New Year at Springreen

A simple winter sunset at the Farm where the snows were deep and the liquor flowed free. Andrew Bee made a rum-addled New Year's day brunch that was deep and delicious. "I drank more last night than have in the last six months", said he. And he seemed fine, labouring away over his oat-encrusted sausage balls and mountains of rum/cinnamon/brown sugar/maple syrup french toast. How did he do it? "You don't get hungover if you don't stop drinking", Mr Bee declared with a sparkle in his eye. And he returned to singing the Golden Girls theme song at full blast.

My good friend Marlena got some time in on the 'shoes. I took the technical pair and had fine times ascending and descending the forests hillocks in at least two feet of snow. That's the way to spend the final days of the year: in a silent winter wonder world following animal tracks over hill and dale.
My favorite moment was ending round one of a snowball fight from my rooftop redoubt by lobbing one over the front of the house blind and hitting the snowball poised in Kris King's hand, obliterating it. Cheers went up from my foes.