I drove home over the Long Mountain at dusk, bowling along a white ribbon of road. There had been a light dusting of snow, fine and gritty.
On Heldre Hill, where the wind takes no prisoners on its way from Siberia to Wales, the snowy road was patterned like lace; a filigree of ripples and rivulets where the wind had blown amongst it.
Up here, on this exposed common land sheep graze, year in, year out. Sometimes there are rangy cattle as well - woolly backed against the elements, gnawing at the rough and thistly grass. But only sheep today and their fleeces have a dusting of snow too. It's -2° out there - not truly cold I know - but fairly inhospitable - and I'm glad to be passing through in the comfort of a heated car, heading for the warmth of home.