“A thousand hills, but no birds in flight,
Ten thousand paths, with no person’s tracks.
A lonely boat, a straw-hatted old man,
Fishing alone in the cold river snow.”

~Liu Zhingyuan (River Snow)

I woke up unexpectedly early (-ish, for a Sunday) after a late night out. Although my house was toasty warm due to the heaters turning themselves on at 6am and a cat curled up on my feet, I could see glistening white peeking through the curtain suggesting the outdoors was a stark contrast.

I popped out of bed, put on my Uggs, grabbed the camera and promptly bumped into my son with his mouth agape staring outside at the yard through the sitting room windows.

Mr 4 and I were delighted to find our garden a winter wonderland of frost. We danced across the grass listening to the musical crunch and crackling of frozen blades. We tickled our fingers on icicles clinging to wood, flowers, leaves and rocks. We admired the “hairy garden” in its bejewelled splendor.







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