A blizzard is enveloping us!
A yeti lookalike just walked past my window and knocked on my door. It turned out to be a snow-covered Paul who had braved the elements with a bottle of 1997 Chassagne Montrachet from his cellar for me to try. Well, it certainly will not need chilling down.
Another knock on the door and a frozen looking Kate was standing there clutching a basket, delivering a dozen eggs freshly laid by her chickens. She tells me it is -4 degrees. I find the tartan draught excluder and push it against the front door.
Last night in the local pub I met Eric, who is famous around these parts for his handyman skills and sense of humour. He should also be noted for his weather forecasting skills, as he predicted snow today.
Eric told us about the day he had donned a suit and gone into Glasgow with his son. They went to a pub where a young man came over to him and asked, "Do ye have a smoke?". Eric fished in his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to him. "Nay," he said, "not that kind." Eric's son leaned over and told his dad the bloke wanted to buy marijuana. "He thought I was a drug baron because of my suit!" declared Eric.
On the wall of the pub are two photographs, taken just a few miles up the road. One of a derelict crofter's cottage, and the other of a roadside memorial stone to a man called Souter who died in 1869. Apparently Souter had cycled through the snow to get the cottage on a Good Samaritan errand and just a few minutes from his destination had become caught up and disoriented in a blizzard and, according to the engraving, had 'perished' in the fierce storm.
Shortly I am due at Marie's for afternoon tea. She lives at the far side of the village, about twenty minutes walk away, but I have never visited her farm before and just like Mr Souter I may well get lost in the snow, so in the words of Lawrence Oates, "I am just going outside and may be some time."
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