Sometime during the night the silence woke me: no rain on the tin roof, after three continuous days of bombardment, eight inches in all.
I stumbled out on to the verandah at about 6.45 a.m., feet fumbling for the thongs, eyes peering at the thermometer – 4 degrees – then the ritual glance into the distance. Blink. Wow!
The first snowfalls on my opposite ridge, which is about 5,300 feet high. No matter how light the dusting of white, the sight is always a bonus gift, since it is no colder here than in many snowless places.
I feed the horses and check their rugs: they are warm and dry under there. Ready for more rain, or snow.
I am marooned on my mountain, but safe, as we have not had the big winds that went with the rain nearer the coast. Newcastle certainly had an ‘extreme weather event’, more of which have been forecast as global warming increases.
Which it certainly will if Mr Sartor keeps fuelling it with more coalmines – like Anvil Hill.