto a north field crested with a line of trees, it is cosy and warm. The radio plays as paint brushes have been washed through and the kettle is on for a cup of tea, scalding hot served with buttered toast. Life is good. As all know, this most desolate time of year melts into glorious spring and then summer. Would it be so appreciated without this counterfoil? When I hear of people opting to leave for warmer climes and sit out winter in a Mediterranean resort, it seems they are missing out. The passionate landscape with all it's bright patches and dour weather is a joy. To snuggle in a warm bed listening to a storm rage outside is not to be underestimated, just as an evening in front of a fire with my old friend as the dark world roars outside is special. To have only clement weather is akin to music with no chorus or sweet without sour.
Hate the winter? Not I.