Sunday 14th February 20121

Valentine's Day.

For the last twenty six months, my allergies have been something to deal with rather than to be endured, as it was previously. This was after Jools' wonderful idea to treat them as congestion rather than an allergy. Two squits of nasal spray, and 15 minutes later, no issue. Just as well, as I was at my lowest ebb at that point. I had suffered a bad back tying my shoelaces on Sunday, and after some false hope on a saline solution squited into my nose, and a flashing red light (don't laugh) I had seen on QI, both of which were dismal failures, it seemed hopeless.

I sat at the dining room take, uable to breathe and eat, so fed up with things. And yet, two quirts, and all fixed.

I am not overstating it to say, that was life changing. I had been a prisoner, or hostage to my allegies for over five years, effects which caused migraines, bad night's sleep and resulted in me having to take anything from a couple of hours off to a whole day.

But that ended, or so I thought.

But last week the house gets so cold when we turned the heating off, as usual, that we had it on low instead, but at the end of the night when temperatures dipped, and when the boiler and water pump fired up, it woke us both up. So, an alternative was to put on a second duvet, we seem to have dozens spare. Anyway, this might have had some house dust in it, as I woke up Sunday morning as congested as I have been for over two years.

Repeated squirts of the rescue spay did work in the end, but I was coughing and sneezing until well after lunchtime. So, we must make sure there is always a supply of the elixir in the house, to rescure me from my own body.

We wake up just as dawn's milky light was showing round the edge of the curtains. And once up, and the heating on, we look out the back of the house to see five day old snow, mostly turned to ice, still hanging around, unwanted and unloved, just like the friend who never leaves a house party, when everyone else has, and wants to play twister.

Again.

The left side of the garden is mostly snow free, as the weak sun was just strong enough to melt that before sinking away to the west, but that on the right hand side, always in the shadow of the hedge and trees, was untouched.

It was also blowing a gale again, too cold to go out for a walk, too frozen to do gardening.

Just althogether too, too.

We have breakfast, coffee, and listen to the radio, Radcliffe and Maconie playing "Glove Songs" rather than love songs because its what they do.

We sit around until half eleven, doing our stuff, before going out.

I had a mission, to drove along the Alkham Valley to photograph the winterbourne, the Drellingore, which I knew was running yet again. It only is supposed to run one every seven years, but these days of climate change runs most years.

Where for most of the year there is just pasture and coppiced woods, now a meandering stream winds its way towards Kearsney Abbey where it will join the River Dour for short run through Buckland and the town centre to empty into the inner harbour.

We drive through the village of River, where a security guard seemed to be on his way, maybe to chase those naughty twitchers looking at Kingfishers. In this mad country, fishing is allowed, but looking at birds isn't. I can find no logic in that, but anyway, along the Dour there were no people staring ito bushes, camera at the ready. Just too cold, I guess.

Along the road, and into the countryside, and nearly into Alkham, there is a five bar gate, with enough room to pull off and park, with views over the Drellingore. We stop, I get out, take five shots.

The bourne had cut through the drifted snow like a surgeon's knife, the exposed grass looking like dried blood as the water flowed past. Trees reflected in the running water, but nothing else moved, there was no colour. Just cold.

And that's it.

We get back in the car, turn round and drive to Whitfield to have lunch with Jen. She was feeding us this week, with roast turkey joint and all the trimmings, with proper roast potatoes cooked in lard, which gives them a wonderful, if unhealthy flavour.

We play a hand of Meld, then lay the table, the vegetables are steamed and the pottoes roasted in the oven.

We eat, drink, tidy up and return to cards, laying another game of Meld until it was half three, just gone, and time to go back before more black ice formed.

Back home we have a brew, and I watch Arsenal beat Leeds 4-2, but was an ebtertaining game, with much to enjoy. Not least the defeat for Leeds.

Supper is ham rolls, which we eat whilst we listen to yet more on the radio. Outsdie the skies fill with clouds, and soon a steady rain is falling, finally chasing the old snow out of the way. By the morning most of it will be gone, and all will be gray and misty.