A Few Cold Words

Went for a wander around Morden Hall Park this morning. It was built by the oddly-spelled Hatfeild family in the late eighteenth century, who, quaintly, made their money from a snuff mill. It hasn't snowed for a few days so the ground has a patchy look, but I thought this picture accurately captured the feeling of the place! It felt like I had acres and acres to myself in the biting cold. After a while my ears and fingers started burning, despite being well covered, so I went to the ubiquitous National Trust shop and had the ubiquitous cup of tea. I've come to the conclusion that National Trust shops and cafes are exclusively run by round, middle-aged, slightly-inept-but-good-natured women. I had some nice conversations with the tea ladies and got called 'luvvy', which made me happy.

I'm learning that this variety of cold is both painful and dangerous: painful, because your fingers swell and if you don't have on enough layers of clothing your body aches, and dangerous, because snow on pathways quickly turns icy and it doesn't do to walk jauntily all over them. (I've nearly landed on my backside a couple of times, and it's difficult to recover gracefully.) And it's only -2! I'm told that it will be at least -15 when I arrive in Central Asia, which I can't quite grasp.