Snow is par for the course in February in northern Scotland.
Some years it lies thick and hard, and things are sometimes made worse when a well-intentioned snow plough levels the road outside my cottage, only to pile the excess snow along the length of the parked cars, and corrals them in, effectively, with a solid white slab of snow up to the bonnet of my wee 108. Perfect if you want to walk down the road effortlessly. A bit of a bind if you want to get supplies in by car!
At night, on 1 Feb, I let Hebe-the-dog into the garden for a piddle. She charged off round the corner as I shivered on the doorstep. I heard something, looked down and noticed a fledgling chaffinch cheeping at my feet. It was well-feathered and puffed out against the cold. Hebe-the-dog sped back and stopped in her tracks. She seemed as astonished as me. A fledgling chick at the beginning of February?
There had been unusually mild spells throughout January, and I'd heard interludes of melodious birdsong and mass gatherings of finches. But still?
I was unsure what to do with the little bundle of bird. But I picked it up and popped it under the evergreen Camellia in my raised shrub bed, out of Hebe-the-dog's way. I hoped its mum was around to look after it.
I had a nagging feeling that my sis - the Bird Whisperer - would have taken it inside, put it in a shoebox of cottonwool and hand-fed it through the night. To her, it would have been singing, 'Gimme shelter'. But I was more concerned that Hebe-the-dog would have been monotonously barking all night, 'Gimme snack!'
Since then, we've had heavy rain or snow. Looking skywards at incoming grey clouds has not been that useful. Because we might wait until one shower has passed over, only to get caught in the next downpour. But dog owners must try, because no-one wants a hyper hound with cabin fever!
Therefore, walks have been round town. There seems to be little point in driving to a scenic forest walk only to get drenched, covered in mud and sit through a return journey with a heavy whiff of wet dog and wet anorak.
But, there again, walks nearer home require some aforethought.
And by that I mean, plotting just where to shelter en route. I've found a few places that are adequate, if draughty: the shelter at the railway station, and the team dugouts at the football pitch. Both are open-fronted but still have that 20cm gap at ankle level, on 3 sides. Heaven knows why these shelters have to freeze you from the ankle up? Thank G, I never consider cropped jeans and trainers after August!
I feel tempted to put apostrophes round 'shelter'. 'Cos there are a number of these 'shelters' that are not fit for purpose.
Top of the list is the bus 'shelter' at Latheronwheel. With a roof, but open to the 4 winds. Baltic! A late X99 bus causing pre-hypothermia - even in summer! To see the sweaty driver with his shirt sleeves rolled up, your heart sinks, 'cos you know you've got to suffer another 2 hours with the air conditioning on.
I digress.
Other shelters I have found, in my lifetime, include: beneath trees, under upturned boats, in derelict barns and cottages, caves, behind the root circles of upended trees, under umbrellas of vertical ivy - to name a few.
At other times, on mountain tops in a thin nylon tent. Even in snowy conditions, it's amazing how much higher the temperature is, inside a flimsy tent.
Likewise, I've camped in mountain bothies, howffs and refugios - often on a stone floor. But this requires:
*a camping mat & sleeping bag
*a proper kit of clothes - thermal, waterproof & wicking,
*sustaining food & snacks,
*a primus for hot drinks,
*extra socks & a spare hat,
*a companion for conversation,
*a desire for adventure.
So it IS possible to find shelter away from home. But then there is that saying, 'East, West, Home's best'.
I'm home now. The fire's on, Corinne Bailey Rae is playing, the kettle's almost boiled, the cup's ready with coffee & milk, Kitkat at hand, and Hebe-the-dog has been dried. There's sleety rain running down the window. But we're inside now - warm & toasty. Blessed!
Keep cosy everyone : )
