The third week of January was cold. Seeing a frosty landscape on the conservatory window early in the morning brought back memories of dark winter mornings of my childhood in Europe, when winters were like that, and cold and snow were normal.
I like all seasons, see the magic in them, and easily accept the disadvantages of each. But when proper winter hits – something that is more rare with each passing year – the reaction is stronger. Maybe I am a winter person, I was born in the winter, who knows? Nothing stirs me quite as much as snow crunching under my feet, snow-covered trees and houses, paw and bird feet marks, and an endless stream of snowflakes gracefully falling from the grey sky. The sounds and light are different in proper winter, you can sense it upon waking even though the curtains are closed and you have no idea what you will see.
Of course, I remember long, lazy summer days, swimming in lakes and ice cream, or the freshness of spring, and I always admired the autumn colours of nature around me. But still, winter is special, it stirs more feelings and memories. When I think about spring and autumn, they are special, but somehow transnational, and can be swallowed up by the other seasons. Summer and winter dominate the year, they define it. Years are remembered by them and their extremes. But while summer is different everywhere – you can’t expect the same summer by the seaside as it is under the Alps or in a busy metropolitan capital – winter is winter. It means cold and snow.
The weather of winter brings me back to my childhood more than anything else. We used to ice skate on the local ice rink. Some braved the local ponds, but I never felt quite certain on these. We sledged and skied. Later on, our dad took us for cross-country skiing, there were paths made all over the local hills and it was way more fun (in my opinion) than going up and down a hill, especially if my pocket money couldn’t stretch to a day pass for the ski lift and my parents saw it as an unnecessary expense. Also, the skis were much lighter to carry. Because everything was local, we walked. It feels very last century when I say that we lived in a small town where you could walk everywhere and nobody had seen it as a strange thing. It had changed by now, of course. But ‘fifteen-minute cities’ were a thing back then.
Of course, we lived in a place where people expected winter. The roads were managed, pavements were cleared, people changed their tyres every winter and spring, and we had winter clothes and shoes. We were ready. Blocks of flats had a rota so each flat owner knew when was their turn to clear the entrance and footpath. House owners cleared the fronts of their houses. The council took care of the main roads and the side roads. Sounds like paradise. It wasn’t perfect, but we functioned and got around.
Every year when we are lucky enough to glimpse a proper winter in England I rejoice and flutter. If nothing else, it gives us a break from the usual rain, wind, and mud. But then I have to go outside and sigh. Our road is a mess and I have to pray that they salted the main road. Usually, they do, which is great. Then I see people in normal shoes, flapping around. The phobia of wet shoes and socks creeps in and brings memories of my mother and grandmothers, warning us of catching certain death. Everything halts and pipes freeze. But still, I am happy.
If we were a little better prepared, people would understand. So far, they look at me like I am a very strange person (which I maybe am). But it makes sense. You can manage cold. You wrap up, put on layers and your body tells you when it needs you to go home. When we have summer heatwaves, there is nothing that helps. If you stay in the sun too long, you get sunburn, but unlike the cold that builds up and makes you move away, you notice it too late. It is easier to cope with winter. And way more romantic. It makes me happy, and sledging with my daughter brings my childhood back even more. We can all be silly when it snows!
