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slipping. Everyone seems cheery enough, though, because the storms and gales have stopped and the sky is a clear blue panorama. In the distance beyond the town, the sea glitters. Everything is doubly bright with the sun reflecting the snow, and I’ve dug out my old sunglasses from the glove compartment of the van where I left them last summer. No matter what van I’m in, I always manage to leave a pair of sunglasses behind. It’s a good thing I can only afford the cheap kind so I don’t worry about it; I know they’ll turn up eventually.
    I stop at the shop for some provisions for my next lot of customers who live slightly further out. Although for a long time now I’ve delivered odds and ends for some of them, especially the old and isolated ones, this winter has seen my errands double and even triple. This is fine with me; I learned very early on that in Cornwall, a postie is not just a deliverer of mail but a social worker, therapist, errand woman/man, newspaper deliverer, and an array of other things. I like this part of the job enormously for not only do I feel I’m doing a bit of good, I’ve also met some interesting people whose conversation and company I’ve enjoyed.
    Today the tiny shop is crowded. The fact that the fierce east wind, which brought much of the snow and blizzard-like conditions, has gone, and the sun is actually out, have brought droves of people venturing out for the first time in several days. I greet Melanie, the shopkeeper, and listen to the talk around me as I pick up supplies. ‘I do believe you can’t beat the hardwoods, oak especially, for burning. Gives more heat than anything, lasts longer, too. Mind, it must be dry.’ Three locals, two men and a woman, are standing around having a lively discussion about wood. This is a conversation that’s been repeated in every village shop I’ve been in, as well as amongst friends and neighbours whenever a couple of us get together. Everyone is obsessed with keeping warm this winter. It’s understandable, as in this part of the world we’ve been lucky to live in a pocket of relatively mild weather, so trying to cope with this new phenomenon of extended below-freezing temperatures is on everyone’s mind.
    ‘To be sure the oak needs be dry and seasoned. All summer, outdoors.’ The first man who spoke is still musing about firewood.
    ‘All summer?’ the woman snorts. ‘You must be joking. A year, is what I reckon. Oak needs a year of drying to be right.’
    As they start arguing this fine point, the second says. ‘Me. Well, I got a load of softwood. Pine, larch. Burns like nobody’s business. Good heat, too.’
    The other two pounce on this. ‘Might be as you say, but pine fouls up your chimney sure enough. All that resin.’
    He nods, acknowledging this. ‘I just ordered a load of ash. Freshly chopped, but that don’t matter. Burns all right, just cut.’
    The faces of the other two light up. ‘Ah, ash! Like my dad used to say, Ash green, fit for a queen! ’Tis the only wood I know you can burn green. Beech, oak, larch – they all be needing seasoning.’
    Melanie, handing me my change, gives me a wink. ‘They go on about wood every time they come in. Mind you, I’m all ears. It’s not been easy, keeping warm this winter. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there be more to come.’
    ‘You’re not the only one thinking like that,’ I say, looking around the shop. ‘Looks like people are stocking up for the next batch of snow.’
    ‘So they are. Folk don’t like leaving their homes in this, and not just the old ones either. A couple of the younger ones have broken a wrist and an ankle on the ice.’
    ‘So I heard.’
    ‘And Clara.’ Melanie rolls her eyes. She’s a motherly woman of indeterminate age, with salt and pepper hair pinned back helter skelter with several hairgrips. She and her husband Tufty – his real name is Bill but no one calls him that – both wear colourful fingerless gloves when serving in the shop,