One Of My Favourite Winter Scenes

by Barbara Jones

It is seven-forty-five a.m., on a very cold, crisp morning, in early January. I have just left my very warm flat in Hartshill, to go to work in Stoke. As I stepped out of my front door, the snow crunched under my feet. It has been snowing most of the night and the snow is now around four inches deep. I set off to walk acros the spare ground at the back of the Chambers wood yard. It is a thickly planted area of young and old trees, and the banks are thick with grass in the summer, but at the moment everything is white — covered as far as the eye can see with a thick layer of snow. the branches of the trees are almost bare, and all are weighed down with snow. I can see the derelict shadow of the old Twyford’s factory, against the skyline, stretching to the grey sky. I think there is still more snow to come.

The traffic is starting to build for the morning rush hour, and the cars on the D-road are bumper to bumper. I climb up to the top of the hill, and cross towards the school. There are no children here now. The school has been empty for some time. I walk across the empty tennis courts, at the back of the school. All is deserted and quiet here. A little further on, I come across a pool, at the edge of the grounds of St. Dominic’s Convent. It is a large, private fishing pool, well stocked with fish and water plants. I like to sit here in the summer, in the shade of the old oak trees, and tall grasses. There is a small jetty, which someone has cleared out so that they could fish. The pool is completely frozen over, except for a space of about three feet, where someone has broken the ice to catch fish. It is all white and silence here, nothing moves.

I am now crossing into the grounds of the old convent. It looks haunted and eerie. It is fast falling into dereliction now. The snow is covering what’s left of the rafters and roof. The windows without glass reflect nothing back, onto the path in front of me.

A grey squirrel scurries across my feet, startling me. There are lots of them here. They are gathering the last of the hazel nuts, from the snow beneath the trees, to store them before the dead of winter sets in. I always see them on my way through. some of them are quite tame and just carry on with what they are doing. Others will run away, as the hear someone coming. They are a joy to watch, when they’re not moving too fast. There are all kinds of birds here too. I can hear them under the hedgerows, rustling in their nests, not wanting to venture out to find today’s food.

I have walked many times this way. It is hard to choose which is my favourite season, they are all equal to each other in beauty. All seasons have a lot to offer. I have seen rabbits, foxes, even the odd badger in these grounds, and it is home to all kinds of birds, including kestrels and sparrowhawks, in winter and summer alike. As I walk though the grove of old oak trees, I imagine what it must have been like when it was a working convent. The nuns kept bees, grew all their own food here, and even the now derelict chicken pens and goat paddocks can still be seen.

As I cross the orchard, through the old wrought-iron gates, the tree, although they are now bare of fruit, are still a wonderful sight, stretching above the leaden sky. And as I draw near to the main road, I must alas leave the tranquility behind and rejoin the rat race of another day.