No more this year please!

The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Unhelp'd by any wind.

From 'Frost at Midnight' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834

On Tuesday Jack Frost painted intricate patterns on our conservatory roof. His mastery of the icy brush is sublime and astonishing.

Before homes were centrally heated, when the one source of heat in the house was a coal fire in the communal sitting room it was fun to toast crumpets on the end of a long toasting fork, roast chestnuts, throw salt on the fire to see the flames flare briefly in a gorgeous show of dazzling greens and blues. It was homely and companionable to sit close to the fire although I knew I risked scorching my legs and developing chilblains on my hands and feet. I tried to hoard the warmth in my body like a storage heater to sustain me as I scurried out into the arctic extremities of the rest of the house, filled my hot water bottle and dashed to bed in my freezing room. The sheets felt glacial as I tucked my feet up inside my nightdress, turning myself into a foetal entity in a cheerless womb. Gradually, the bed became warmer, I relaxed and slept and stretched, to wake hours later to the unpleasant sensation of cold flabby rubber, unless, of course, there was a cosy cover on my hot water bottle.

Now the next challenge faced me. I had to leave my warm, comforting nest and step out onto the cold floor. I would delay the moment as long as possible, the tip of my nose attesting to the extremity of the temperature. Even thus, when I looked at the window panes, I wondered at the beauty I saw etched on the inside of the glass, glittering and glistening in the early morning light. Curiosity would overcome dislike of the cold and I would draw closer to examine the remarkable and transitory works of art.

Those days were long ago and though I certainly do not miss the iciness of an unheated house, the compensations, for a child at least, were not to be understated.

I hope we have seen the last of heavy frosts this year. This week's offering did not touch the grass or the pond – I suppose it was an 'air frost' - the temperature was 1˚Celsius (33.8˚ Fahrenheit) I know that if the pond freezes the frogspawn will be killed. When this happens it turns milky white and then decays and another generation of frogs is lost, to this garden at least.

When icicles hang by the wall

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd, blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who – a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

From 'Love's Labour's Lost' by William Shakespeare



The title-page of the first quarto states that Love's Labour's Lost was performed at court before Queen Elizabeth I during the Christmas season 1597-1598. However, the play could also have been played initially in the public theatre rather than at court. Love's Labour's Lost is listed as one of the plays given during the Christmas season of 1604-1605.

The first two lines came into my head yesterday as we set out to take the dogs walking. It has been a long time since we saw icicles in this part of the world. The winters of my childhood on the East coast in Kent were raw and icicles were all too familiar. Jack Frost painted his wonderfully intricate designs on the insides of our bedroom windows and even as we shivered we delighted in their beauty. Chilblains? We endured them with various salves. Nipped toes and noses were commonplace and the thawing-out was painfully wonderful. We 'warmed up' in our winter clothing before we set foot outside to travel in damp buses or trudge on foot to our destinations. Those of a literary bent could be comforted that the environs we trod were familiar to Charles Dickens. Kent could indeed be called 'Dickens Country' even as Hampshire is known as 'Jane Austen country'.

Corksckrew hazel (Avellana contorta) The icicles melt in the sunlight only to freeze again overnight - next year's nuts will be sweet indeed!

 But I wonder still, not being a Shakespeare scholar (or indeed any kind of scholar) why Dick blew his nail? Was he simply blowing on his poor chilled fingers or was he making music blowing upon a metal object as one blows on a grass stem to produce a note? Shakespeare scholars, please help . . .