Far unfit to bear the bitter cold,I can scarcely move or draw my breath…‘The Cold Song’, music by Henry Purcell,libretto by John Dryden, 1691
WE have all seen it. You are driving over the moor in dead winter, the snow descending unceasing; but, by the wayside, there is an Exmoor pony, or a Welsh, grazing unconcernedly. Or, you open the bedroom curtains on a January morning, the garden mummified in mortal white frost, and a tiny, fragile wren is, somehow, hopping perkily about the acacias.
How do they survive the depths of winter, the animals and the birds? Winter in Britain is variable, yes, often mild and wet, but then it soars in all its cold majesty. In English, the seasons are not capitalised, but Winter must be. Winter, with…