Just frost: no snow. No King Wenceslas either. Earlier this morning, when I took this photo, the garden was buried in a light swirling and romantic mist. The outlines of this tree were softened in the diffused light: it is this that I have attempted to capture here. I'm not sure how successful I have been. I didn't get a chance to take too many photos, for within five minutes of my arrival in the garden with my camera the mist had completely cleared to reveal a cool light blue sky. Now, as I write, the tree is bathed in a clear and harsh pale yellow light: its upper branches are scarlet against the azure. Everything outside is covered in a white crust of frost. The grass is frozen: it crackles underfoot. The air is cold and clear: you can see your breath. This Christmas Eve is going to be one of those beautiful winter days that I adore. I think I will go for a walk in the country.