Tread carefully

Looks can be deceiving. Clear blue sky; bright, low late-autumn sun; a dusting of snow; trees still clinging to the last of their leaves, backlit on this beautiful morning; the sort of day that makes it feel good to be alive

Well, yes. As took the picture, I heard a cry to my right - a woman was lying on her back on the path. She signalled to concerned nearby onlookers that she was OK and didn't need help, climbing gingerly to her feet and continuing her journey. No-one was surprised or shocked. We were all focussed on our own strategies to stay vertical: picking our paths like experienced trackers, adjusting our stride to keep our weight above our feet, maintaining our focus on walking in a way we have seldom needed to do since our second year of life

Did I mention the hills? Mix those with a fiendish cycle of snowing, freezing and thawing, and the result is roads and pavements covered in ice-sheets, covered in a film of liquid water; traction zero. To some extent, the locals are accustomed to this: there are grit-boxes; people have shovels to hand; drivers know the routes that are safe and those that are not; it is accepted that pedestrians will walk on the road, where tyres have fully melted the ice, and move aside to let vehicles pass. Thanks given and received, no rules necessary, no top down organisation, anarchy idealised

This was my second trip to try to buy bread - there is an artisan baker 7 minutes from our B&B. The first time I made it 30 metres before realising my folly and returning shaken and alarmed. We waited an hour, researched routes and gradients, considered alternatives and contingencies and set out together. Mission accomplished (two hours late), slowly, carefully and circuitously. Cameraderie and solidarity from the baker. And later, happy, family time without mishap, a baby's smiles and delight in a bright world. A day of respite from fragile, troubled times