On Winter

Winter is a frame of mind. It is as cold or as unpleasant as you want it to be. The old saying that there is no such thing as the wrong weather, only the wrong clothing, is one that I have come to appreciate in my decade or so of living in Switzerland. And not just because of the Alpine winters. But rather because of the apparently mild winters of my home country.

In all my years of living in the United Kingdom as a child, I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the times when I really experienced snow. As a small child, I have a distinct remembrance, no doubt shaped and enhanced by what people have subsequently come to refer to as Kodak memories, of the snow on my parent's driveway coming up to the waistband of my down, all-in-one.

The clumping dry and sticky snow that clings to the fibres of your woollen mitts was a rare occurrence, but when it did come we made sure to make the most of it. Snowball fights were hand. Snowmen were made. Leaving patches of green lawn exposed as the two centimetre dusting of white was commandeered to create a dirty, grey Michellen man with a carrot for a nose.

And yet for most of the winter, the snow wasn't to be found and instead one experienced a cold, damp and biting kind of weather, the likes of which only the UK can serve. With winds said to blow unbroken from the Steppes and Siberia to the East and Northeast, further weaponised by their gathering of moisture over the inky North Sea, the winters in the North of England can only be endured. Once the wet cold penetrates the layers of one's outer clothing, the chances of reheating are reduced to such a point that an evening spent in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in blankets are less a romantic idyll than a hard reality.

Switzerland's preparedness for and efficient delivery from the plague of the white stuff is quite a revelation for someone like me who comes from a country where an entire motorway can grind to a halt overnight with the merest dusting of the stuff. Not only are the authorities and airport operators, the church wardens and farmers, all equipped to handle the annual occurrence with ease, but private home owners too. Shovels, snow scoops, and snow blowers are as much part of the experience of homeownership in this country as the garden grill and chair-set.

This year the snow has fallen sooner than anticipated. Six inches have fallen overnight and settled across the garden as a blanket over a snoozing form. The blood red blooms on our climbing rose are now smothered in white, caught out by the rapid shift from a balmy 14 degree day of sunshine on Thursday to Sunday's damp and grey atmosphere, with clouds heavy with more precipitation.

For all that, I refuse to see winter as a downer. One member of our household, at least, Walker the dog, enjoys this time of year better than any other, celebrating the opportunities that snow presents him to sniff scents deep under the surface of the snow-covered fields and paths that surround our house in Glarus. Walking him is a boost given the pleasures it presents. And with temperatures skirting around freezing point, that is saying something.

With a felt hat, solid shoes, and a down jacket of the appropriate quality, the Swiss winter can be enjoyed and celebrated. Which can hardly ever be said of the damp fug of the United Kingdom. Another winning argument in Switzerland's favour.