Lucas the snowman

As in many parts of Cambridgeshire today, we awoke to snow falling silently outside our windows. I never get used to the deadening silence that accompanies these gentle flakes. They don't look capable of deadening anything as they float on the wind, like gliders seeking safe landings.

Our daughter Hayley has been running to her bedroom window each morning for the last few days after we've given her the previous night's weather forecast - but to no avail until today. She stood for hours, quite transfixed by the gentle white flakes. I ran downstairs with her and out into the garden where we spent a happy hour building Lucas the snowman.

The sunshine melted his home but Lucas is still out there, even as it grows darker He no longer has eyes but he can still see the joy he brought to both of us today.

Bagels

My wife. Michelle, was talking to our daughter, Hayley this morning about the colours of horses as we slowed down for a couple of them in Exning - on the way to Newmarket. They quickly established that white horses were, in fact, 'grey's and that an all brown horse was a 'chestnut.' We then saw a brown horse with black tail and mane. Michelle told her that this was a 'bay.' She then asked Hayley what a chestnut horse with patches of white would be called. She thought long and hard about it (at least five seconds) before announcing 'bagel!' Be afraid skewbalds everywhere...

Devil's Dyke

Very near to Burwell is a giant, ancient rampart called Devil's Dyke or Devil's Ditch. It stretches from the village of Burwell, just to the north-west of us and then down for seven and a half miles, beyond Newmarket to Ditton Green to the south. There is a really good information site: Devil's Dyke Restoration Project.

As to its name, one historical legend suggests it comes from the belief that landforms like this must be of supernatural origin. 'One local legend is that the Devil came uninvited to a wedding perhaps at Reach church and was chased away by the guests. In anger the devil ran away and formed the groove of the Dyke with his fiery tail.'

I've been on the stretch of Dyke towards Reach before, but never to the south so I went for a walk up there this afternoon. At one point I was at the top of 'Gallow's Hill' which is thirty four feet above the dyke floor - it's highest point. It seems strange to be elevated anywhere in Cambridgeshire, especially givent The Fens nearby, but you really can see for miles. I took a couple of quick shots and have loaded them up in my Fen Creative photoblog.

Skylarks accompanied me throughout my walk and I'm looking forward to seeing the wild orchids that populate the area when they come into bloom in June.

Priest hole

I was reading at the weekend about Catholic priests who have been downloading texts from the internet rather than using their own original writing skills. Apparently some are choosing this as an easy option and some could now face prosecution if found out.

It's an odd one isn't it. I was amazed when I first read it, thinking that this was the preserve of cunning homework plans or student subterfuge. You somehow don't think of priests doing the same thing. Is it because they're supposed to be interpreting God's Word in thir own particular style or just because they're, well, priests?

I imagine choosing the cloth is a hard road to follow and I would prefer a priest to base his sermons on his own experiences and observations to give it a more contemporary context; but I'd feel cheated if I felt he was looking elsewhere for words rather than meaning.

Love and romance

Someone reminded me this week that love is not just about romance, it is about a hug or a cuddle or even a knowing smile. Is it society or genetics that converts nice thoughts into sexual thoughts? I was reading 'On Chesil Beach' by Ian McEwan at the weekend and he makes a similar point. Why can't we just be patient and allow our lives to be changed without having to force things all the time?

Early to rise

I'm not sure why it makes such a difference when the first mornings of the new year begin to draw out - but it does. I can never remember when the dark skies allow light to filter through from the east. This morning I was rewarded for getting up at 5.30 because by the time I was leaving Burwell, the fields away towards Wicken and Reach could be seen as a frosted green rather than just another black mass. Early March: I'll try and remember that next year in order to look forward to it.

Charlotte

My wife runs a ballet school as a community venture. She has done so in Cambridgeshire and Norfolk for the past fourteen and a half years.

It doesn't make any money and often leaves us out of pocket in both cash and time. But the Samara Ballet School gives opportunities to children in our rural area which they might not otherwise enjoy. It gives them a glimpse of a colourful life beyond the flatness of our Fen landscape.

Three weeks ago the school held its biennial show at Witchford Village College. A pretty little nine-year old called Charlotte Walker played a leading role and, in fact, was just full of life and laughter and all the attributes that Samara represents. A week ago she drowned in a car accident near Chatteris. Today she was buried in the same blue ballet dress she had danced in so beautifully and so recently.

Charlotte was a happy child for whom life knew no boundaries. Words failed me at the service today but I wrote this poem when we returned home.

I hope it expresses what we are all feeling at this time.