Permit me a moment of more self indulgence than usual

It has well and truly settled into winter here, and it tends to rain more often than it doesn’t. The chestnut sellers are out in force, the churro cafes are packed, and the evenings have started to take on a slightly subdued air as the streets and squares empty of dawdlers and drinkers.

I love this weather. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am just not built for summer. I don’t like the beach, and I’m appalled at the thought that actual humans might see me in a swimsuit. In fact, I’ve realised that don’t really know how to dress myself in the heat in general. A figure like mine requires some serious scaffolding, and as much as I’d love to wear those floaty, wispy little summer dresses, the underpinnings I require make it all but impossible. 

And eating is no fun in the heat. All you ever want in the middle of summer is to pick languidly at a salad, even when you’re hungry enough to require a three course meal with matched wines and cheese to follow. 

No, I am not a summer person. 

Now, winter. Winter is great. The clothes are far more fun; boots, jackets, scarves, cardigans, woolly hats. There’s nothing better than getting properly rugged up before going outside – yet another thing winter has over summer; you can choose how cold or warm you wish to be simply by adding or subtracting items of clothing. How perfectly civilised.

And, of course, the food is so much better; stews, roasts, buckets of pasta, melted cheese on everything, and of course, the aforementioned churros with hot chocolate;

But I think my favourite thing about winter is the landscape. You can keep your rainforests, your tropical beaches. The countryside in winter is far more interesting. I’ve been doing a lot of walking while we’ve been here, and as the weather has been getting colder, the landscape has become more and more arresting;

 

It reminds me of a passage from The Wind in the Willows (one of the best books ever written in my humble opinion, for adults or children, and Kenneth Grahame is surely one of the saddest figures in literary history);

Copses, dells, quarries, and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, til they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering – even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery, He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple.

PS. I finally saw the swan! Pity that it seems to have no head and only one leg, but I suppose I'm just being picky.