Snow, Snow, Please, Please, NO!!!

As I walked along a pitch black Falmouth seafront this morning – long, long before dawn, to beat the incoming bad weather – I saw not another soul. (Oh all right then, just two dog walkers and one runner.)

 

So, all but alone with my thoughts, I indulged in an enhanced spot of blessings-counting.

 

To the accompaniment of the gentle swish of the sea as the little waves, their white crests clearly visible, rolled in, I remarked once again just how lucky I am to live in such a lovely place, no matter the “depths of winter.”

 

Especially now, in fact, with the latest alarmist yellow weather warning still ringing in my ears. It includes the risk of snow and ice today for a large area of the south, “stretching to Cornwall.”

 

Thing is, at this end of the county at least, we hardly ever see the white stuff, and you can bet your mortgage that there’ll be no such thing as a single flake in sight down here today.

 

How our attitudes change. As a boy, I so wanted that white world. When there was any chance of it, I’d listen to every word of the forecast . . . which, so frustratingly, would nearly always end with “except in the extreme south west,” i.e. my Falmouth, where it would be possibly sleet, at best.

 

I wanted my snow so much, in fact, that I would even pray for the stuff. Honestly. 

 

Now, six decades or so later, I’d be more inclined to pray for it NOT to make an appearance!

 

Fortunately, I can guarantee that, whatever much of the rest of the country may be about to suffer today, we will once again escape snow-free.

 

(But if I look out of my window later today and find it’s all turning white, rest assured I will take down this blog post faster than you can say “don’t tempt providence!”)

 

BLOG POSTSCRIPTS

(Haha. Incurable, see!)

 

Cap’n Truscott?  It Could Have Been!

 

My SICK WORLD swipe below at CornwallLive - and pretty much the whole online “news” scene these days – set me thinking once again: if that was the scene back in the mid-1960s, would I still have wanted a career in journalism.

 

The answer – of course - is a resounding NO.  I’d much prefer the old-school journalism real thing, thank you very much.

 

But what would I have done instead? Well, I guess I would have pursued  my earlier ambition as a Merchant Navy deck officer (and, who knows, maybe the sort of life David Barnicoat now regularly recalls with such passion).  

 

But first I would have had to secure the necessary qualifications.

 

And these would have included a GCE O Level pass at Mathematics.

 

Which would have meant re-taking that exam again and again and again . . . and again . . . and then again . . .  

 

Cosy Gylly Glow

 

Enjoyed one of my occasional freezing-cold swims at Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase Beach the other day, just to keep my winter oar in, so to speak. (Roll on the spring, when that becomes the default setting at dawn once more). 

 

Couldn’t help noticing a new feature – a roaring fire at the heart of a  group of Gylly swimmers who congregate on that beach every day for their dip, all year round.

 

It was probably illegal (NO FIRES, NO THIS, NO THAT, NO ANYTHING ELSE, as the sign greets, or used to greet, all users of the beach).

 

But hey, who cares? I’m sure these swimmers are a responsible lot, and it didn’t half give off a cosy glow on a grey, damp December morning.

 

It also reminded me of another delight I’m looking forward to. A birthday treat from/with my daughter Lisa – as her guest for the recently established sauna facility at Gylly.

 

You know the thing – burn yourself to a crisp inside that black hut and then dash down to the sea (yipes, tide could be right out!) and plunge into the icy briny.

 

Again and again and again . . . and again . . . and then again . . .