January

The perils - and pleasures - of snowfall

I went back to work in the bookshop yesterday. Snow still lay on the ground, and - me being a creature of habit - I set out at my usual early time. The car had been idling away to try and defrost it a bit, and I realised that in the absence of a scraper I’d have to employ a snow shovel to clear the windscreen.

I’m nothing if not resourceful.

I’d bundled myself in layers, and a down-filled coat, and I drove down into town. It was only just coming light as I parked up, but the Christmas lights were still up. The canal was frozen. Geese had left dark triangular footprints on the surface (and long parallel lines where they’d come in to land). Buttery light spilled out from the cottages and mill apartments, hinting at the cosiness within, yet despite the world being white it didn’t feel unbearably cold.

The day before, I’d spent most of my time in the kitchen. Breakfasting on porridge, stripping the sticky beeswax off the table (I’m attacking it in increments), peeling apples and stewing them, sweeping and cleaning. The house was suspended in that hushed quiet only a snowfall can bestow, and I luxuriated in it as only a true introvert can.

So I felt ready to return to work. Those thirteen days away, despite having seemingly flown by, had given me a chance to reset after the gruelling run-up to Christmas. Between the weather and the time of year, I was expecting a quiet and slow day in the little kingdom of books.

I like getting in early. I call in to the Co op buy milk and something for breakfast, then switch on the heating and start the day with a calm mindset. The kettle goes on, I fire up the computers, count the float in the till, check we’ve got enough paper bags and change.

I eat my croissant and drink coffee, read the news, catch up with the world. And then I tidy the shelves and stacks. By the time I flip the sign to ‘Open’, all’s pretty much in order.

Yesterday I had to call in at the hardware shop. I needed a long-handled sweeping brush and a few things for restoring the kitchen table. And while I was in there, the man behind the counter mentioned that the previous day’s book delivery (presumed missing) was languishing in his storeroom.

I should mention here that this is an ongoing issue: the delivery service our wholesaler uses is extremely hit-and-miss, and the cause of great frustration.

And so I lugged three heavy boxes of books, one by one, along a slippery pavement to the bookshop. Not the best of starts, especially as I was expecting another delivery to arrive at some point. Which would give me almost 200 books to process.

Still, my (potent) morning coffee energised me enough to deal with that. And I gave the shop a post-Christmas tidy, and wrestled the tree down from the window and redid the display. I surprised myself with this impressive level of productivity. Perhaps I needed to check the ingredients list on the coffee jar or something.

Still, the day was long, and busy, and by the end of it - despite a continuous topping-up of caffeine - my brain was tired. So it was a relief to flip the sign over again, switch off the lights, lock the door.

I headed out into the dark. It had snowed and rained intermittently throughout the afternoon and the resulting slush on the ground made walking perilous. Especially as I was laden with bags, and had a broom in one hand and my umbrella in the other. If I was to go over, I’d be flat on my face.

I thought that the towpath might be the best option as it’s quite gritty but it was just as bad. And so I walked very gingerly back to the car, and it took ages, and I just felt very tired and cold.

This morning I thought I’d maybe have a little lie-in. And so I did. I woke up completely clueless as to what time it might be (because I was wearing a sleep mask). It felt like at least 11am, maybe - gasp - midday. But I lay drowsily under the heavy quilt and mentally repeated to myself, ‘I’m wintering. It’s allowed’.

A little peep out at the clock told me it was 8.30. And I started to think about breakfast.

A few minutes later, a timid knock at the bedroom door. Interestingly, this didn’t alarm me at all, despite the assumption I’d alone in the house for the past hour. There was Joe in his uniform, looking slightly dishevelled and apologetic and explaining his school bus hadn’t arrived (he likes to catch it from the next village down, for some reason), and he’d got stuck on the icy track coming back up to the house and had to slide back down it again ‘on mi arse’.

Fortunately he’d called J, who’d contacted school, so I got up and dragged on some clothes and drove him in. He opted to sit in the back, like some sort of foreign dignitary, and I dropped him off and he was gleeful to have missed his first lesson.

Also: he does quite enjoy inconveniencing people. So the trajectory of his morning had improved significantly, and I didn’t begrudge him that. None of it was his fault. Even if he appeared to be relishing the experience.

Coming back, our lane was slippery. The car - despite being a bit of a tank - slithered about. It’s a climb, and last night’s cold had frozen the water underneath the soft sleet. So I ticked along slowly, like one of those little miniature train carriages in theme parks, serenely taking in the view.

It wasn’t the start to my day I’d have chosen, but it was nice to see Joe unexpectedly. To make sure he was safe and to breathe some morning air. I got home, and made myself a mug of coffee, and ate some stewed apples and Greek yogurt. I switched on the laptop, lit a candle, sat at the table and typed.

Snow - even a light dusting - can be tricky when you live at rural altitude. It looks very beautiful but prevents you from, for example, heading out anywhere too far away. Errands are put on the back burner. You just deal with the here and now, and maybe that’s why I like it.

It simplifies things. No need to prioritise or change plans; it does that for you. The cleanness, the brightness, the uncluttered-ness: it somehow represents the opportunity to pare back a little. To stay warm, cook nourishing food (I’m making chicken noodle soup for dinner, with garlic and ginger and chilli). We’ll take hot baths this evening and then sit together and enjoy the fire.

I’m still reading Edna O’Brien’s The Country Girls Trilogy - it’s wonderful, but I’ll maybe go into that more in an upcoming Reading Notes post. And I found Banjo and Ro’s Grand Island Hotel on the BBC iplayer, which is giving me January comfort and joy.

The knitting project has proved to be more difficult than anticipated, but I will persevere.

And now: I’m off to add another woolly layer, and fingerless gloves, and maybe even a hat. The cats have all dispersed to curl up somewhere warm and soft. It’s time to boil the kettle again.

Thank you for reading.

Sarah.