We are waiting for snow. This doesn’t mean it’s predicted (well, maybe a little bit, Thursday night), or that it will ever really happen again, as it used to – but we are still waiting for it, nevertheless. Snow would mean: a snow day; a slowing down of our schedules – perhaps even a complete alteration of schedules! – which translates into: breathing room. The Inn’s landscape would be transformed: our fields, stretching away from us in their plain brown winter clothes now, would appear twice as large, reaching into much greater distances, covered in white. The cedars and pines along the creeks would emerge into the foreground, their dark green set in relief against the white, their boughs laden with snow. There would be a looking-glass of ice laid across Toddsbury Creek, and wind would skate snow across the frozen water. We’d retreat inside: fires would be blazing in all the fireplaces (in all three Inn houses – Cottage, Creek House, Guest House — and in our home, Toddsbury), and guests would drink hot drinks and read books and play cards while the snowflakes fell outside the long windows. And perhaps the biggest gain is the utter quiet here, in the country, when snow comes. Everything is still. The roads are still. The usual commerce of life ceases. One welcomes the little movements of nature, instead – the cardinal at the window, the rabbit hopping across the brick courtyard to a shelter under the bosum of boxwood; one sits on the sofa in the Creek House living room and, not moving, watches the snow sift across the creek, the outside world a study in greys and whites and deep greens. In this secret, blanketed stillness, perspective telescopes down to the immediate and to an intimacy with the smallest, single touchstones of nature – the cardinal, the holly berry, one pine branch. There is a deep, ineffable peacefulness in winter snows here, unlike anywhere else, unlike any city or town setting. One has come down long country lanes, away from all that in the first place, and then the coming of snow seals you in to this far-away dreamy world, where its deep quiet makes for rest, and contemplation, and rejuvenation. You don’t even know it’s happening to you, while you’re in it – but when you do not have it anymore, you remember what it was.