An English winter in childhood is a table set with frosty mornings and cold clear nights full of starlight. Winter moves exorably forward. It comes upon us silently, when we least expect it, like the steadiloy creeping snow. As the last leaves drift from the trees and the nights draw in winter is suddenly upon us with its cold winds, rain and hail.

As October drifts towards November and Jack Frost engraves his visit upon the insides of window panes and the cold air nips at our face, Bonfire Night draws near. Old clothes begged and filled with newspaper and threepence saved up for the mask; the Guy is assembled and displayed and coins collected for the fireworks. A cold, brilliantly starlit night, a huge crackling bonfire burns with sparks flying, the aromas of smoke, baked potatoes and gunpowder drift through the night. The evening is celebrated with a tin of fireworks. The air is filled with numerous brilliant bursts of lights, whistles, crackles, and the bombettes of crackerjacks and loud reports from bangers, which echo throughout the evening. What excitement as their barrages light up the sky. Later we take a walk along the promenade to watch the many fires burning and to see the fireworks reflected upon the rippling water.

December draws in with its deeper hoar frosts – gardens and trees drip like diamonds. If only they were real. Rugged up for the day in a thick woollen vest and knickers, a thick white shirt, tie, woollen jumper and skirt and thick woollen socks. We sit to a breakfast of thick milky hot porridge and buttered toast covered in marmite or honey followed by strong cups of milky hot tea. Duffle coat, scarf, gloves, thick shoes or boots and we are ready to face the day outside. We head to school through cold whirling sleet or choppy winds that pierce the flesh. The play-ground had become a place of slippery slides, frozen puddles, and running children with scarfs and hats adrift and glowing faces. After school, the shops are filled with a golden light, an Alladin’s cave of treasures as we peer into windows. The warmth tingles our skin as we enter the sweet shop to select from the array of goodies on the penny or twopenny tray.

The countdown begins as twenty five pieces of white paper are stuck to the mantle shelf and one by one they disappear until only one remains. Wreaths appear on doors and Christmas lights in decorated shop windows. Our excitement increases as Christmas draws nigh and during the first week of December our tree is lovingly decorated with little houses that light up, shiny balls and tinsel – always the best in the Street. We rug up to go Carol Singing with trumpet and recorder in hand. Three joyful voices raised in celebration and anticipation as we collect pennies and sixpences and sometimes if we sing and play well, half a crown. At the end of the evening the proceeds are split and stored in money boxes to be spent on Christmas gifts and sweets.

Finally, the day arrives and we awake in the dark early morning. I hear my brothers' screams of delight as they open their present at the end of the bed. We run downstairs excitedly to the kitchen where we find our stockings hanging from the mantlepiece. Our eyes are aghast at the balloons hanging from the corners of the room, the holly over the doors and streamers draped from corner to corner. Over breakfast we explore our stockings carefully and spread it around us on the table, eyeing each-others gifts. Once the table is cleared, the washing up done we move to the parlour where a fire burns merrily and we are finally allowed to open our sackful of presents that sit beneath the tree. A new brown leather satchel, a thick woolly jumper, dolls and games and numerous toys - a child's dream fulfilled! The smell of roasting turkey pervades the house, and we are surrounded by a quiet happiness and natural good cheer as the dulcet voices of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby sing out their Christmas wishes.

Later in the morning our Grandparents would arrive and we would sit at a decorated paper tablecloth table where alongside each setting sat a cracker. We would eat a plateful of turkey with sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, and vegetables followed by Christmas pudding, custard and ice-cream. We would pull the Christmas crackers, read out the jokes to one another with merriment and sit with our party hats on. Later in the afternoon after the adults had cleared up the table and kitchen they would sit and sleep as we children played with our new toys or watched a film. For tea we’d join our Great Grandmother and Uncle and Aunt next door and numerous other family members where more presents would be given and received. We’d play roulette and cards, gambling with pennies and later we’d have a buffet of cold turkey and ham, followed by mince pies and Christmas cake. A wonderful day in childhood eyes.

January slowly moves in and we occasionally awake to crisp, clear mornings of fog. The sun lies low in the sky and shadows are long but the sky is blue and the air brings a flush to the cheeks and a quickness to the breath and a liveliness to the spirit. There is nothing more beautiful on a clear and frosty morning looking across a garden covered in a hoar frost towards frosty leaves sparkling in the morning sunlight. But the dark, dank days of iron clad clouds that lower and groan with the wind abound.

We set off for school. Snow is on its way. The day gets darker as we look through classroom windows as one thick snow flake appears followed by another and another, silently slipping from the sky until a white curtain falls and drapes the view. We see the first flakes lie and within minutes the playground is fluffy white. Excitement in the classroom and we are urged to settle but our eyes wander from the blackboard as the snow still drifts silently from the sky. We know we will be leaving early. Wrapped up and released we are told to head for home quickly. My brother’s await and the three of us agree that we head for the beach. All sounds are muffled, nothing moves. Above us we hear the creak of tree boughs as the snow builds up. There is no one around and little traffic. The cars that pass us slip and slide and disappear into the ever-falling increasing snow. We are entombed in a silent snow clad world. We pass many lighted windows, our feet making deep tracks in the snow. We catch snowflakes with our tongues. The beach is deserted. The sea laps with a muffled sound. There is nothing but whiteness above and whiteness below. The snow covers the pebbles. We build a huge snowman. Pebbles become his eyes, nose and mouth and we laugh and play snow fights as the afternoon drifts onwards but still the snow continues to fall. Tired of the snow we head for home, it’s hard to move through the snow and it is waist high on our little brother. Paul carries him piggyback style while I struggle with two satchels. Our walk home is long and tiring and Carl is crying with the cold. As we near our house we spot our mother, rugged up like a round fat Santa. She berates and hugs us and tells us how mad she is but we know she loves us and is just concerned in her anger and worry. We enter the house, with its blazing fires and warmth, our boots and coats are removed and are hung on pegs where they steam and drip in the warmth of the kitchen range. Our hands are rubbed and we sit down to a warm soup and hot bread. Silence abounds inside and out. There will be no school for days as the snow continues to fall throughout the night and we become marooned in a land of white.

February moves in with its high winds and rough seas and its thunder and lightning as the thick clouds clash and rattle. We are told that the Vikings and their gods stalk the heavens above and are battling their foes and we shiver in anticipation of the further cracks of thunder and forks of lightening. Slowly the days lighten and the winds become warmer our heavy clothing lightens. As children, we never wished away the winter, it was one of the most exciting seasons of our childhood, to us it was a season filled with magic.