That evening, the little country railway station was deserted, and I was the only passenger to leave the train, stepping gingerly onto the icy platform with my bag. My father was waiting in his car in the all-enveloping fog, and he drove us slowly and very carefully through the white frozen landscape. It hadn't snowed: the whiteness came from night after night of freezing frost. The headlights were dipped, the beams hitting the fog only a few feet away, and we moved along the deserted road, cocooned in the car, towards home.
In the morning, I opened the curtains to a bright blue sky. In the garden, the branches on the trees were heaped inches high with frost, crusty piles of sugar, sugar, sugar.