In Grasmere, a tiny village in the Lake District of northern England, winter’s breath curls around branches and stones and blades of grass to coat the land with sugary crystals. Out of doors in this late season, one’s nose and cheeks glow pink outside the protection of heavy fabrics, and whispered breaths turn to mist and fly away.
William Wordsworth called this area “the loveliest spot that man hath ever found.” Having now seen the spot myself: it’s pretty high up there.
Grasmere nestles between two mountains like a book’s pages lie recessed from its hard cover. When the sun crests over the eastern mountain, a shadow slides away from the valley like a curtain drawn from a stage, and both mountains change from black to purple to russet. Dawn light passes through a hoary mist to shine on fat sheep nibbling in vast meadows. When standing still, one scarcely hears a thing, as if sound itself shows deference to the cold.
Clumps of grass, fixed in strange contortions by the nightly freeze, pose like unnatural statues, each blade bejeweled with ice. An errant footstep will shatter these delicate crystals, and while the grass sometimes springs back to its natural shape, more commonly, the blades remain trampled in a shoe-shaped depression, decrying their abuse with the sharp crunch of an egg fallen from its nest.
As the sun continues its orbit, the night’s freeze loses its strength, and puny icicles drip from low-slung walls and puddle onto paths beneath. By nightfall, this water will surely become ice again. But for the time being, it trickles down the walls into cracks between component stones to nourish soft, springy bulbs of resident feathered moss.
While the day grows warmer (though never quite grows warm), some frost remains. On grass, on roofs, on wooden benches, a white coat persists, if softened somewhat by the sun’s glow. Occasionally, on one of the low stone walls lining the streets of the village, one finds a handprint burnt into the frost, like the mark of a caveperson who blew pigment over their hand onto a cave wall, leaving behind an impression in negative.
At night, this land becomes forbidding. House lights appear only in small numbers, and stars, while numerous and bright, do not cast enough light to see by. A person outside at this time stands amid swallowing blackness and is beset by a creeping chill. A flashlight can only peer so far through the veil. Its thin beam illuminates what is there – frosty trees and fallen leaves – while suggesting phantoms beyond one’s vision. Overhead, a frenzied flapping of wings. A bat, startled by the sudden brightness, winging out of a tree.
One is better off, at such a time, in such a place, retreating indoors, to a cozy couch, a blanket, and a warm drink, where shadows may press themselves against one’s window, but never can breach the glow of a fire, a reading light, and a Christmas tree.
Wow Casey.
In this world of short staccato texts and "guess what I am trying to say" writings, I am amazed with your writing. Does this just roll out of you? It would take me months to write 10 paragraphs.
Reading this piece I got so drawn in and from your descriptions I had a very clear image in my mind and felt like I was there!
As Robert De Niro said to Billy Crystal in the movie Analyze This...
You have a gift my friend.
Fabulous see you soon .