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This is a sample post You look and feel so different at this time of year. It’s as if the winter veil of gloom is lifted — buffeted by Christmas lights

Dear Britain,

You look and feel so different at this time of year. It’s as if the winter veil of gloom is lifted — buffeted by Christmas lights, Michael Bublé and Mariah Carey lilting through the aisles of supermarkets, the smell of roast meat and cinnamon bakes wafting through the air. There’s a spring in every step, the sparkle of much-anticipated family time in every smile, the quiet closure of another year gone by in every eye. Nothing stops the cheer. Not the weather, nor the news.

Your merriment warms my soul, dear Britain. I think of my parents, thousands of miles away in India, my brother and his family in Hong Kong. There’s no melancholy — only a flood of love as I count down the months to their annual summer visit. In the meantime, I bask happily in the universal glow that is you.

The husband and I went for a long circular walk around Bury today. The weather was akin to a glass of good white wine — crisp and dry. The streets were relatively empty, save the occasional dog walker or the family out on a Christmas stroll. We walked hand-in-hand, the steady stream of prattle characteristic of two people who have shared more than fifteen years together, broken only by the patter of our feet.

I looked down, navigating the slushy carpet of old autumn leaves that had long lost their papery crunch. The late afternoon sun was out, casting its long, loving, sleepy slant over the green of a park along which we walked. The contrast of green and gold was both captivating and soporific — as if the sun were encouraging us to wind down as it circled its way to the other side of the world. We slowed our step to admire you.

I have spent a fair few days, weeks, months and years in you now, dear Britain. I have had the grace of witnessing your beauty across many walks — over peaks and parks, streams and canals, lakes and moorlands. And still, not a day goes by when your quiet charm fails to enchant me.

Rows of cottages flanked our right as we walked, a woody area opening out to the left. The road curved upwards, seeming to swallow the rosy hues of the setting sun. Our path took us over bridges atop little streams, the sound of water skipping over stones like a musical interlude. Every now and then, I couldn’t help glancing into the windows of a home — almost always finding a family gathered for Christmas dinner, surrounded by lights and warmth.

By the time we rounded the bend to our cul-de-sac, we were both a little tired.

“Was that you?” asked the husband, as my stomach rumbled for the third time.

“Yes,” I said, laughing.

The belly was empty. But the heart was full.

With love, Purna