First frost…

When there isn’t much to say, there’s always the weather to fall back on.

Is it a trick or do I seem to remember frosty early Novembers in my youth? I certainly remember walking to school, up North Street, down the High Street, along Southern Road and through the recreation ground, with the fields all frosted white and the hill down to the little bridge over Cuttle Brook a treachery.

With Halloween and Bonfire Night over my thoughts would turn to Christmas, the boyhood excitement beginning to grow despite me being in my very early teens. I’d long given up believing in Father Christmas but that didn’t stop me wondering what he’d bring me. No more socks, I hoped.

Sometimes I’d stop at the gate to the bottom meadow, put down my satchel, and just look out across the field at the frost-whitened grass and think of skating on Dutch canals. Don’t ask me why I thought about that, I couldn’t skate and hadn’t been to Holland at that time, but I did - a racial memory? Or perhaps images stolen from the huge book on Breugel I poured over in the library every lunch time.

I’d look down towards the brook almost hearing the whoosh of skate blades, then, with the whoops of Stephen Castle and Luke Doyle carried by the frozen air from the distance, I’d snatch up my books and scuttle the rest of my way to school. I didn’t want to meet those two, they were at best snide and at worst outright bullies, often pushing and shoving and throwing my scarf into the mud.

I got them back though, oh yes, I got them back – but I’ll save that for another time.

So, first frost this morning. Cars all white windscreens and a chilly nip to the air. The smoky smell of yesterday’s after-bonfire air all cleaned up and replaced by ice sharp freshness.

Winter’s coming.