I enjoy the heat of summer. Those long sunny days, with the sun’s warmth on my face and the light streaming through the windows.
I also enjoy the cold of winter. The days when my neighbourhood is transformed into a frosty, foggy or snowy otherworld.
What I don’t like though is in-between weather, typified by those drab days of February/early March and November/early December, when everything is a muddy wasteland and you’ve no idea what you should wear when you step outside.
Days when the weather can’t be bothered to be interesting, so just gives up completely; and what you get is misleading sunny days (when you’re fooled into thinking it might be warm, and therefore spend a day in just a light jacket or jumper freezing you a** off), or get overheated in your winter thermals in a dreary, but annoyingly warmish, rain shower.
So yes, I like cold weather; but it has to be the real deal. Proper cold.
I have to be crunching through the snow or wandering through the fog for it to be an enjoyable experience. Though admittedly only for a short time. Observing a bitterly cold landscape outside my window, from the comfort of a warm, cosy house, is generally my preferred option.
Sadly though (thanks to climate change), snowy days are likely to be events we once had, rather than what we have to look forward to (here in the UK anyway). But I’m grateful for having experienced them, especially in my childhood when the cold brought the prospect of snow – and a truly magical experience.
Writing a road home 
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