Glimmers of hope

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Why did I do it? I know it is there, but it happened again. In fact, there are several and I weave in and out as I drive home. But this one time I drove over the worst pothole as I turned into our country road. I was driving slowly but the jolt was alarming, it was a huge wide mouth of a hole that filled with water when it rained.

My teeth clashed together and the car made an angry protest by turning on its windscreen wipers uninvited. I was so concerned afterwards that I had the car checked but all was well. Then I forgot about it because suddenly there is no problem, they have been filled in. I wonder if someone did what I should have done and reported the potholes. In any case I have now had a letter from the Council saying that ‘via a combination of local engineering judgement and asset management data’ our road needs essential maintenance. I should have told them that and saved them money on engineers and management.

There is no way I can plan or manage when or how our snowdrops come up in the garden. For some unknown reason this year they are spectacular. Not only do they seem to have spread and there seem to be more of them, but they seem to be bigger and better than ever. It is a good snowdrop year and we wonder if it is the weather – a combination of spells of cold weather and then sunshine. Whatever the reason I am enjoying this winter surprise.

Yesterday the waitress at a café where we have delicious soup said that she liked winter. I had started with our usual chat about the weather and how cold it was. Then I talked about the daylight and that at least the days were getting lighter and how nice that was. But she did not really take part.

“I love the cold and dark weather, sitting by the fire is so comforting and if there is a frost everywhere looks so beautiful,” she said as she served us the soup. She reminded me of my mother who loved the shape of the winter trees. I used to take her out in the car and we wandered the country lanes whilst she pointed out the lacy patterns of the different species. She had been trained to embroider and had in her youth embroidered for royalty, so the interlacing threads of the twigs’ designs had special significance for her.

For myself I am looking at the swelling buds on my magnolia tree and can hardly wait for it to be lit up with blossom. 

(Taken from my column in the Shropshire Star)



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