Britain's snow psychosis was wonderful while it lasted. It went as quickly as it came, a dreamland meringue landscape turned back into slush and mud, green fields and tarmac.
The wind came in and whipped the snow into drifts that hung on the hedgerows like a stiff-whipped meringue. On Solsbury Hill, the flat surface was blown into an ancient landscape of snow flying over ice covered tufts. Solsbury Hill felt older than it ever felt.
It was like a short holiday, a weekend trip to an other-world where different rules apply, where everyone is a little nicer, more playful, slower, where there are no cars on the road, where the city and rural soundscape becomes muted and audibly soft, a whipped cream soundscape of muffled sounds, of an absence of the mechanical and harsh.
And then it ended...