In the still of the night

It was going to happen eventually - there's a depressing inevitability to winter after all. I woke up this morning and, blinking blearily in the darkness, I drew back the curtains. Then I blinked blearily in the darkness some more as I realised that opening the curtains made no appreciable difference to the ambient light level.

I hold to simple definitions of the seasons. Spring begins when greenery starts sprouting. Summer arrives with the warmer weather. Autumn brings the foliage a wardrobe of scarlet and gold. And Winter is here when I look out of my window in the morning and see darkness before me.

Winter has by far the least auspicious start.

I don't mind winter itself, so much as I dislike dragging myself forth from my duvet/cocoon into a cold black morning when I find myself struggling with my natural instincts to hibernate. But that's not to say winter has nothing to commend it. Like all the seasons it has moments of extraordinary beauty. When it snowed in London earlier this year, I was amazed at how the city was transformed. Perhaps it's just a simple association of white with purity and cleanliness, but whilst the snow remained the city seemed to be an altogether more pleasant place to be.

Alas, I failed to take any photos of London in it's trappings of pristine snow and ice. Whilst I do regret that, I also hold out hope that the months ahead may bring a similar icy precipitation, in which case I will certainly bring my camera to bear. In the mean time, I've dug out some older pictures I had lying around that I took a few years ago near my home outside Edinburgh. There's a small burn that flows nearby, and at times it's one of my favourite places in the whole wide world. Enjoy.