The icicles are a surprise. I make a literal jump, in the passenger seat. If the roads were icy that expression of delight might have skidded us into a tree. Mr saw them first, glancing up as he drives by. Where the road is cut into the steep hillside, where the water drips down, seeking the river level, there are solid spindly rows of frozen teeth, so many rows, maybe it is more like icy fur, or prickles, like a hill sized ice porcupine. ‘It’s like we’ve been on holiday!’ Mr enjoys my mini-whoop. ‘We’ve just toured the fjords,’ I tell him, exaggerating our travels. We are driving from Launceston to Plymouth on a cold morning. This snow, a crochet blanket, lies on the fields. Little brown fox runs from its cover, across the road in front of us, it runs from the field to a row of cottages, like it is ready to put the kettle on.
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