Christmas has come!

Christmas has come to Wincobank! As you leave the M1 at Junction 34, duck down between the northbound carriageway, turn left and left again then you will find our beautiful tree, glowing with pride at the bottom of the hill. Tonight we walked down, not up, joining together with others for a lantern procession and to sing traditional Christmas carols beloved by many, half-remembered by most, but completely unknown to the children. Some words may be obscure but there are a few catchy tunes in the collection that have lasted a hundred years or more but it looks like they will fade slowly into history as the jingle bell rock takes over.

Over the hills...

This is the the brow of the hill where I live. My little house is just down the road and round the corner. If you were to walk off to the left of this picture you would reach wonderful Wincobank Hill. If you want find out more about the hill the besy place to start is http://www.wincobankhill.btik.com/

In the distance are the beckoning foot hills of the Peak District. Tomorrow I have to make the decision whether to drive over those hills, over the Woodhead Pass then on to Cheshire.

Woodland Wonderland

My journey to work this morning started with a mile long walk down the steep side of my hill; the view across the snow clad industrial Don Valley, breathtaking. One bus carried me through Brightside into the centre of Sheffield, then another took me south along the Abbeydale Road.

As I disembarked with colleagues, the driver announced that the bus company was calling all vehicles back to base due to the dangerous conditions. We were quite possibly stranded. But walking uphill from the main road I could only smile with delight as the pathway wound through the woodland fringe to the old school building where I am based. I realise how fortunate I am that I am able to enjoy this unique urban countryside but ashamed that it takes snow to make me do so. I am resolved to walk more as was my intention when first I came here. Slow down and look around. Count my blessings. Breathe.

Forest fantasy

From our northern seaside home I moved to the green, organic city of Sheffield where roads snake through the scraps ancient woodland and the forest fathers sleep beneath the concrete, waiting for their time to come again.

Winter has swept in with the full force of Mother Mature's hand to remind us that we are guests on this planet and our sophistication is no match for frozen water. The traffic has stopped, the schools are shut, the streets are silent. It is as though the years have spun back to the time before the industrial revolution when we lived by the rhythm of the seasons, subject to the power of the sun. In those days we died of cold and some will do so still. We are so small, insignificant.

Looking back

I went back to Tyneside for the first time since selling the house nearly three years ago. I wasn't sure how I would feel face to face with our family home once so busy and full to bursting. I parked my car outside the house and walked through the town, invisible, unknown, down to the quayside where for fourteen years we had watched fireworks, filmed festivals and where on the dawn of the new century I had waited for the rising sun to fill me with new energy.

This time the sun was setting and I waited till it grew dark to see again the reflections on the water then walked back through smart streets that twenty years ago had been derelict, past the community garden I had imagined and now has come to be. All things change and so do we. Our children grew and flew, we all moved on, going our separate ways into the rest of our lives, to new adventures, into the unknown.