Wild is the Wind

Yesterday started brightly, but there was a high wall of pale cloud that built over the course of the day til it threatened snow in the early evening. The wind whipped up alongside the gathering clouds, lifting the leaves of the trees so that they showed their undersides, looking like flashes of silver amongst the green and gold. By early afternoon the wind was howling round the corners of the house and screaming through cracks in the doors and window frames. I remembered how afraid I had been of the howls of the wind as a child - I remember hiding under the table in the kitchen in Suffolk, imagining the wind as some wild creature, bound to 'get me' were it not for the safety provided by my mother's knees as she stood at the table kneading bread dough...

My son, FB, was not as concerned with the wind as he was by the pheasant calls he heard as we walked a little circuit around the village - up the lane past Church Wood, almost as far as the top road, and back again through fields (pasture and the remains of corn) towards the house. He refused to accept that the noise he heard was something as ordinary and unthreatening as a pheasant, and was suddenly very keen to hold my hand - it didn't last. He collected prizes along the way - a stick for poking cow shit, and a dry leaf, which he minced in the garlic crusher when we got home and has since refused to throw away.

The rooks came in to roost earlier than usual, alongside an early twilight - they came streaming in from the North-West, some skilfully surfing the strong air currents, others being buffetted about all over the place and seeming to arrive at their destination far more by luck than judgement. FB and I watched them from his bedroom window - the best vantage point. "I like rooks", he told me, which pleased me, but of course, truth be told, he likes most things you happen to be talking about at any given moment (with the possible exception of food).

I spent a cold evening listening to the wind make it's way through the huge number of holes that there appear to be in the house, and knitting a baby blanket that should have been completed in August - when the baby was born - but will now make a lovely Christmas present! I was glad of the knitting - I spread it over my knees as I worked - at least they were warm.

So it was a surprise this morning to wake and find the early sun high and pale, and the air still, with no trace of yesterday's wildness. And as the day wore on, that buttery sun even managed to find a little warmth. We celebrated by having a festival of creating - making soup and spelt bread and apple jelly - followed by a festival of indulgence - there's not a great deal better than bread buttered straight from the oven with sweet honey-coloured jam. FB doesn't often seem to really enjoy eating, but even he managed to fall quiet for a few minutes while he ate, finishing with a grin and chin full of dribbled butter and sticky cheeks.