Fragments of Snow on the Hills

Snow out on the hills, no horizon, just shades of white and blue-grey. Deep snow on the tracks - up to your ankle. The snow hushes everything, mutes sound, robs voices of their echoes. Could be anywhere here. There's some transmitter behind me, a television transmitter I think. Looks like something lost from World War II. A suddenly steep descent causes us to slow for fear of slipping. Lewes is in the distance. I think of cups of tea and warmth, but despite the snow, it isn't that cold. Everything looks like a childhood memory - or a memory of an imaginary holiday taken in some mountainous region some years previously - a fourth or fifth country in Scandinavia perhaps, or some new region in Scotland. Were it not for that motorway like road in and out Brighton, we would be alone here in silence, and we might be anywhere and also any time.