It was mid-February – that cold, grey, miserable time of year. Not wanting to go bankrupt by turning up the heating to the Saharan levels we deserved, we decided to brace ourselves against the cold by instead sleeping with a triple duvet-blanket combo in bed and covering every inch of skin just to go outside became a necessary habit.

In this less than enjoyable backdrop, waking up one day to see my first Bristolian snow initially produced a grumpy reaction: The weather’s been freezing our noses for weeks and all we get is this pathetic amount of snow?! I wasn’t the only one – all the clichés and anathemas from the “it never sticks” and “the pollution bubble in Bristol won’t let it last” categories were instantly and widely employed. But we couldn’t keep our grudges for long, soon the snow wasn’t just a bit of glorified frost but it had created a fully fledged, wicked winter wonderland!

Of course in true British spirit we kind of made a mess of it; buses were cancelled, shops were closed and drivers realised they weren’t the personification of the wheel of steel. People suddenly forgot how to walk and shoes lost the concept of friction. Families put carrot-noses on their snowmen, students perfected their large-scale ice sculptures of male genitalia and rumours started going round of a Bristol University professor skiing down St. Michael’s Hill in the wee hours of the morning (knowing him I’d say it’s probably more than a rumour)…It might have all been a mess but what a wonderful mess! A white, snowy mess that made you feel like ‘Christmas – The Return’ and that hot chocolate and cuddly duvets were the top priorities in life.

Coming back from a trek, trying to walk home without slipping more than once every six steps, I stood by a lamppost and watched the snow fall…in absolute silence…making the sky glow…covering all the greyness of February with glorious white…and that was how I learned to stop worrying and love the snow.

Anna Leon
Photos: Juanma Arrabe and Dan Mariner