Yesterday was grey — the thick, wet cloud lay on the wet ground blanketing the melting snow, making the road run, frappé with ice – you remember Slush Puppies.

As we walked down hill to our village through the rain, we dug our sticks into the bank to avoid slip-sliding or aquaplaning.  We remembered the conversation of the night before when the News reported ‘NHS about to be overwhelmed’ in this latest cold snap.

I’d recalled when I was a casualty officer tending the droves of the foolish elderly with their fractured ankles, wrists and hips, who’d ventured out on the first frosty morning after the ‘thaw’.  Just another example of role-reversal, ‘Bill!’ I say, ‘Think how much you will enjoy the helicopter ride!’

But we make it to Llawr-y-glyn without falling and we aren’t the only ones – 30 odd villagers who should all know better, are there to drink mulled wine in the gloaming, dodging the drips and the gushes from the puddle on the canopy, as a public spirited citizen pokes it from beneath with his brolly wetting all the mince pies.

The Christmas Tree had appeared, as always, by magic – we used to decorate it with bows and baubles — but it took so long to collect them each year after the inevitable gale that now it is simply decked with lights and switched on by the youngest resident – she didn’t make a speech. 

Now we trudge home, up hill. Did I mention we both had Covid recently and still puff a bit. In the dark I remember not to forget the day glow jackets,(too late!) I switch on my torch. There is no traffic so no one knocks us into the hedge leaving us for dead so we count tawny owls.

In 2018 the weather was better. The faces change but life goes on.