Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
The trouble with winter is that it seems to go on forever. Not that I’m complaining exactly, as I enjoy super cold, crisp days. I like it when the tip of my nose tingles before going numb, and the hoar frost clings like peppered icing sugar over the hedgerows and fields. There’s something so wonderful about venturing outside, wrapped up warm and toastie, to hear a robin loudly calling into the thin, liquid sunshine that gently permeates the steely greyness of the skies.
No, I’m not upset with winter, but with the rain…the constant soggy limpness of a drenched garden, the piles of never-ending washing hung hopefully on bannisters and clothes horses, and, of course, the hair! My normally sleek, shiny, and sophisticated bob becomes a mat of frizzy curls that stick up and poke out at various angles – resembling more of a hat than a hairstyle.
Everything in the house has that faint loamy, slightly earthy smell that comes with living in a property that’s well over one hundred and thirty years old. Again though, I’m not complaining; I chose my house. But, no matter how good the upkeep or proficient the heating, it always harbours little damp patches which, once addressed, will simply pop up somewhere else like magic, smiling and waving at me like an old friend.
When I first moved to Dorchester from London, I genuinely believed (and assured my estate agent) that I was prepared to view any type of property. My only two ‘musts’ were having a garden and that the door didn’t open straight onto the pavement – both because, as always, my dogs’ needs and safety come first.
I thought I was open to most properties, but very quickly it became apparent to my long-suffering estate agent that I wasn’t. In fact, my scope was set securely on anything built before the 1930s, but preferably between 1837 and 1901.
After a lacklustre response to two very nice houses on the estate off Maiden Castle Road, my agent said, “OK, time for a chat. We need to re-examine your list of priorities as I think perhaps your preferences are actually rooted firmly in our Victorian stock.” He was right, of course. Though I honestly hadn’t realised it about myself. Two weeks later he took me to see my current home, and before we’d even entered the property, I turned to him and said emotionally, “Oh Paul, that’s my house!” He’d got it spot on.
Full of character and sitting alongside the railway line, my Victorian cottage still brings me a deep sense of contentment. Every time I open my eyes in the morning and look down the light and airy hallway to my beautiful bathroom, or step into my garden, I’m filled with joy.
I do, as I said, have those pesky little damp patches by the front and back doors. But, in the hot summer, when everyone is sweltering, melting, and loudly complaining in the heat, I enjoy my home’s constant coolness. And, if it’s really hot, I can always close my blinds, rip off all my clothes, and lie flat on the kitchen flagstones. As the cold seeps like water through the skin, within minutes I’ll have cooled to a comfortable temperature.
I often laugh at this image of myself splayed out like a starfish. I wonder whether there are naked bodies of all shapes and sizes rolling around on flagstones across Dorchester, enjoying the freedom of cooling down unencumbered.
But, back to this morning! The truth is, whilst I’m not complaining, I’ve had enough of winter now and the constant rain. It’s either drizzling – you know, that really light rain that seeps into everything, making you permanently soggy – or it’s bucketing down. When this is the case, the gusty winds are almost blinding and your clothes are soaked through within minutes, even though you’re just popping down to the corner to walk the dog. A dog, I might add, who doesn’t want to go out in the wet either and looks at you as if you’re barking mad!
Though the seasons are equally divided, it always seems as though winter hangs around forever. Whereas Summer, with her bright sunshine and warm weather, is just a fleeting burst of bonhomie.
Still, whinging over, after months of living like a soggy digestive biscuit, there are signs of hope. The daffs are out, the temperature is rising, and green nubs are sprouting on every stalk and twig in the garden.
Thus, with this reminder of better and dryer mornings to come, I decide to do a touch of spring cleaning, a sure sign that winter is, after all, actually over. So, damp cloth and duster in hand, I make my way upstairs to tackle the skirting boards and doors. My two furry friends have been fed and walked, and snort loudly at my industry before snuggling up and going back to bed.
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