All’s white with world in my patch

SNOW in towns is pretty awful stuff. It instantly turns brown and mushy, penetrating townie footwear and spraying up from the wheels of cars.

It’s responsible for late buses and is often accompanied by burst pipes and other nuisances.

Country snow is rather different. I drove the other day along a road that runs on an embankment through part of the Bog of Allen. The red bog had turned white and stretched out on both sides of me, a dazzling plain that looked like something out of a fantasy novel. Every twig on the birch trees along the road verge had a blue-white frosting of snowflakes that glittered in the brittle sunshine. It was beautiful. Infinitely more beautiful than even the best of those Christmas decorations that have started to infest the local shops.