I’m sitting here in a reasonably warm house (although never let anyone convince you that a glass desk is a good idea), while we wait for the next dumping of snow in the Home Counties. As the temperature hasn’t managed to climb into the plus numbers for three days, much of the snow from the weekend is persisting.
Someone forgot to tell the flowers to stay put for a while. Instead, they’ve been lulled into a false sense of forthcoming spring. My garden is bursting into life, just as the heavy grey clouds start to gather again overhead. Ah well, that’s Nature for you.
Half term looms. This has been the fastest six weeks ever. And of course, we have all sorts of planned activities, all likely to be doomed, or at least be heavily disrupted by the weather. So, over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve repeated the same conversation with various people, concerning Plan A and Plan B options. Don’t you just adore the British climate.
I’ve decided that rather than get all stressy about the multiple possibilities, I’m going to ride serenely over it all. I’ve done the essential preparation (bought a new tin of hot chocolate), the rest is out of my hands – I’m going to roll with it.
As soon as this cold spell is really over, I intend to get out and about. If I’m right (brave assumption), The National Trust have opened Packwood House and Baddesley Clinton already. I love both of those houses, and I can feel a trip coming on.
I know that Packwood has been hacked about a lot over the years, but it’s one of those old houses that you feel you could move in to without much fuss. It’s always seemed to me to be a perfect winter house, the sort of house that should have roaring fires, candle light and lots of pewter tankards.
Well, I haven’t been for a few years, so this spring, I’m starting my travels there.