And don't let me forget that wind. The kind of wind that hides until you're committed to the path down and you think you're okay without a hat, then sears you around the ears.
Even at 3pm, there's still a thick crust of ice on the chickens' water, and the willow sticks M. bundled up yesterday and left in the brook have become decorated with icicles.
The locals have their hands in their pockets, dewdrops on their noses and home-and-fireside in their downward steps.
We're heading for the giorni della merla, and don't we know it!