What's all the fuss about? I stood outside the cottage, puzzled. The temperature was mild; there was no wind. It was so quiet I could hear a hedgehog sneeze. A day after trumpeted snowstorm warnings, there was nothing.
Weather reports here are often unreliable. The British Isles are tricky that way. I remember one popular English TV weatherman, some 20 years ago, telling his viewers not to worry. The hurricane's path had diverted; it was no longer a threat. "Go to bed," he counseled. They did. The massive storm changed course again and hit Britain full bore that night, felling millions of centuries-old trees, sweeping away homes, drowning seaside towns, killing people. The poor man, who'd done his best based on available data, never lived it down. There was little the population could have done, but still ...
Since then, the people here tend to question major storm predictions.
I've tried to find radar; all one gets here are darling little cloud or snowflake cartoons that dangle over affected areas. These silly symbols have been part of British TV and newspapers, and now the internet, forever. Up-to-the-minute radar isn't offered. Or, it's totally inadequate -- a jerky, two-second-long time-loop is shown in a small box at the bottom of my laptop's British weather page. Worse, the information's often a morning, or a day, old.
I do miss the Weather Channel's national and local up-to-the-minute Doppler radar, colored to show storm intensity, and moving in a flowing manner.
Anyway, tired from chopping wood and piling it near the door, I napped briefly on the sofa, in a green world -- and woke an hour later to heavy snowfall. Three hours later, it's still falling, though not as enthusiastically. I'm happy to munch cookies and admire the landscape. The larder is stocked, and I've lots of books.
Plus, six days ago, just before Joe had to go home, we'd purchased the last four bags of rock salt in England at a remote countryside garden center. We'd been lucky. Desperate residents in Hereford and Ross had snapped up the last precious bags as soon as they were delivered to shops. Merchants warned disappointed patrons that no more deliveries could be expected. So we chortled and high-fived all the way home. That salt is my lifeline -- the only way I'll ever get out of here. Such a small thing, really, but a great comfort.
A bundled foreman from the ice-cold, empty mansion being renovated next door has struggled around the snowy hedge clutching a kettle, needing water for tea for his crew. The mains there were turned off; they'd forgotten to fill it. We traded weather stories, and he left, watered and happy. I've parted with some cookies, as well. Little things mean a lot ...
I've added more logs to the snapping kitchen fire, and settled down with "Wolf Hall," a thick, edge-of-the-seat book by Hilary Mantel. The taste, smell and feel of plague-ridden 16th century England -- the cunning Anne Boleyn, willful Henry VIII, corrupt Pope Clement, passionate Luther, and all the political, sexual and religious intrigue that surrounded Henry's court -- have been brilliantly brought to life.
Hours later I saw furtive brownish-red movement against a backdrop of white: A well-nourished fox was stalking a rabbit. Suddenly he froze, turned his head slowly, and nailed me with a long look. I'd made no sound or movement, but he'd "felt" me 80 feet away! Foxy radar is uncanny.
It's much colder now. The Black Mountains are solidly white. Clouds are low, and heavy. Stormy weather might, or might not, bury me tonight. Bring it on!
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.






