Heavy Weather

I drove back from Yoxford in a wild blizzard last night, fat flakes of snow swirling around the headlights and completely disorientating me. It was a shock, this sudden descent into winter. It had been forecast for the NE but not Suffolk. The wind was blowing furiously from the north, and as I often do under these conditions, snug and relatively safe in the warm car, I wondered what it would be like to walk home across frozen fields, a farm labourer already soaked to the skin, being battered by the wind and pelted by snow. I shuddered at the image. Back home I wasted no time in lighting the woodburner, my beacon in the long, dark days, but I was out of kindling and made a dog's dinner of getting a blaze going with bigger pieces of wood. All night the wind battered the house, and with just a splinter of a moon it was very black. How lovely then to wake up to a sunny morning.

On Gardener's Question Time they recommended spending the day outside doing all those 101 jobs that could be seen to before spring. But had they felt how cold it was? I did get out, a shopping trip to Ipswich for B&Q type things, and a stop off in Woodbridge to deposit a cheque. I tried to buy some chocolate cake but reasoned myself away from temptation. How I wish I hadn't listened. But I did buy some creme fraiche, half fat, to go on an apple crumble I'll make for pudding tonight, so all is not lost. But as I walked down the Thoroughfare I heard the sound of a tenor recorder, sweet and clear music rising above the hats and scarves that swaddled all the passers by. I lingered, listening in awe to the sound I've tried and failed to make on mine. At last I approached the elderly player and flicked £1 into his box. "What a beautiful sound you're making," I said. "It's really lovely." He stopped playing and grinned at me showing a few brown teeth in his gums. "If my hands weren't so cold I would be better," he said. "I need a hair dryer or something to warm me up." "You'd get chilblains then," I said, and we laughed, and I thanked him for the music. I wonder who he was. I hope he has somewhere warm and cosy to curl up in when his hands get too cold to play and the sun does its daily disappearing act. And somewhere to store that recorder.