Gerry
01-30-2008, 07:06 PM
Well when they called this place Whitehill they didn't do it by accident.
Our first winter living here we had snow that started to fall on Christmas night. But rather than being a flurry and it melting again which would be the norm for us this time it just kept on coming. It was so dense we couldn't see must below the bottom of our garden and the street lights looked like a the sun trying to break through thick fog.
Come morning when I peeked out of the window I didn't recognise the place. All the landmarks and features had disappeared under this duvet of white fluff. I couldn't wait to get out into that virgin landscape and plant my foot prints. Maybe it has something to do with the primal explorer deep within me that is forever struggling to seek out that place were man has never trodden before. Were man hasn't had the chance to corrupt and destroy.
Breakfast was lightening fast and layers of clothing had me soon prepared for my "expedition". I tried to remember the words of the Arctic explorer who left the tent to save the rest of the team. But I couldn't and just hooked up the dogs lead and made up the hill.
The hill was like something from an artists impression of where Santa lives. Lines of crispy dry snow laced the bare branches of ever tree and bush. It had even managed to cover the wettest patches of ground under the trees along the path.
But the greatest thing about Whitehill is when a few days later the thaw came in and everywhere else in the area was back to the forty shades of green my hill was still like Santa's homeland. No lorries chucking grit and salt. No slushy dirty mounds on the sides of the road.
Whitehill had maintained her dignity throughout and the snow would go from pristine white to disappear with the first night of heavy rain nearly a week later.
By Gerry Temple
Copyright January 2008
Our first winter living here we had snow that started to fall on Christmas night. But rather than being a flurry and it melting again which would be the norm for us this time it just kept on coming. It was so dense we couldn't see must below the bottom of our garden and the street lights looked like a the sun trying to break through thick fog.
Come morning when I peeked out of the window I didn't recognise the place. All the landmarks and features had disappeared under this duvet of white fluff. I couldn't wait to get out into that virgin landscape and plant my foot prints. Maybe it has something to do with the primal explorer deep within me that is forever struggling to seek out that place were man has never trodden before. Were man hasn't had the chance to corrupt and destroy.
Breakfast was lightening fast and layers of clothing had me soon prepared for my "expedition". I tried to remember the words of the Arctic explorer who left the tent to save the rest of the team. But I couldn't and just hooked up the dogs lead and made up the hill.
The hill was like something from an artists impression of where Santa lives. Lines of crispy dry snow laced the bare branches of ever tree and bush. It had even managed to cover the wettest patches of ground under the trees along the path.
But the greatest thing about Whitehill is when a few days later the thaw came in and everywhere else in the area was back to the forty shades of green my hill was still like Santa's homeland. No lorries chucking grit and salt. No slushy dirty mounds on the sides of the road.
Whitehill had maintained her dignity throughout and the snow would go from pristine white to disappear with the first night of heavy rain nearly a week later.
By Gerry Temple
Copyright January 2008