Even though the snow's disappearing, except from the shaded places, the cold still bites in a way it rarely did in London. It's a raw cold from a relatively raw country. Our trails, green in summer, are rivers of white but the naked wild roses and feathery-dead heads of goldenrod still stand staunch and tall.
The sun, where it shines, is bitterly bright and the heather spikes through the ice.
Tomorrow, they say, it will be warmer. They still do things in Fahrenheit here and the temperature will be going up to 48 degrees.Wow! Out with the croquet set again.