Pictures Of Snowy Somerset

On Tuesday 5^th of January I was filling-up the car with fuel when I suddenly detected that Somerset was due for a heavy downfall of snow. It wasn’t the strangely blank sky or the bite of a crisp northeast wind that alerted me; I simply noticed that all the bread and milk had disappeared from the village shop.

I don’t know whether rural life causes country folk to be more resilient or resilient folk are more attracted to rural life, but when Britain grinds to a halt every time Jack Frost sprinkles his dandruff over the country, the countryside somehow carries on.

So waking-up to the inevitable five inch blanket of snow stretched out as far as the eye could see, I went about my daily business. My first task was to feed the pigs, who seemed to be having an even better time playing in the snow than the local children, barking away and following me around until I heard everything they wanted to say about the white stuff.

The next twenty minutes was spent trying to persuade the chickens to come out of their hut. Calling them certainly didn’t work and rattling the feed hopper didn’t lure them out into the strange cold expanse. So I started throwing them out one by one, only to witness the incredible sight of the chickens leaving my hands and somehow managing to fly backwards towards me. Eventually a few of the more intrepid birds flew all the way to their food without touching the ground.

My next stop was the sheep, who greeted me with a chorus of bleats which translated as “hurry up with the hay, can’t you see it’s snowing you bipedal fool”, or words to that effect. The sheep were easy enough to please, unlike the dog who insisted on dragging me out on her favourite walk and stopping to examine every rabbit hole, until my feet almost froze to the ground.

Once back indoors I soon warmed up, though with more snow forecast on Sunday, I’d better get down to the village shop before I’m forced to write “how to dress a pig” or “my ten favourite mutton recipes”.