Winter Remembered

Childhood Winter


   As I sit here on this cold winter Sunday looking out upon the snow covered fens the memories of winters past come flooding back to me, great weeks of snow when being a child was the greatest thing ever and hours of fun were had in the small streets and lanes of Ashwell until hands were so cold you had to go warm them up in mum's kitchen.
   Those snowball fights in the school meadow and riding a mini bonnet down Kingsland Terrace with both fear and excitement. Those long walks along village lane where curtains of ice from great willow trees hung and waters as cold as mountain snow flows from chalk spring.
   On three sides the snow covered hills protect my Ashwell, the fourth lay flat and cold with just narrow lane cutting a path, a path walked by both rich and poor for a thousand years, where tramp and merchant alike have trod and snows drift to a mans waist.
   I remember those great iron lamps that lit the streets in winter snow, every flake passed through the light like angel wings falling to the ground, I would sit watching at my window well into the night hoping the snow would settle.
   Those ice covered pavements that ran along busy high street, solid crusty ice that bore a hundred frozen foot prints with clay red salt resting to each curb and figures walking slowly through wet sludge in the road, some bent over wearing coat and hat and others enjoying every step.
   The odd car would pass or coal lorry loaded with those grey heavy sacks, food for fires all over the village and every door step would have small round finger prints from milk bottles now in larders or on kitchen table. The shops would still trade as before with pavements swept clear of snow, an invitation to their door, butchers, bakers, post office and village store, all open and still serving with that smile that only village folk used.
   Kitchens everywhere would smell of soups and stews and that winter pot of boiling potato peelings that every hen keeper would cook, great black iron kettles stood on ranges full of boiled water for that needed cuppa, no hot water taps to run then. The larder would home winter stores and cheese, butter and meats would sit wrapped in paper, pickles would stand in jars like soldiers of different regiments all waiting their turn, reds, greens, yellows, like stained glass in a church of food.
   Dad's and grandad's would be sawing and splitting logs by wash house door and the outside water taps would wear their winter coats of sacking and string. The cobbled yard would be cleared by salt and bird tables would be adorned with strings of peanut shells and homemade lard balls, oh how this world changes, am I the only one who wishes he could return, maybe.