St Sunday on Sunday

 

The first cold snap.

Some what late in mid November.

At last the hills seen from my bedroom window were white.

I remember when snow used to cover them for six months.

No longer.

Global warming?

Suffice to say it was a welcome sight.  Not just by me.  Suddenly all those adult friends, Facebook or other wise, were rejoicing in child like excitement.  Thoughts of crunching snow and snow angels.  Closely followed by pictures of crunching snow and videos of snow angels!

But I’m in no place to mock.  I posted the arrival of snow with the enthusiasm of a six year old.

Being secured by chores and domesticity to a radius of only a few miles on Saturday I still fled out and up the nearest hill to awe and oo the frosted hills, though the expressions were appreciated only by me.

Anticipation though, is half the pleasure, and so St Sunday on Sunday.

Snow really was only on the tops and lower slopes remained a soggy green.  Unless a fleeting glimpse of sunlight graced them.

Patterdale flung cold round faces and fingers more used to the, so far, benign Autumn.  Frost and snow remained elusive and layers were shed as cold turned to clammy and hopes of beautiful vistas were dampened by grey.

Then the reason why.

Why it is worth being cold. Wrapped and muffled in high tech clothes and clumsy boots.  Weighed down by backpacks, first aid kits and shelters.  Just in case.  Not to mention hot flasks, chocolate and flapjacks.

Just as we’d hunkered down behind rocks to shelter from the wind, a little below the summit.  It cleared.

And we knew why we were there.

Given time to stand and stare.