During the past two days, a massive weather system has dumped cold air over the United Kingdom, and instead of the more usually snowed-upon North, it has been the South (England and Wales) which has borne the brunt of exceptionally heavy snow — the heaviest in eighteen years. Here in Belfast, we haven’t had any, and if we have over the hills I haven’t seen any evidence of it. Boo hoo.
So I’ve been taking refuge in the flurries of my synapses, so to speak, and have buried myself both in Jonathan’s photos, his descriptions of the cats glued to the window by the magical sight, and a wonderful book called The Snow Tourist.
I haven’t read it all yet — far from it, thankfully — but I have read enough to know that it is rich, magical, and wafts fresh, cold, snow-filled air around as the pages turn in front of your eyes. With stellar little sprinkles of science, and deep accumulations of history, it is overlaid with the scurrying patterns of its author’s curiosity. So do buy a copy before the end of Winter.
