The Cold

Last night's frost was like a wave lapping over the edge of the field into the surrounding grasses and bushes; and, despite sunshine which lasted all day, the frost didn't burn off.

On bitter days like today I'm reminded of my mother who, like all her generation, was loath to complain, but who waxed voluble in her hatred of the cold. She was proud to be descended from the Clan Gunn Wilsons whose home in Caithness had bitter winters which they had to survive, so she blamed her intolerance of the cold on her descent from a Spaniard whose ship was wrecked on the coast of Caithness during the rout of the Armada. So she was at her happiest when living in tropical climes - in Burma when she was a girl, in East Africa between 1935 and 1961, and on her later, much shorter stays in Australia, Africa and the Caribbean.

I have inherited her dislike of the cold. These frosty days may be pretty but I would far rather bake in summer's warmth