"St.Agnes Eve - ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl for all his feathers was a-cold.
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass
And silent was the flock in woolly fold.
.. . . . . "
Keats.

This, I believe, is St.Agnes Eve and it is bitter chill here - -4.6C at time
of writing.

Ian G. Bingham,
Inchmarlo,
Aberdeenshire.