After spending most of the morning trying to decide whether or not the snow that had fallen had any relevance to what I was doing, and therefore whether or not I should engage with it, I eventually decided to only way to find this out was through experience. So I went out for a walk. There was no place for abstract reflection when it came to matters like this, I reasoned.

Everything certainly looked different. And on one level at least, things were more transparent; by following the tyre tracks I was able to surmise that a total of four vehicles had been this way today. If lack of activity was now quantifiable, then that was something, I thought.

In some ways though, I wondered how different things actually were. The expanse was still the expanse, the horizon was still the horizon, the feeling of remoteness was still the feeling of remoteness. It was simply that everything had taken on a whiter hue. Perhaps because of this realisation that nothing had really changed I now began to feel justified that I'd come here today. This was still the same place. That's what was most interesting, to me.

So having reached the bridge that on a previous day I'd sat down on and had no thoughts whatsoever, I felt it was appropriate to make some sort of gesture of commemoration. Perhaps "commemoration" is too strong a word here: all I can really say is say that I felt it appropriate to make a gesture. To do something, that is to say.

I decided that, since there were no footprints on the bridge, I would make some - by repeatedly walking across it.

It seems that the wind must blow so consistently in one direction here that snow affixes itself to the sides of trees, I also noticed, on my way home.