Olga and I went on our West Heath walk yesterday. The streets were slushy, the gutters full of wintry residue the color and consistency of a Coca-Cola Slurpee, but the Heath itself was pristine and white and snowier than I ever remember seeing it before.
It made for a great walk, because although the snow was rapidly melting the ground was still pretty firm, meaning it wasn't boggy.
I only fell on my behind once, while gingerly stepping down a steep incline. Oh well.
Olga, on the other hand, was as sure-footed as ever, chasing the Kong or running after other dogs or sledding children or whatever else struck her fancy. (We didn't see any squirrels. They're still curled up somewhere warm and out of sight.)
The pond where Olga wades was completely iced over, even around the new young shoots of iris that grow up every spring. They'll be fine, I'm sure.
And beneath the snow, the gorse was still persistently blooming.
Speaking of blooming, I harvested some of our poor battered daffodils and brought them into the kitchen, where they look as good as new on the windowsill -- even one that I inadvertently stepped on and squashed flat! I've pulled others from beneath the snow and tied them upright in the garden, and they still look fine. Let it never be said that a daffodil is a delicate flower.
This morning the garden is almost clear of snow and the patio is back to normal. Amazing how quickly it all vanished!