When I was a kid every Winter seemed to bring bucket-loads of snow. Annually we would dutifully trudge across several snow-filled fields dragging tea-trays, animal-feed sacks and scarves behind us eager to get to our mecca: the sledging hill. After many thrilling fear-filled hours we would trudge back home, tears of wind stinging our eyes, toes frozen and numb through our welly boots and hands pink and damp with the biting cold. Getting into that deep fluffy bath after you have removed each layer of sodden clothing was painful, your ice-cold toe stinging as it hit the hot steamy water – but boy it was always worth it.
The last few years have bought that kind of Winter back and last week we took a gang of children sledging. Although our previous mecca: the sledging mountain, was definitely nowhere near as big as I remembered it, for the children it was thrilling.
Our motely selection of plastic lids, planks of wood attached at the side and plastic sledges did the trick and these days the kids are much more organised with full snow-proof outfits. Unlike me.
A plastic box we had heralded for the occasion saw me take to the slopes more than twenty-five years later, it cracked and died on its first mission. No matter, my particularly rubbish job was to run down the hill and drag heavy sleighs back up…
The kids loved it, as did I, the frosty air left our eyes shining and our cheeks pink with pride. Home, hot chocolate and a big fluffy bath ended a perfect snowy day in December.