I love the quiet days in between Christmas and New Year. Not working and not celebrating, just being.
Walking into The Mystery.
Friday’s snow not having lasted long enough for someone to build a whole snowman. The evening when it fell though our street suddenly filled with excited children, many of them fully grown.
Late in the morning the grass is still frosty.
All the way from here to Grant Avenue.
Here the waterlogged field has iced over.
On into Greenbank Park and a tentative daffodil.
If the frost continues these early arrivals are in for a hard time surviving.
As high as the sun will climb in the sky today.
Pet dogs scattering the park geese.
Winter trees silent and sullen by the lake.
Turning, as ever, for one last look, picture perfect Greenbank.
Along past the sleeping allotments.
And into the snowfields of Sefton Park.
Cold but not frozen here.
Sun rays glinting on the family walks.
As the light subtly shifts to afternoon.
Brightly detailed tree bark.
High grasses under a blue winter sky.
Still frosty in the shade though.
I stop for a while and sit on the wall on the far side of the park, near to Lark Lane. Where I always sit. I have my lunch, the Spinach and Courgette Quiche Sarah made yesterday. And read my current book, a hefty political autobiography by Denis Healey. Something for me to bury myself in and argue with pleasurably during these quiet days. Not working, not celebrating, just being.
Walking round the big lake.
Half frozen over.
Through the wilder heathland part of the park.
Where I’ll often run.
Across the bridge.
Looking down into a winter garden.
Along Ibbotson’s Lane. Snow and frost all turned to gentle leaf-mould mud here.
Emerging onto Greenbank Road.
Never too quiet for a Beatles bus at Penny Lane.
Then nearly home.
On one of the quiet days in between Christmas and New Year. Not working and not celebrating, just being.