We have the most bone-marrow chilling frosts out here in the valley. If you go to bed at night with a clear sky, millions of stars and a bright moon you know Jack Frost will be creeping around come the early hours. It always reminds me of the Walter de la Mare poem, “Silver” – “Slowly, silently, walks the night in her silver shoon. This way and that, she peers and sees silver fruit upon silver trees.”
Anyway, last week it would have been about minus five degrees when I woke, so to keep warm I went for a crispy run around the vineyard and took these photos of the frost:
Those aren’t raindrops – they’re icicle diamonds on the cassurina trees.
Looking down the vineyard.
A closeup of the marshmallow leaves under the clothesline.
And this is the top rail of Smithy’s corral (Smithy is my horse, who you haven’t met yet).