In my little town in Japan, you could always tell when winter was properly on its way. The trees that stood in all the gardens and parks would, seemingly overnight, be decorated with a complicated system of ropes to stabilise each and every branch. This defence was to brace them for the impending heavy snow which would inevitably want to rest awhile in the arms of the trees.
The yearly construction of this armour would always bring on a sense of foreboding in me, but was also a reminder of the immense beauty of winter in Japan.
My overwhelming memory of winter there, is one of quiet. Of all the seasons, winter was the most silent. Just the squeak of your shoes on the surface of the snow as you walked to your car in the morning.
Here in London, winter's yearly entrance isn't quite so obtrusive. She sneaks up, giving you just small clues, which only after you start to put them all together, do you realise she is well and truly on her way.
Firstly the clocks go back, then there are more red, orange and yellow leaves on the ground than on the trees. Then you switch the heating on and all of a sudden, someone mentions that snow has been forecast somewhere in the country. That's when you add up everything and realise winter has settled in for the long haul.
She brings with her crystal clear days (like today) where you wonder if the sky might just smash into a million pieces; spicy mulled wine from paper cups at Christmas markets; a dusting off of your collection of brightly coloured hats, scarves and gloves; stews, pies and soups; and a nice stretch of indoor time that is slower and more relaxed than other times of year, filled with films, craft, and a lot of good books.
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