It has been trying to snow this morning.

Every now and then there will be a heavy flurry of flakes, but the ground is barely damp.

It was different this day forty two years ago.  There had been quite a heavy snowfall in the early hours and the ground was pure white.  The day itself was fine and sunny but fucking cold.  It wasn’t a day for hanging around outdoors for photographs.

The following week was one of those beautiful weeks where it was cold and frosty but there were clear blue skies every day.  We had travelled and ended up in Crookhaven which is a tiny village in West Cork – it must be about the furthest one can get from Dublin before ending up in the Atlantic.

Now a couple spending the first week in February in one of the remotest villages in the country could only mean one thing and the locals copped on straight away.  We were feasted and fêted and treated to pints by the locals every evening.  Even the lighthouse keeper on the Mizen Head treated us to steaming mugs of coffee.  It was a magic week.

Forty two years!

Fuck!

That seems like a lifetime.

Actually it’s probably far more than a lifetime for the majority of the population.

Mind you, I’d do it all over again.

Assuming that is, that I’ll live for another forty two tears.